I'm typing this on a little wee mini computer (netbook, technically). Mostly to see if the clickly computer keys are going to start sending shockwaves of pain up through my fingertips. So what should I type while I try to figure out if my fingers will explode?
Hmmm. I don't know.
We got rid of our dog. He was insane. No, seriously, he was. See, way back last Christmas we went off to church and came home to poor Fisher barking away in the office. I went in to see that he'd knocked over a bookshelf and torn up the carpet. Yes, a little doggie remodeling. Well, since then we had a flood and got the carpet replaced, so that was nice enough. But imagine my horror when, after leaving the dog for half hour after supper (forgetting to let him out - my bad) I came home to find Lake Pisser on the boy's newly-carpeted bedroom floor? We'd already had the carpet cleaners out to clean up an, ahem, accident on that floor, and now we had them out again. $100. JOY! Another brief without-dog outing and we returned to find Fish's favorite (new) stuffed toy chewed to bits; and another Maggie's met the same sad fate. And then we started tying crazy dog when we left home. Until he ate through the leash.
Now all of this could be considered funny in a Marley and Me sort of way. But Fisher was also growing more bizarre. Skittery, fearful. Not so unusual - he's a skittery, fearful dog (of everything from toy cars to wicker baskets). He no longer greeted Dr. D with happy doggie wag, rather he'd slink up to him, bowing and fawning. This did not go over well with anyone, particularly Dr. D, who doesn't appreciate fawning and bowing. At all. Especially in a dog big enough to rip his arms off.
So, Fisher is gone.
Interestingly, when we asked the kids what they'd feel if we got rid of Fisher, they all said, "Yeah! Get rid of Fisher!"
Hmmm. That should be telling me something, shouldn't it.
Hmm. And my thumb hurts a little from clicking the space bar, but is this going to be a problem? Is it any harder of a punch than my regular computer? It's not at all like the desktop with the keyboard of death that felt like my fingertips were pounding burning spikes. Or maybe the problem is not so much with the keyboard as it is with my fingers. That sounds ... painful, and expensive to fix.
But will I be able to type reliably on this little bugger? Will this be able to replace my glorious ThinkPad for writing tasks?
Oy. I am too nervous about my upcoming trip to decide. And what's with the lack of spellcheck anyway?
We have a gorgeous, absolutely beautiful custom made farm table in our dining area. Beautiful at first glance. Sit down at it however, and try to eat and you’ll discover a few not so lovable details. Like glasses will tip over if placed in just the wrong spot. Your clothing will catch on splinters in the chairs or the edge of the table. Some of the plugs look suspiciously like wood filler. And if you look closely, the gaps between boards just might be packed with yesterday’s (last week’s?) noodles, rice, etc.
Hubby and I recently got serious about taking back our health, and the first question we faced was: “How do we work in exercise?” The conversation went something like this:
Me: We could put the treadmill back in the bathroom?
Him: Um. No.
Me: There’s that gym up by McDonald’s (why is this our reference point? I don’t know.)
Him: But when?
Me: You could go before taking N to school in the morning!
Him: Would you really get up that early?
Me: Are you kidding? We’re talking about you here, not me.
I used to hate read-alouds. My neck would get tense, my throat would feel stiff and sore and my voice would hurt. (And if you say a voice cannot hurt, I assure you, it can.) Here's my story of how diagnosing and treating Hashimoto's changed my life in an unexpected way.
Every year my parish holds a garage sale to raise funds for the VBS and Preschool programs. It has fast become one of my favorite events and helping at every stage, in my mind anyway, absolves me from taking part in the actual VBS. Anyhow, a sale of this size is a huge undertaking. Like crazy huge involving weeks and many, many, many hours from lots of people. But it's so worth it, and apart from the usual reasons about helping others and serving the community, here's why…
A couple days ago I had to Google, “What do middle aged women wear to indie rock concerts?” I came up with lots of pics of denim and leather and high-heeled boots. Not much different than what I expected young women to wear, except fewer backless shirts.
When I picked up my also-middle-aged friend (ok, not really, we're still young! Middle age means, like 79, right?) she was wearing the requisite jeans, tank top, jacket. I'd opted for...
That whoever-with-too-much-time-needs-a-day-job troll who swiped my original blogspot sub domain has added more content. And, as before, the content is mine, taken from the ever useful internet archive.
The beginning is always the same. Middle of the night, a child cries, I listen and hope. Perhaps sleep will return. A fool's hope, I know.
Mud Pie's Flat Stanley returned not long ago, so while the kiddos were asleep with flu and fevers, I took the photos Stan collected and made a little video.
Below is a picture from tonight's Epiphany party celebrating the visit of the Magi. We had King's Cake followed by white elephant gifts galore. In honor of the Three Wise Guys...
A while back I was complaining to someone about how much I hated making lunch for the kids every morning.