Why Your Sons Should Not Play Karate Games

So I carried on last night about how my boys had their Butt-kicking
Festival in the dining room and I ignored it. Missed that? Shame on you
for not being a better cult follower. Read about it here . So we have
already established I'm not up for a MOTY award. Well, how about the
World's Biggest Loser Award where I have to walk around with the
word LOSER stamped on my forehead and have my parental rights
revoked? Well, maybe not the forehead stamp....

Earlier yesterday, Aiman was doing God only knows what in the
boys' room and this required him to stand on Hamo's footboard in socked
feet. He slipped and racked himself, mostly on the backside but apparently
a little further forward, too. He told me he hurt his butt on the bed but
didn't mention any further details. And he wasn't crying, coughing, bleeding
or singing the high notes, so I asked for none. Blah blah blah. The day
continues and eventually ends with the shirtless free-for-all we discussed
earlier above. About two hours later, Aiman came in crying that his "butthole
is hurting on the left side." Okay. So I told him to go rinse it off in the bidet
hoping that his verbage was mistaken and that hurting really meant itching.
Nope. "It didn't work! My left butthole is still hurting me really bad." So
thankful for the previous hygiene advice, I went ahead and inspected. He
was right. The left side of his anus was swollen about the size of a half dollar.
So I put an ice pack on it. What else was I supposed to do? It was 2 am and
it's not like you can run to the nearest pharmacy and ask for the usual
prescription one receives from half a swollen butthole. He lasted 30 seconds
with the ice. Finally, he went to sleep.
Today when he got up he was walking funny. So, I asked him, "Hey, how's
your butt today?" And he said it still hurts. So I re-inspected and wow! The
half-dollar sized swelling was up to a couple of bucks....the swelling was about
the size of my hand now and included most of his left cheek and was extending
downward. I got him dressed and took him to the hospital and the pediatrician
there said, "I'm pretty sure he just hit himself pretty hard but I'd like to refer
him to a surgeon just to play it safe." SURGEON? Not the word you want to hear
when dealing with your kid's lower levels. So, I put on my brave face and wore
it for the rest of the day. Egypt is a fairly nocturnal society. You're lucky if you
can find a doctor around during daylight hours. So we had to wait until tonight.
I took him to a different hospital where I knew the two surgeons. By this time,
it was 9 pm and the swelling had increased now to include the entire left testicle.
He was so swollen that he had to walk with legs way open and he was in pain if
he sat down too hard. This doctor took one look at him and wrote up a referral
for a sonogram...across town. We caught a cab to the radiologist and the place
was packed. Wall to wall sick people. Yuck. We finally got seen and got his films
and got out of there around 1 am. YAY. Only needing a prescription and no
need for surgery as nothing was twisted or broken. Of course, the radiologist
gave Aiman and Ismail (who was along for the ride and PROBABLY the one who
kicked him in the ding-ding in the first place though he swears he didn't) a stern
speech about the dangers of karate kicks, chops, and punches to the testicles.
Aiman is only 8 and these types of questions don't enter his mind. But Ismail
will be 11 next week. And after seeing his brother's junk swollen 4 times it's usual
size, asked me, "Will Aiman be able to have kids still when he's old?" And I told him
God willing. The doctor did reassure me that he's okay down there but he MUST
be careful in the future.
I wonder if I buy three cups at the same time if I can get a discount. I'm sure the
wrestling around may stop temporarily but I don't think it'll last forever.

Oh the Testosterone is Getting Thick in Here

So, I'm sitting here just being the mixed bag of emotions that I am;
excited about my mom finally coming to visit, sad that my husband
isn't here right now, perplexed as to why I can never seem to get
my creative juices flowing on my book like I can when I'm blogging,
slightly psychotic, yet thankful to the old high school not-real-friend
that gave me fodder for yesterday's blog post. And then boredom
sets in with my lunatic sons.
Hamo, the 14 year old came in and asked if it would be okay if he
and Ismail, the 10 year old play together for a while. Normally, he
wouldn't have asked except that Ismail was grounded to the couch
because he had been aggravating Aiman and Samiya in the girls
room when they were trying to make an imaginary restaurant and
he kept stealing their table. So I tell him yes...but after another 5
minutes of his timeout. Hamo offered a nice quiet (yea, right) arm-
wrestling match. I started to smell this funky, aroma that I couldn't
quite identify.
"You're not a man! I'M a man. You're a girl." Hamo shouted.
"You're the girl, soft boy!" Ismail shouted back.
"Let's see who's the man here, Wussy." Hamo challenged.
Begin full blown wrestling match on the dining room floor. Thank
God Samiya and Aiman dragged the table into her room for their
restaurant business. "You're no man! You're a coward." shouted one.
"How do you figure, Sissy?" yelled the other.
"Only a coward kicks a man when he's down!"
"Only a loser would go down in the first place. I'm just kicking you
to keep you down, Loser."
Begin crotch-punching, ankle-biting, and other cheap shots. "Stop
grabbing my balls, Chicken."
"Keep your balls off my head, Coward."
"Keep your head where it belongs....up your BUTT! KAYAAAH!"
I shut my door. I can't deal with the noise anymore and they can't
hear me when I tell them to be quiet and settle down. "What is that
smell?" I again ask myself as it gets stronger.
Finally, I see shirts flying past the window of my bedroom door and
begin to hear punches meeting backs and stomachs. Oh great! Aiman,
the 8 year old, has jumped into the fray. Apparently, he's going to get
his revenge on Ismail while he tag-teams with Hamo.
"Okay, okay!" shouts Ismail, "I'm a woman! I'm a woman! I quit!"
and he runs into my room and shuts the door behind him. "I won them
finally," he lies to my face.
"Yeah, I could tell by the wimpy 'I quit- I'm a woman' revelation
as you ran to hide behind my apron," I retort.
"Well, look at how sweaty I am! I just need to catch my breath, "
he announces as he flops down on MY CLEAN SHEETS! The hell you say!
"Go catch your breath in a shower. I've gotta sleep here tonight and
I don't wanna smell your funky ass all night! GET OUTTA HERE!" I throw
the door open and shove him into the general direction of the bathroom.
Oh, yeah. It's testosterone. THAT's the smell.
Finally, the three boys have each determined which one is a man and
which one is a girl. I don't care who wins....ultimately, if there's silence
I'LL be the winner.

The Legend in My Own Mind

I was an army brat growing up. We moved every 1 to 3 years. I lived
in Alabama, Michigan, Texas, Germany and Maryland and traveled to
all different states and countries in between. For some kids, like my
sister, all this bouncing around was hard. We had to leave friends behind
and start all over in a new place, new house, new school, making new
friends. I'm an extrovert. I just thought of it as new signatures for my
"autograph book" (remember those? Like any of us would fall over some
famous person and we just so happened to have an autograph book in
our back pocket next to that long handled plastic pink and yellow marble
colored comb?)
I was great at making friends. I always had the quantity, even if I
didn't always have the quality of friends my parents preferred for me.
I always felt sorry for my sister. Just one good friend at any particular
place we lived...maybe two or three more that were close acquaintances.
Of course, MY friends were usually popular and loud and everyone knew
them so I must have been fairly popular, too. Right?
Reality check: Facebook is great for reconnecting with old high school
friends/acquaintances. I've reestablished communication with lots of
people I went to high school with in Germany the first three years and
with a bunch more that I knew my senior year in high school in Maryland.
(Damn Army....dragged me off before my last year in Stuttgart!) So, there
was this really good looking guy who I met in my drama class my junior
year in Germany. He was very nice and always talked to me whenever we
saw each other in the hallways. My sister had a massive crush on him and
begged me to introduce her to him. ..which I did....begrudgingly...after
hearing how it's so not fair that I know all the good-looking and cool guys
and jocks, etc. So, I introduced them. And they began to talk in the halls
between classes.
Twenty-five years later I open a Facebook account. While looking up
people from my two high schools, I ran across this guy's name. "Oh, wow,"
I thought to myself. "I always wondered what happened to him." So, I
sent a message and an add friend invite and then NOTHING. I figured
surely he MUST remember me. I hung with all the popular kids in my class
and even though I was a year behind him in school, he MUST know me.
I was so damn cute in high school. You know, despite the braces, freckles,
really curly hair when everyone else was wearing it straight and feathered
back....and blonde....except mine was reddish brown. But I stood out.
Among all the other popular kids while we were selling donuts for the
junior class formal. Yeah, he knew me. He HAD to remember me. Afterall,
I remembered him.
Two weeks went by and still no word. Well, until today. I got a Facebook
message that had my total reality check in just a couple of bland, ego shat-
tering sentences: I'm sorry. I'm old now. Help me remember....how did you
know me?
"How did YOU know ME?" Okay, that verifies that he didn't know me.
"I'm sorry" that's just common courtesy. "I'm old now" that's just crap. He's
41 maybe 42. "Help me remember" means, "all those conversations that we
had during drama class and in the hallways, and even meeting your sister
was all just time I passed nodding and smiling my dazzling, popular guy
smile while in my head I was thinking, "I wonder what's for lunch in the cafeteria
today" and "Who the hell is this dorky chick with the braces who keeps talking
to me all the time? Oh yeah. I think she sells donuts or something. I wonder if
she knows the girl with the big boobs in my calculus class. If she ever shuts up
I'll ask her. Oops there's the bell."
Yup. I apparently was a legend in my own mind. I must not have made an
impression on as many people as I thought I had. My sister will be relieved.
Perhaps I'm one of those "sympathy friend additions" on Facebook. You know,
where you feel a little guilty because you don't actually remember the person
who's friending you and you have to run to your yearbook and look them up and
you think, "Well, I saw her around. It's been 25 years. Maybe I WAS friends with
her and I just don't remember." Man. I think I'm going to go get the whole word
LOSER tattooed on my forehead, instead of just the letter L. At least then, I'll make
an impression on any future friends I make.

Teenagers, Lessons, and My Hellish Day

My apologies if I sound like a broken record
with my needle stuck on the lyric "teens suck."
But it's true. This is absolutely the most horrible
experience I've ever gone through. (Mom, I'm so
sorry for any hair-pulling, anti-depressant down-
ing, top-of-your-lungs screaming I may have put
you through all those years ago.) Ismail has begun
his walk down The Teenage Turnpike a little
earlier than his older siblings. He's not even 11 yet.
Today I went on the balcony to bring in the dry
laundry off the line when some white stuff caught
my eye on my neighbor's balcony (down one floor
in the building next door to ours.) I managed to
focus my non-caffeine-jump-started eyes on the
white stuff and realized it was about 15 to 20
snot-filled tissues. "ISMAIL!" I shouted.
He came out onto the balcony with me and I
asked him about the mess littering my friend's
veranda. He answered with a flip "I dunno." But
I caught a quick glimmer in his eyes before he
looked away. (Tell number 1.) I asked him if he
blew his nose in the tissues and threw them down.
"No, I did NOT," he replied, corners of his mouth
turning up for a nanosecond before scowling again
to show he's shocked at my disbelief. (Tell number
2.) So I looked right in his amber colored eyes and
said, "So, you're telling me that if today was
Judgement Day and you were standing before God
and He asked you about those snotty tissues on
Hayba's balcony you would HONESTLY be able to
answer that you did not do that?" He looked right
at me and said, "Yes (eye shift to the right and down)
I'd be able to answer that I did NOT do it! (mouth
corners up, then down, then eyes up and to the left....
Tells numbered 3, 4, and 5.)
"Go get the broom, dustpan and an empty shopping
bag, NOW!" I got dressed and pushed him ahead of
me to my friend's house. My friend, Hayba, has three
daughters, ages 14, 9 and 5. The oldest has autistic
tendencies and keeps to herself. The two younger ones
are smart-mouthed girl versions of Ismail and LOVE
to antagonize him. In their defense, they did NOTHING
to him....today. I forced him to apologize to Hayba for
littering all over her balcony and then forced him to
go out and sweep it for her.
My brother-in-law saw this when he was coming in
from the street and yelled at him to put that broom
down and what was he? A street-sweeper? And why are
you embarrassing your father like this? Ismail explained
to him that Mom was punishing him because he threw
used tissues all over the neighbor's balcony and she said
that he wouldn't learn his lesson if she apologized for his
behavior and the neighbors don't deserve to touch his
germs. His uncle told him not to ever throw trash off the
balcony again and went upstairs. Ismail went home and
started fighting with his older brother and things just
sort of escalated from there. I'm really too tired and
emotionally drained to relive all of that today. So I won't.
In fact, I was feeling rather depressed about how everyone
around here is going to think I have such a bad son when
I know he's just the posterchild for ADHD and he really
is a good boy.
Then Hayba called me and said that the neighbors
upstairs from her and across the hall all asked why I made
him sweep her balcony. She explained that I force my kids
to be accountable for their mistakes and apologize to those
they wrong. The woman across the hall from Hayba totally
hates me. But even SHE said, "Wow. If all of us did that
with our kids when they are young they'd grow up and be
respectful adults and not throw trash out of their windows
like so many people on this block do." And the woman
upstairs who is really old and cranky said, "Good for her."
Hayba said that she was surprised at their responses because
they are two of the most judgemental people she knows.
That made me feel better.
Maybe I'll survive this ride yet.

It's Ramadan again. Today is the third day of
twenty-nine days of fasting. Ramadan is the
holy month where Muslims all over the world
abstain from food, drink, smoking, sexual
relations, swearing or talking bad about others.
Well, the swearing or talking bad about others
is something we all strive to do every day. But
I think a more conscious effort is made to
refrain from those during the month of Ramadan.
We fast from just before sunrise until sunset.
Young children, elderly, sick, pregnant or men-
struating women are exempt, and can make
up for not fasting by feeding someone who is
poor.
Randa knows that it's Ramadan because
of the decorations and brightly colored lights
and lanterns everywhere. Autism gets in the
way sometimes when trying to explain the
intangible. But my other four children all fast.
The younger ones aren't really required to do
so. But they look at it as a challenge. In fact,
today Hamo forgot that he was fasting about
an hour before sunset and drank a big glass
of water. The ribbing he got from Aiman,
six years his junior, was unbelievable. "Ha ha
ha ha. I lasted alllllll daaayyyyyy and youuuuu
broke your fast early....You arrrreeee weeeakk."
It took three of us to hold him back so that
Aiman could get a head start.
May Allah bless and keep you and your
families during this blessed month and may He
guide us all to His path of righteousness. Amen.

Shopping with Five Kids is a Breeze

It's hot. It's sweltering. It's liquid heat. In nearly
eight years of living in Alexandria, I've never been
this uncomfortable. Well, there was that time that
Samiya told her cousin to stay off of her bed
because her mommy told her that her cousins have
"hair bugs" (lice) and she didn't want to get them.
THAT was fairly uncomfortable. But as discomfort
relates to the weather, this summer's heat is by far
the winner.
Yesterday I lost my mind. I announced to the
kids that they should all get dressed quickly, put
shoes on, comb hair and pee. Then we all went
downstairs and caught a cab to Manshiya's clothing
district. Whoa, Nelly! If you think Christmas shopping
on Black Friday is bad, you should try it here during
the August sales month 3 days before Ramadan starts
in the hot afternoon sun. Oh, and then do it with five
kids. If that doesn't land you in the local sanitarium,
then I don't know what will.
Actually, it wasn't that bad. Except for crossing
the busy streets on the way there and on the way home,
it was pretty uneventful. What made me lose it and take
all of them with me? I guess I wanted to get them out of
the house as well as get each one a new shirt for 'Eid
al-Fitr (the celebration ending the month long fast of
Ramadan.) It's easier and cheaper this way.
I managed to get out of there with only having spent
180 pounds. Woohoo. I talked Ismail out of ever asking
me to buy him leather pants again for the rest of his life.
(Barf.) And I also started the brainwashing mantra
therapy, where I whisper to him over and over "If you
want a leather jacket, then save your own money." I'm
so not buying a child a leather jacket.
I convinced Randa that shopping was fun and that
screaming and belching in stores is not. Aiman stopped
asking for the Nike shoes, red sleeveless polyester shirt
with a black zipper up the front and the word Laguna
Beach misspelled (Lagnua Beach) after hearing the word
"No" 422 times after each begging session. He and Ismail
tag-teamed me though when it came to the blue and gray
backpacks with a picture of a skeleton flipping the bird
with his bony finger. That time they heard it clear enough
the first time, "Not 'no', but 'Hell no!"
I didn't find anything respectable for Randa. (What's
the deal with these clothing companies trying to dress
our little girls like common whores? I don't want to
ever be able to associate adjectives like "sexy" or "hot"
with my 13 year old. The creep factor is just too high.)
So I got Samiya a beautiful yellow blouse and a yellow and
purple paisley scarf to match it. Each boy got a polo-style
shirt of a different color. I'll pick up something for Randa
this week. Each of us got a soda and drank it on the
trolley ride home. Most of our shopping was completed
and the kids got a couple of hours out of the house.
Mission accomplished....but it's still hot.

Finding Ismail

Everyone goes through that pre-teen/teenager
search time in his or her life. Some earlier than
others. My third child, Ismail, is ten years old. And
I'm a little confused as to why HE is hanging out
in the "personality fitting room" of life instead of
his 14 year old brother. I mean, I expect my teenager
to be trying on "the gangster" or "the emo" person-
alities right now. When I was his age, I wore "the
jock-ette" and "the sharp witted clown" suits quite
comfortably. In fact, I never took them off. But Hamo
seems to be content still in his "artist pajamas" from
way back in kindergarten. Ismail, on the other hand,
has a rotisserie style of personalities (from the sales
racks, I might add) that include ensembles from
"thug," "wannabe rap artist (hold the rhythm)," "bossy
McBosspants," "sweet, helper boy," "mean bully guy."
I don't understand the attraction to most of his favorite
designs. I REALLY like "sweet, helper boy." This is
the guy who does the dishes for me without being
asked, volunteers to take out the trash or pick up what
I need from the market. He defends his sisters, brothers,
neighbors and cousins and even picks up trash off of the
stairs when his slovenly cousins toss it from upper
floors.
"Bossy McBosspants" seems to be setting up coup
attempts daily in an effort to overthrow Hamo from his
current position as Oldest Brother. This guy jumps up and
yells out orders to the younger siblings and gets everyone
motivated to clean up their rooms and get dressed quickly
on days we're scheduled to go out on family field trips.
"Thug" gets on my LAST nerve. He has a fascination with
knives and swearing and fighting. He is not a welcome
personality in this house at all. In fact, he and "mean, bully
guy" have been the reason Ismail has lost computer
privileges so many times this summer alone.
"Wannabe rap artist" would be tolerable if only he could
keep a beat. Ever see that Steve Martin movie "The Jerk"?
You know, where they were dancing around on the front
porch and everyone was on time but him? Yeah...that's my
boy. He knows it, too. He's asked his eight year old brother,
Aiman, several times to teach him how to dance and Aiman
just looks at him and says, "I've tried. You just like to shake
your crotch. And that's NOT krumping." (Just a sidenote, I'd
like to thank stupid Nickelodeon and the show "Just Jordan"
for even adding KRUMPING to my little boy's dance moves
repetoire. As though "booty popping" wasn't enough.) Ismail
listens in awe anytime I'm going through my "oh I remember
THAT song" moments and has begged me to teach him the
lyrics to "The Rapper's Delight", "Parents Just Don't Understand"
and songs like "Freakazoid." (Yeah, I know I'm showing my age.)
I guess all I can really do is encourage him to tear off just
the positive pieces of each of these personality-suits and stitch
them into his own unique pattern to fit Ismail. All the rest of us
did it. And now it's my turn to just stand back like the changing
room attendants at Macy's and hope he opts for the classics
rather than the passing fads.

It Might Be About That Time

I was standing in the kitchen making my awesome
Chicken and Vegetable Pasta with Bashamel Sauce
today when a rare breeze blew through the windows.
I felt something touching the back of my leg just
above my ankles. Fearing it was a red ant (our kitchen
is FULL of them this summer), I immediately dropped
my spoon and started smacking the back of my legs.
Nothing there. "That's odd," I thought. I wasn't
sweating. So it wasn't a drop of sweat rolling down
where you aren't sure if it's sweat or a bug. So I went
back to finishing dinner.
Another breeze blew through the windows and I
felt it again...only this time it was more like a tickling
sensation. I checked behind me to see if Ismail or Hamo
were playing tricks on me with a dry paintbrush. Nope.
I was all alone in the kitchen. That's when I noticed.
HOLY RAZOR BLADES, BATMAN! How long had it
been since I mowed those things? I mean, shaving my
legs is always one of the last things on my list of stuff
to do, ESPECIALLY when my husband is working
overseas. But DAMN! I could probably french braid
these puppies.
So, my list of stuff to do has one more job on it. Oh yay.
Now I need to make sure I've got at least 2 new razors,
just in case one breaks during the pending hackfest. I
don't think we own a machete. We live in the city, for
crying outloud. I may have to wait until the kids go to
sleep tonight. This looks like a 2-hour job. I know, I know.
TMI. But what's a girl to do? I'm really busy and I don't
have my man around right now to ask me why I'm wearing
legwarmers to bed in August to remind me to shave my
legs. I got the kids fed. What more do ya want from me?
So, I look a little "Sasquatch-y". It could be worse. At
least I remember to bathe!

Endorphins, Sore Muscles and No More Writer's Block

Yes! Today is a good day. It didn't start out that way.
But it's ending up that way (God, I hope I didn't speak
to soon.) I forced myself to do another 50 minute aero-
bic workout today and 20 minutes of crunches. I NEED
my endorphins if I'm going to get these children fed and
grown and married off and the hell out of my house in
the next 20 years. Since I'm doing this whole childrearing
thing sans alcohol, drugs or anti-depressant medication
I really have to use any healthy outlet I can find in order
to stay off the crazy bus. If I don't exercise, write, blog or
swear like a merchant marine, I'd be DRIVING the crazy
bus...right off a damn cliff.
So, I was so excited to see that Shauna Glenn published
my "guest blog" on her site today. Now my head is all
swollen...I had to send the kids out to buy food for supper
as I could not fit my bloated cranium through the doorway.
So now I've got endorphins and a huge ego....kinda match
my huge butt....which won't be big for long if I keep up the
power aerobic workouts. I'm so stoked.
I so needed a good evening like this. My neighbor, Hayba,
came over last night and borrowed my scale. She is about 3
inches taller than I am and wears 3 pants sizes bigger than
I do....but I outweigh her by 5 kilos. My heart started to
sink and Ismail, my ten year old son noticed. He reminded
me that muscle is heavier than fat and encouraged me to
work out today. He was so right. (Maybe I'll cave and let his
father buy him that motorized scooter he wants so badly.
Right after my frontal lobotomy.)
So now I'm motivated to work out for an hour every day and
write for one hour every morning after my first cup of coffee...
pre-coffee would be total nonsense and perhaps not even in
English. As long as I have a pen, a notepad and boobs bigger
than my waistline, I shall be a happy camper. And as long as
I'm working out, I'll be happier. Yay. Good days rock the Casbah.

Success, Fail, Success, Fail

We had a relatively good day, today. I slept until 11.
I got the laundry in before the lady upstairs beat the
dirt out of her rugs all over it. I sent Hamo and Samiya
to the supermarket to buy the stuff I needed from there
and at the same time, sent Ismail and Aiman to the
open market to buy the produce we needed. Randa and
I enjoyed about 30 minutes of quiet bliss! I had 2 great
cups of coffee and cut and cleaned 2 kilos of okra to
put in the freezer to save myself some work during the
month of Ramadan (starts in about 20 days or so.)
Then things started to go downhill.
The ceiling fan in my bedroom crapped out. Sound
the air-raid sirens...there is NO WAY I'm sleeping with-
out that thing. I can handle no air conditioning. I can
handle making my own ketchup. I can handle life
without Wal*Mart. BUT I NEED MY CEILING FAN!
So, I've planned to swipe the box fan we've been using
in the living room because that ceiling fan has been
running rather slowly. (And yes, I DO know that if I
wipe the 46 pounds of dust off the blades that it'd run
faster...but did YOU know that I'd have to do this
with the fan off and on top of a ladder and well, heat
rises, for crying out loud and I don't want to sweat
that much when I've already got prickly heat!)
Once the temperature goes down about 5 degrees,
I'll clean it off. I promise.
Anyway, I made the kids chicken nugget sandwiches
and chips. I had no intention of cooking today. It was
too hot. And I ate 2 pears instead of that. Come to
think of it, I've not eaten anything else today except
for 1 chicken nugget I tasted and oh yeah, 3 chocolate
chunk cookies that I made for the kids tonight. I know.
I'm just a walking contradiction. Too hot to cook a
nutritious meal but not too hot to bake cookies.
But Randa wanted cookies and just now came in to
tell me, "I'm STILL happy!" That's her way of thanking
me. I love her. She's a great kid. Always honest, too.
Like yesterday when she shouted at me, "EWWW!
Breath stinks!" as I was trying to tell her to please say
hello to her father when he called from overseas.
Well, excuuuuuuuse me. Gave her father a good laugh
anyway.
I didn't get to sew today. OBE once again. (That's
Overtaken By Events, for those of you who've never
worked for the gubmint.) One of these days I'll get to
sew. Maybe. If I could only get over my fear of my new
sewing machine. It scares me. It's got 60 different
stitch choices. And these things called cams so that
you can use the different stitches. But I read the
manual from cover to cover and there is no mention
of what to do with these cams. And I really want to
learn to use this machine. I've got lots of plans for it.
Other than just dusting it every day. Maybe I'll be
able to make myself another dress but in LESS than
a year this time.
Oh and I tried to upload about 60 photos onto
Facebook and it was taking forever. Then after
nearly an hour it only had three photos left. The
boys were outside playing and called me to the
window. Randa was in the shower. So, I ran to the
window to see what the deal was with them and
I swear I wasn't gone from the terminal longer than
four minutes when Randa's radar went off and she
knew I was away from the computer. She wrapped
herself in a towel and ran into my room and clicked
the X in the corner of my window and zapped my
wait time into an hour long waste of time. Oh well.
One more fail to add to my list of failures for the
day. Tomorrow will be better, God willing.
I'll cook. I'll clean...maybe even the ceiling fan
blades. And I won't be baking any cookies. And
perhaps I'll sew. And maybe, just maybe, my teenagers
will all come down with a big, fat case of laryngitis...
non-painful, non-infected of course. And maybe
my husband will hit the lottery and come home next
week. I won't hold my breath...but here's hoping.