What a relief!

Before you even ask, no -- I will not rant any further (this week) about fat. Well, maybe a little. But I swear that I'll stop soon!

In other news, I was reading Phantom Scribbler's lament about her son, LG, beginning kindergarten. That got me thinking about my own days in kindergarten. When I was in kindergarten, lo those many years ago, I think it was only a partial day program. I remember a lot of art projects made with popsicle sticks and Elmer's Glue. I remember getting cookies and milk. I remember a friend of mine who was the paste-eating kid. I remember naps. A lot of actual academics, I don't remember so much. I mean, I'm sure that we DID actually do academic-type stuff, but I don't have any clear memories of it.

The thing that really strikes me as the difference between then and now is that kids learn so much more now than we did back then. I remember kindergarten as being play time, not as learning time. I suppose that's a good memory to have of it -- sort of idyllic, and not so stressful. Kids today have a LOT of skills they have to master. Many children here have already had a year of PreK under their belts prior to entering kindergarten, and some even have preschool experience. A lot of them are old hands at this school thing. For others, this is their very first experience with school, and it's overwhelming for them.

Don't get me wrong -- a lot of kindergarten is social skills. How to interact with others. Common niceties, like washing your hands after using the restroom, and using a tissue when you sneeze. Saying please and thank you. And, because we, as Southerners, are raised to say "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am", we hear a lot of that, too. (We don't demand that they say it, but we do ask for more than just "Huh?" Or, "What?!") We model good behavior. We teach that looking on someone else's paper constitutes "cheating", and that's not good. We tell the kids that looking on someone else's paper doesn't tell me what YOU know, it tells me what the person you cheated off of knows.

Sometimes, we have to "unteach" years of children saying things the wrong way. I have a child in my class this year for whom it is my mission to teach how to correctly pronounce the word "yellow." Now, you wouldn't think that this is too big a deal, but it actually is. When she says "lellow", she's setting herself up for turning the "y" sound into a "l" sound. That plays havoc with her grasp of phonics, and she cannot learn to successfully learn to decode words that have a "y" in them. I'm not saying that every child who adorably says the word "lellow" is in danger of becoming speech-impaired -- not at all. But, for this child, it is impeding her learning. She often has diffuculty in pronouncing the "y" sound in other words, and she automatically has a handicap whenever she tries to pick up a book and sound words out. We have begun doing what we term "mirror" practice, where I model the correct shape of the sound with my teeth, tongue, and lips, and she copies. Then, I have her stand in front of the mirror, and try to make her mouth make the same shape. That way, she can see the difference. If she sees the difference, maybe she'll begin to hear the difference.

We have to unteach the pronunciation of the letter "r" as "ar-uh." I don't know if this is a uniquely Southern colloquial pronunciation, but every year, I have several children that have to unlearn this bad habit, and for the same reason as "lellow." It messes with their grasp of the phonics. Ditto for the pronunciation of the word "ask" as "ax." Lazy speech begets problems down the road for little learners.

My kids are learing about sea life right now. We have learned about invertebrates, and had a field trip to the aquarium this week. We got to hold horseshoe crabs, whelks, spider crabs, and hermit crabs. We learned a lot about blue crabs -- they have 10 legs; the male crabs have blue claws, while the females have red ones; you can also tell the sex of the crab from the shape on the underside of the shell; and a blue crab has eyes like kaleidescopes.

Kindergarten sure has come a long way from when I was a child.

Out of the Mouths of Coworkers....Again

Most of you had the same reaction that I did to the "fat dyke" comment related below. Thanks to all who sent in supportive messages. I appreciate all of the disbelief exhibited on my behalf.

Sadly, I have to relate that the fun didn't stop there. No, apparently, I work in Bigot Central with people who SERIOUSLY need a sensitivity training course.

I mentioned in the comments in the previous post that the same day I got the lovely "fat dyke" crack, I started walking around the track at my school during my lunch hour. I've still been losing weight, but I don't get much exercise. I decided to start walking, not only to help with the weight loss, but also to get ready for our annual trip to Disney World. (We walk about 7 miles a day at Disney, and I am *so* out of shape every year.) It was just bad timing that I had decided to start walking the day that I heard these two jewels of carbon-based excrement discussing me. I didn't want them to think that what they had said had hurt me enough that I would take their comments to heart.

At any rate, I walked a mile during the early morning, while it was still cool. Later in the day, I was passing through the hallway when another co-worker stopped me. (This one was someone I rarely run across during the normal course of events, and who has spoken about ten sentences to me in total in three years. And about six of those sentences were in a training class.) The following conversation happened:

Co-worker: "I saw you out there walking earlier. I wanted to say that I'm so proud of you for finally doing something about your weight! You keep it up, okay?"

KLee: "Uh.....thanks?"

Now, this woman was trying, in her rather self-absorbed way, to let me know that she was glad that I was trying something to better myself, but the way she expressed it was...shall we say... unfortunate. It was a back-handed compliment, to say the least. Do I have a sign on my forehead that tells people that it's okay to verbally torpedo me? No, I don't, but I'm fat, therefore I'm fair game.

It's okay for the fat to be the object of ridicule. At least, that's the perception I pick up from society at large. It's okay for the overweight to have to endure the barbs and cutting comments from people they don't know. After all, we did this to ourselves, didn't we? We must be weak willed. We must be lazy, or stupid, or have no other redeeming qualities.

One day, maybe thoughtless people will think before they speak. Maybe one day, being fat won't be such a stigma. I can only hope.

The Culture of Fat, Part Deux

Pardon me whilst I drag out my soapbox again. I'm once again perparing to gear up on behalf of fat people everywhere. Or, at least, the ones like me who are tired of being made fun of and derided.

For those of you out there who know someone fat -- thank you for all the times that you didn't remind us how fat we are. Thank you for the times when you complimented us on our clothes, or our work, or a recent accomplishment without tying into it that we are overweight. Thank you. Thank you for being supportive and non-discriminatory.

It astounds me that we live in a world where the following conversation could take place, and no one thinks there was too much "wrong" with what was said. That there are people who are still this judgemental and bigoted:

Two of my colleagues were in the main hallway today. I said good morning, and passed on by. After I was a short distance away, the two have the following conversation:

Woman 1: "Hm. I see KLee got her hair cut over the break."
Woman 2: "Yeah....and with those shoes and that haircut, she looks more like a fat dyke than usual."

Wow! Two subgroups insulted in one! It's a Bigot Two-fer!

How About a Meme?

It's been so long since I've done a meme, so I think I'll follow Halloweenlover's suggestion and do this meme, which made the rounds a while back. Some of my categories are different from hers, though.

The Seven Things Meme
-------------------------

Seven Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
1) Visit Europe again.
2) See my daughter grown up.
3) Hold my grandchild in my arms. Kiss his or her soft, silky head, and fall in love with him or her.
4) Wear a size 12.
5) Take a cruise.
6) Go back to school.
7) Go parachuting.

Seven Things That I Can Do:
1) Textile/Sewing Arts. I love 'em all, from cross-stitch to quilting.
2) Make handmade paper items, from cards to quilled sculpture. People at work are starting to commission cards and paper art from me. It's really very flattering.
3) Sing. I've done musical theater for years (though not recently.) I'm way out of practice, though.
4) Put my right foot in my right hand and extend my right leg upward in a sort of "ballet" stretch pose. Pretty limber for a fat chick!
5) Do Elizabethan Blackwork embroidery. (It's a long story. I'll explain one day.)
6) Make my own soap and candles. (That goes with the blackwork story.)
7) Read everything I can get my hands on!

Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1) Eat seafood. Allergic.
2) Wear or own anything orange. It's just plain WRONG!
3) Read music. I sing by ear.
4) Play an instrument, though I dearly wish I could.
5) Ride as a passenger in any moving vehicle without massive doses of anti-nausea meds. I get queasy watching my daughter play video games.
6) Stop compulsively buying books.
7) Do that thing with my tongue where you roll it into a U shape. (Both JF and Offspring can do it, and they tease me endlessly about it. Meanies.)

Seven Things I Say Most Often:
1) "I love you!" (To JF, Offspring, and my family)
2) "That's not how you get my attention!" (at school)
3) "Zip lips, or move clips!" (Also a school thing!)
4) "What should I make for dinner?" (Usually followed by: "No! Not spaghetti again!" to my daughter.)
5) "Sit on your bottoms, and tummies to the tables!"
6) "What time is it?" (for when my family has to roust me out of bed on the weekends.)
7) "The first thing on your paper is your name!"

My Seven Favorite Books: (or book series)
1) The Lord Meren Mysteries by Lynda S. Robinson
2) Anything about the Tudor Dynasty
3) Aaron Elkins' 'Gideon Oliver/Skeleton Detective' books
4) Sue Grafton's Alphabet series
5) The Harry Potter series
6) Kathy Reichs' novels
7) virtually anything about archaeology, crime, or mystery. Or, all three!

Seven People I Would Most Like to Meet: (living or dead)
1) Elizabeth Tudor
2) King Henry the Eighth
3) Hildegard of Bingen
4) any of my favorite authors
5) Sean Connery! (oooohhh! I *drool* over this man!)
6) George Washington (who would pass up a chance to talk with our first President?)
7) Benjamin Franklin (he seems like he would have been a lot of fun.)

Seven DVDs or Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:
1) "Blackadder" (preferably the Elizabethan years, if I had to pick one incarnation)
2) "Better Off Dead." (Gee, Ricky. I'm sorry your mom blew up." "Do you have Christmas in France?" Love it.)
3) "Highlander" (with the utterly scrummy Sean Connery and a KILLER soundtrack by Queen.)
4) "A Fish Called Wanda" (or, really anything by the Pythons)
5) "Yellowbeard" (has the double whammy of being a movie both with Pythons *AND* pirates!)
6) "Love Actually." (have TiVoed this several times, and I STILL cry, every freaking time.)
7) "The Private Eyes" (an older comedy with Don Knotts and Tim Conway, and is hilarious with every viewing.)
----------------------------------------------------

So. That's a little more about me. :)

And the Band Played On

So, a lot of you have been very supportive (both here and elswhere) on my Parent Problem. I wanted to let you know what I've done about it.

I had several options: a) quit, b) get mad and let them know it, or c) be mad but continue to take it, just like I have been doing for the past four years. Now, I didn't want to quit. It's not the girls who are the problem, and they don't deserve to have me skip out on them. I didn't want to continue in the same old way by letting them walk all over me, so my choice -- really, my only choice -- was b).

After the whole ambush happened, I called up my mentor, who suggested that I write the parents a letter. It would outline how hurt and upset I was, while still suggesting a way in which we could come to a compromise. I wrote such a letter, pouring my heart and my anger into it. Even angry, I chose not to call names, not to make specific comments, and generally try not to make the issue into a one-on-one. Even angry, I was still trying to keep the peace.

When the letter was finished, I let my mentor read it, and she "approved" it. My co-leader thought that mailing that letter would REALLY anger the parents, and that I would alienate them even further. She may be right. It's out of my hands, though. I mailed the letters today, and I think I'm giving myself an ulcer in the process.

At this point, I'd rather risk making a few of them angry than to keep on as we are. I will no longer be a doormat. I can't force them to appreciate me, but I will no longer allow them to browbeat me.

When It Rains, It Freakin' Pours

Okay, so I'm not having the best week of my life. I had no sooner posted a really whiny whine to Phantom Scribbler's Wednesday Whine thread when the proverbial scat struck the oscillating temperature-control device.

Firstly, my whine was that some of my Girl Scout parents ambushed me, and really said some hurtful things. It made me very upset, and now I question why I've devoted four years of my life and almost ALL of my free time to people who clearly don't care what they say to me, or who are even taking in the tenets of the program to start with. It left me feeling very discouraged, and wanting to quit, which is a major step for me. And, then my mother called.

Now, my mother has the habit of having one tee many martoonies and calling me up to serenade me with her karaoke favorites. When I heard her voice on the phone on Wednesday night at ten-thirty in the evening, I assumed that she'd been doing her Patsy Cline impersonation again. BBzzzzt! Wrong answer, but thank you for playing. Her appendix had burst, and she was being rushed (well...*rushed* isn't exactly the term, since she'd been in the ER for about 12 hours at that point) to have an emergency appendectomy. Now, apparently my Mom is going for some sort of frequent-flier award at El Local-o Hospital-o. Around five or six years ago, she rolled her motorcycle, injuring her knee. She had to have, for all intents and purposes, a knee replacement after that little escapade. About a year and a half after the knee, she had to fly to the Midwest for a conference for work, and the doctors think the long flight loosened a clot from the knee, and she had a pulmonary embolism. Thank God it wasn't fatal, and was caught in time. Now the appendix. It's not that she doesn't take care of herself -- she does, a lot more than many "grandmas" her age. (She'll be 60 this fall, and is more active and vital than many people 25 years younger. Me included.)

When she was wheeled into her room after the surgery (at about two in the morning), the first thing she noticed was a metallic gold paper star above her hospital room door. She said, still loopy from the anesthesia, "I musta been a good girl, 'cause I got a gold star!"

The Return of the Puzzle Pirates!

In furtherance of my pirate obsession, on our recent trip to St. Augustine, I purchased this t-shirt. It's all part of my plan to rule the seas by kickin' butt and takin' names.

We had a great time in St. Augustine -- visiting the oldest wooden schoolhouse, the Castillo de San Marcos, the Fountain of Youth (where the world's most tame squirrels reside), and generally wandering around the historic district. We stayed at a pirate-themed Hostel (Hi, Conrad and Elaine!) which was a lot of fun.

It was a nice break for us. Plus, there were pirates, so we were happy all the way round!

Our Kids are Cute so We Won't Kill Them

It must be true. Your child does something so annoying that you're on the verge of murder -- and then they give you "The Look." You know the look....the one with the big puppy dog eyes, and maybe, if they're wily and crafty, they throw a hug and an "I love you, Mom! You're the best!" in there just for extra measure.

This theory of mine was put to good test recently by Offspring. She was courting imminent demise by neglecting to tell me about (or to even attempt to begin) the Science Fair project that she's known about for over a month. Apparently, her teacher had decided to team three or four students together to do projects, and Offspring and her "team" hemmed and hawed over even choosing a project, much less doing actual WORK on said project.

Offspring decides to ask me for help in cobbling together some sort of project that she can turn in -- this is on a Monday. The project (which includes the "project", a research paper, a display board, and a logbook that the students were supposed to be keeping for the past month, detailing their experiments and their progress.) is due on Wednesday morning.

This is when the red haze descended over my eyes, and I sorta blacked out for a while. I probably broke at least 1 commandment during this time. I know I broke my Lenten vow to give up cursing.

After my tirade, I grounded Offspring, and then headed out to find some supplies we needed. The project got done in the end. I just wonder what grade we....uh, I mean, *she* got.

And I thought brains only came in gray...

As seen at the lovely CCW's site:

What color is your brain?

What Color is Your Brain?

BLUE:

At work or in school: I like to be with people, sharing with them, inspiring them, and helping them. I work and learn best when I can take into consideration people and the human element. I flourish in an atmosphere of cooperation.
With friends: I always look for perfect love. I am very romantic, and I enjoy doing thoughtful things for others. I am affectionate, supportive and a good listener.
With family: I like to be happy and loving. I am very sensitive to rejection from my family and to family conflicts. I really like to be well thought of and need frequent reassurance. I love intimate talks and warm feelings.
Take this quiz!








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The Loonies Strike Again

I would complain that the monkeys are back at the newspaper, slaving away over hot typewriters, but it's actually not the local rag's fault this time. This time.

There was an item the other day, shortly after the "kid in the trunk" episode, about a 3 year old boy (what IS it with 3 year olds in this town lately? Is it the drinking water, maybe?!?) who was found wandering alone in a not-so-great neighborhood at 1am. A patrolling officer noticed the small child, and approached him. The child said he'd gotten up after everyone in his house went to sleep, got dressed, and left the house to go to his grandmother's. The child didn't know his address, or the address of his grandmother. The patrol officer took the child to the Family Services home. The newspaper goes on to say that shortly afterward, a call came in about a missing 3 year old. The caller, a female, said she was asleep while the child's grandfather stayed awake, drinking. ( oh, yeah -- this one's gonna be a lulu!) When the grandfather turned in for the night, he locked the door, and went to bed. The reason he made sure he locked the door, esteemed readers -- wait for it -- is because a similar incident had happened at this same residence a year before. Let me repeat that. This is not the first time this child has done this. He had a history of leaving the house in the middle of the night! At two and three years old!

I've said it before, and I'm sure it won't be the last time -- it truly boggles the mind.

Happy Birthday, JF!

Today is your 36th birthday! I hope you get everything that you want, and much, much more. I love you so much!

At a Loss for Words

You know how sometimes you see an article in the newspaper, and you're almost 100% positive that monkeys chunked it out on typewriters? How else could we explain the lack of *actual* news in most, if not all, so-called "news" stories? How can you explain the great print coverage of such earth-shattering news of Brad and Angelina's latest exploits? Or the newest idiotic thing our President has broadcast to the world at large? What so-and-so wore at the Oscars? Or the world-changing study that Harvard scientists are doing to link together the comsumption of milk and adolescent obesity? Anything at all involving Paris Hilton?

No, that can't be true! Monkeys might actually make sense once in a while.

I was reading a local paper to discover a story about a routine traffice stop gone awry. What happened was this: A man is loitering in a known drug sales area. Police see the man, and decide to stop and question him. During the questioning, which is taking place on the street, the man panics, and decides to lock the doors to his vehicle with the keyless remote that's located in his pocket. Only, the suspect inadvertently hits the wrong button, and manages to pop the trunk instead. The police, being the highly-trained, inquisitive individuals that they are, see the trunk pop, and go around the back of the car to investigate. (At this point in time, it's my contention that the suspect should hereby nominate himself for the Darwin Awards "Honorable Mention" category.) In the trunk, the police find cocaine, crack, marijuana, and a 3 year old child. The police decide, based on the evidence in the car, they have due cause to search the man's apartment. They do, and find more drugs, a digital scale, and $160 in cash. The suspect is booked for possession of a controlled substance, and possession with intent to distribute. Here's the part that boggles the mind: There is no further mention of the child! Not word one. It's like they listed him (or her -- we don't even know the child's gender!) as yet another illicit substance that was stashed in the trunk for later distribution. We don't know who he is, even if he's alive or dead. Never mind why the hell he's in the freaking trunk!

As if that wasn't bad enough, the thought remains that some editor, somewhere, probably approved that story. No wonder I stopped taking the local paper.

Half a Lobster

This weekend, we had a Cookie Booth at the local Harley-Davidson dealership. (I know -- don't get me started about the incongruity of Girl Scout cookies and bikers...)

So, we stood out in the blazing sun for 3 hours. The day was supposed to be cool and overcast. It wasn't. It was bright and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. We had no shade. I manned the money box side of the booth during this time, and ended up with a killer sunburn on one side only. Aren't I just a lovely shade of hot pink? I even had to go to the school nurse today to see if she had some aloe gel or some Solarcaine, just to get me through the rest of the day. You know you've got a nice sunburn when you have to take off your necklace because it hurts too much.

So, what's up with all of you?

Do you guys even remember me? It feels like it has been so long since I posted that I'm sure you've all dropped me from your blogrolls!

I'm still here. Busy at work, busy at Girl Scouts. Busy, busy, busy.

Trying hard not to lighten my slight depression over being the size of a small Orca by eating a case of Girl Scout cookies and thus compounding the problem.

I have a friend who has a marriage that is fracturing, and it's tough to toe the line of friendship between husband and wife as both were our friends. It's also tough to see so many years together devolve into hurtful barbs at each other.

I did have a bit of a chance at some "me time" this weekend, though -- JF was kind enough to not grumble too loudly when my Girl Scout unit sprang a surprise, last-minute adults-only stamping/scrapbooking night together. We had a great time, and I hope we get to do it again soon.

We are firming up plans for a St. Patrick's Day weekend getaway to St. Augustine, Florida to further our familial obsession with all things piratical. We plan to stay in a hostel/inn in the Historic District called, oh-so-appropriately, the Pirate Haus. We wanted to stay in the Pirate Room, but it was booked. We did get to book the Map Room. We have plans to visit the Castillo de San Marcos, the old town area, Potter's Wax Museum, and Offspring has begged for us to take her to the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum.

So...what are you all up to?

I need a 12 Step Program, or something

I've not been blogging a lot lately. There's work -- 17 kindergarteners are enough to keep anyone hopping, right?!? Sure, I've had Girl Scouts. And, there's all those dratted cookies to contend with. But, the *real* drain on my time lately has been this. And, I'm starting to worry that I'm seriously hooked. I dreamt about pillaging last night. I'm starting to dream in pirate....
Should I be worried?

Lumpy

I mentioned trying to lose some weight in various postings -- here, and on other blogs' comments. I have always been large, so my struggles with weight are lifelong. This is, by no means, a new development.

I tend to use humor to diffuse rude comments about my weight. When people ask rude questions, most of the time, I try to make a self-deprecating joke -- it hurts less when *I'm* the one doing the put-downs. I guess it's a sort of a defense mechanism.

When I became friends with an online group devoted to the TV show "Homicide: Life on the Street," we all praised the show for starring "normal" looking people. The original stars were regular Joes, not beauty queens and GQ models. We often described some of the characters as "lumpy." This was, in our estimation, a good thing as far as realism of the show was concerned. Real poh-leece don't look like they stepped off of the fashion runway! They look tired, harried, and busy, just like the rest of the world does. I tended to apply the term "lumpy" to myself as well.

A few years ago, when Offspring was about three or four, people around me started noticing a lump on the back of my neck. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't bothering me in any way, so I didn't think much about it. I just figured I was putting the truth to my designation as "lumpy." I went to have lunch with my mother one day, and a co-worker of hers stopped me in the hallway to ask about the lump. It turns out that she had had something similar, and wanted to know if I ever had my lump checked out. She had had Cushing's Syndrome, which is a type of endocrine/hormonal disorder. She had a tumor on her adrenal gland, and the hypercortisolism was making her gain weight in her torso, and she had this fatty deposit like a dowager's hump on the back of her neck. She wondered, looking at my hump, if I might have the same thing.

I went online to various places, and printed out information about Cushing's, just to see if I needed to request a test for this from my family doctor. All the symptoms are just vague enough that probably 3/4's of the world would qualify: Upper body fat -- check. Lumpy neck -- check. Thin skin that often cracks -- double check. Stretch marks -- BIG check. Rounded, "Moon Pie" face -- yeah. Irregular or stopped menstrual periods -- yup. Decreased libido -- uh-huh. Putting all this info together, I called my doc's office. I made an appointment. When I arrived, I had to explain to my doc what Cushing's was. I showed her the information I had gleaned from various sources. Together, we looked through all of it, and decided that even though the symptoms were vague, I had enough of them to warrant a test. Dr. T. makes an appointment for me with an endocrine doctor. Based on his assessment, and Dr. T's best guess, we decide to do the test.

The definitive test at the time (and it might still be, for all I know) is a 24 hour urine sample. The urine is tested, and is supposed to fall into a category numbered from around 1 to 7. If your urine is on one end of the spectrum, you're normal. On the other end, you have Cushing's. Dr. T. and I talk about what the test results might show. Dr. T. calls me back, and tells me that, according to the test readings, I have Cushing's. We discuss treatment options. Based on the hump, Dr. T. thinks that it's likely that my tumor is at the base of the brain, but that we'll have to do CAT scans and MRI's in order to be sure. The treatment is much the same as chemotherapy. I'll have to have surgery -- basically, brain surgery -- to get rid of the tumor. I get this news on a Friday. Dr. T. tells me to break the news to my family, and to come in on Monday, and we'll set up all the necessary scans and tests at the hospital.

I tell JF, and we both panic. I try and explain to my little one that Mommy will be very sick, and in the hospital for a while. I even write out my will. I decide that I'll do whatever I have to do in order to be around for the next 75 years. I'll fight it! I'll become an expert on Cushing's overnight! In the cold dawn of Monday morning, however, I get a call from a sheepish Dr. T. -- she's read the results *completely* backwards! I *don't* have Cushing's. I never did. It was a new doctor, reading unfamiliar test results. I'm so relieved that being angry is the farthest thing from my mind. It turns out I'm just lumpy after all.

Bursting at the Seams...

This time of year is always busy for us here in HumidityLikeABrickWall. We usually have a lot of projects going on all at one time. For the past four or five years, we've been mired very deeply in the all-American tradition of Girl Scout Cookies.

As a mother, I'm glad to see Girl Scouts help my daughter grow in confidence and personal strengths. I'm glad of the sense of belonging and community it offers her. But every year, I hate having to try to find storage room for all those blasted cookies. I shouldn't say "blasted." I should say "the cog that turns the wheel that is our troop's finances," but I find that I'm less and less excited at the idea of shlepping around all those blasted cookies.

Don't get me wrong, I love the cookies. I love them all too much, as my enormous girth will attest. I love that my eight scouts have sold so many cookies that we will garner over $1,000 profit this year. I love that my daughter sets her goals for cookie earning, and does her best to meet and exceed those goals. and that every year, she usually does very well in the cookie sale, not only in numbers, but also in initiative and drive, and in manners.

I hate having to load and unload (multiple times) 172 cases of cookies. I hate the crushed toes when a case or three falls on my foot. You wouldn't think cookies would be so heavy, but they are. Deceptively so. I hate having to "give up" my newly furnished craft room (in what used to be Offspring's nursery lo those many moons ago) because it's full to overflowing with cookie cases.

If I don't post for a week or so, send a search team out to see if I'm caught under an avalanche of boxes. At least I won't starve while awaiting rescue.

Pray for my student....

For obvous, Dooce-like reasons, I won't go into too much detail, but EMS had to be called to my class this afternoon for a student in medical distress. Please pray for that student, and the student's family.

I will update when I have a good/bad prognosis to deliver. As it is, pray for the ailing child, and for all of my others who were also in class at the time.


Update: No real news to report. At last notice, my student was resting somewhat comfortably at the hospital. The initial reaction of the docs was that a high fever triggered the "incident", and that was the most I was told at the time. I do plan on making a card for my little one, and sending it to the hospital if it proves that s/he will be there for any length of time. I appreciate all of your prayers.

This, really, comes as no surprise....

As seen at PPB's and Inner Dorothy's spaces..... the Muppet personality test!

You Are Animal

A complete lunatic, you're operating on 100% animal instincts. You thrive on uncontrolled energy, and you're downright scary. But you sure can beat a good drum. "Kill! Kill!"

Many other people have called me "downright scary." I thought I'd have been more Kermitish, but, yeah.... I can see where they'd get Animal.

The Muppet Personality Test

"An Evening in Paris"

At the end of January, our Girl Scout Unit always holds a very nice father-daughter ball. Every year, we, the leaders and mothers, go all out. There's a theme every year, and this year's was "An Evening in Paris." The girls and "escorts" always have a great time. Offspring and JF always attend, and we always have pictures to record the momentous occasion.

Here's their Ball picture, set in front of an Eiffel Tower backdrop. :)


(Thanks to the genius computer whiz JF for helping me get this posted!)