Tales from the Front Lines

  Well, THAT was humbling. I adore it when the Lord puts me in my place. Really.  Like my favorite thing EVER. Because, you know, I just never stray very far from how I know He wants me to act and be.  Right. When the Lord puts me in line, it's more of an "attitude adjustment" along the lines of Extreme Makeover Edition.  I'll be karping along, muttering sullenly and sacrastically about this, that or the other and.... WHOOPS.... **************************************************** The Almighty gifts me with a hard smack right across the back of the head. Yes.  I remember when, a long time ago, I likened wanting to be in the will of God so feverently that I would pray that God would just pick me up if I was on the wrong path, like an errant turtle, put me on the right way and if necessary, place me on my back so the only direction I could look was up to heaven.  Turtle on it's back.  Yes indeed, Lord.  Flip me like a tutle on it's back. I...

I'm not sure where this is going to go, but I'll try to be honest. Being in a co-dependant relationship is never healthy.  When someone is silmutaneously needing you to survive and abusive to you, you have a choice.  Continue with the support and suffer the abuse, or not. I 'm choosing not. The support will continue but the dream of closeness, of understanding each other, of a warm and cuddly relationship has died.  Why did it take so long to see it? The odd thing is that I understand her better now.  With the coolness of distance, I can see her effort, I can sense her (mis)understanding of events that cause her to lash out, to be angry, to be cruel. I've been the same I can still be the same. The habits don't die easily, believe me. The sound of a particular ringtone can escalate my heart rate to an abnormal, pounding pace. I scan the face of the one dearest to me as he deals with an angry, emotional young woman on the other end of the phone, dread ...

So, I have/had a goldfish.  He's currently living out his life in an aquarium in the basement of my home. But, he longs for wider areas to roam.  I don't KNOW this as he has not burbled his preference to me, but my son, the fish expert assures me this is so. And, thus, I took to Nextdoor: Below is my entry. TLDR, need pond for goldfish to live. Healthy fish. If you can help, comment or PM me. Y'all. Y'all....I can't make this stuff up. The Goldfish, that you may remember from my previous post is now referred to in capital letters and an honorific, bestowed upon him by me. Sir Fin, of the House Goldfish, is seeking an abode that far, far transcends his practically new 10-gallon aquarium. Do you know of a pond where he may reign? Or, in the way of the circle of life, live out his destiny? He's a good fish, quiet. Very quiet, in a goldfish way. He would not disturb, I would not think. Healthy. Bright, snappy fins. Clear, if vacant eyes. ...

Or let's get real.."Why am I the only one who can find a damn pair of socks in this house?" I am making this a sock tutorial.  Why is it needed?  Because *I*, evidently, am the only one who can match up socks in this house. So, here's how I work the magic that I do:  Pay attention, those of single sock inclination: 1.  Have a home for the single sock.  I do.  It's a drawer.  I get laundry, there's a sock...where's it's mate?  I have no earthly idea, so I swing the sock into the "single drawer".  But, here's the thing...it is implied..hoped..strived for...that someone.other.than.me will look into the single sock home and work a little "match.com" or "tinder" or "Christian Mingle" magic with these soulful wanderers.  Let's look, shall we?   Behold the single sock in it's singularity.  Is true love possible? Hmmm.  No.  While I approve of diversity in marriage and life:   these. DO. ...

Recently, I wrote a status on Facebook.  "Buy the shoes" was the sentiment from the picture.  I added:  "I'm not eating burnt toast, anymore" or words to that effect.  On reflection, I think I'd like to say more. When I was little, I ate toast all. the. time.  Now that I am older, and heavier, toast is a celebration. It's a carb, carefully and judiciously smeared with the tiniest schmear of light butter and savored quietly and slowly with my coffee.  It's often cold long before I'm done, but I dip it into my coffee.  BTW, people are discovering or have discovered the delight of a small amount of butter in coffee.  While you may wince, don't knock it, til you have tried it.  What makes me giggle, is that my daddy did this 50 some years ago.  That man was constantly ahead of his time.  Bless him. Back to toast.  It's so easy, in the early years to eat burnt toast:  you're learning to make toast, you are 6 years old....

Did you know... I always enter your home fearing the worst, praying for the best. I make your bed for you, sometimes I kiss your pillow before I fluff it for the last time. Your bedroom and clothes smell like Moonlight Path, it's a perfume that we shared. It's not your imagination. I spray it before I leave. I clean your bathroom, I muse over your new collection of toiletries, signs of the woman that you are becoming. I stock your pantry and your refrigerator. I pray you are never hungry for food or happiness. I vaccuum, not everytime, but when I do, I wish our past could be as easily erased. I never ever leave your door without locking it and laying a hand on it and praying hard that God will keep you safe.

and we are off to Arkansas. details to follow

you ever notice how those life changing moments can keep you waiting? I do. I am waiting on such a moment. A decision may take us away from the happy state of North Carolina to the land of Arkansas. A big move, considering the last time we moved we were one child lighter and several years younger. I wonder what the future holds.

Are days like Sundays. When everyone else in the world is lounging or at least looking like they are lounging, I'm doing laundry like a fiend, emptying dishwashers, trying to find a spare moment. And, when I'm done, I'm catching up on email. This working full time has serious consequences.

Honestly, if there was a mother revocation center, my name would have been turned in loooong ago. No matter how hard I try, at least one or more of my children end up feeling mistreated, lonely, aggravated or abused. Usually, my uber sensitive daughter is the one that get's the short shrift (so she will attest), but this morning: 1. The Caminator was wailing that I didn't love her because I hadn't filled in her reading log and was trying to throw away her hard worked on homework (picture of an apple). These are punishable offenses in Cami land. I barely get them shuffled off to school when... 2. Ian calls. No lunch. No lunch money. What to do. While he is on the phone with me, I instruct him through making a PB and J, and guide him through riffling through my secret stash of cash so he will have milk money. I urge him to hurry, hurry, hurry, because he's discovered this AS he is ready to walk out the door. *sigh* What kind of mother am I?

And here I sit, by myself, in my office, typing away. I want you all to know that I miss you and hope to catch up. So very much has happened, but I'll just hit the highlights. Currently: Working at a small community college, in the communications department in the south. What could be more fun? Children: Still three, still the same ones Husband: yes, I have one. Same one. Outlook? Well, I'm admittedly a "glass half empty" kind of girl. Don't know why, but I am. Let's keep in touch. You check back here soon.

Thought you'd enjoy at least one story about CAMINATOR! off we trot to Kmart all three of us. School supplies and two gallons of milk, later, we are marching toward Georgia, or at least the cashier with the spoils of war..... When wait? What is that wafting on the breeze? Donuts? And where is Cami? Like a leming to the sea, that Cami, steadfastly heading to the bakery with no thought of my barking at her. Wait, is she stopping? No, she's slowing down to gaze at the Barbie aisle. It's pink, it's mezmerizing, she's helpless. When I finally found her, she's got an armful of those dreadful BRATZ dolls and is looking at me angelically. No. No and no. Absolutely not. You wandered off, wouldn't come back, and those are dreadful dolls and no. You ain't gettin' them. When, Linda Blair move the hell over, it's Cami-time. Faster than you can blink she turns mutinous. Drops to the floor, rolls around. I laugh. She kicks me in the shin. I stop laughing. S...

an excellent question. Truly. I have no excuse, except for two girls, one boy and one male dog all conspiring to make this the SUMMER OF THE LIVING HELL I know you want details. I know. I'm working on it. Please stay tuned.

Were you aware that dogs can go through windows? Were you ? HUH? Because, they can. On second floor windows, they wind up on the roof. On the overhang off my bedroom. Between the windows. Completely hidden from the casual observer, because, hey, who expects your dog to be on your roof? And they will lay there for 20 minutes dozing comfortable on the warm springtime roof, oblivious to your increasingly frantic calls of "treat!", "Ice!!" and "CCCCHHHEEEEZZZZ". Then, they will blithely take 15 years off your life by leaping BACK into the bedroom as you are checking under the bed, landing beside you, all warm fur and hot breath. I have a contusion on my forehead from slamming my head into the bed frame in the most fright I've ever felt in my life. Want a dog?

Sugarpie's post got me thinking. Last week, I was doing my morning routine which, of course, does include showering. I had put Black Jack out back on his run so that he could have his "outdoor time", while I had my soapy, in the hot water, relax time. (bad idea) Anyway...littlest daughter comes to the door and informs me: "Black Jack is in the front yard, Mama. How come?" How come, indeed. I think I can spare the 10 seconds to get dressed and go grab him, when...dear God, here they come, the Mafia walkers. They walk every blessed morning of the week sometime between 8:00 and 8:20, they pass my house. And, there's Black Jack in the front yard, head outstretched, ears perkily pointed, flag of a tail waving a happy hello. Of course, they see a menacing beast, ready to pounce. I don't blame them, he's 80 pounds and solid muscle. I leap down 15 stairs. Grab both leash, and my red rain coat and throw it over my bath towel fetchingly wrapped around me sa...

Believe me I know. You canNOT just come willy nilly back to your blog and not talk about what the heck happened in your classes at the end of the semester. It's unAmerican, unChristian and unchatty. I, myself, am a American Christian chatty girl, hence I shall spill the details of the....LAST WEEKS OF THE SEMESTER OF DOOM. Lets see: In my public speaking class, I had one of my very favorite students blow off his last speech. Now, I understand spring madness. I've had it myself, yet I canNOT let them get away with this. It's wretchedly unfair to the rest. I gave him a choice: speak or take a zero. Up to you, pal. I'm just the one with the gradebook and red pen. You earn it or lose it. (Oh, I'm a tough cookie in the classroom, you betcha) He grudgingly spoke in a flippant manner for about 90 seconds. I thanked him and then, at the end of class, I delivered his final grade. Once that formality was complete, I asked him, "Whatever possessed you to try and blow off ...

First of all, there is a pregnant female in the O'Bryant household. It is a mollie...that seems to give birth to live tiny fish as easily as breathing. We purchased two mollies and brought them home only to find 4 fish in the bag. Two big and two tiny. Now, we have 4 big fish in the tank and about 18 tiny "fry". The aquarium people have assured me that the big fish will eat the little fish which initally horrified me. Now, however, I can only see the beauty of such a plan. Eat your young, go ahead, please! Do it for me. Chow one for the team. Of course, I have inherited mollies with an absurd sense of the maternal. They don't WANT to eat their young. They just want to procreate their tiny mollie heads off. Did you know that female mollies can store sperm for up to 6 months? If they are stressed or aggravated with their tank mates, they will not gestate, they'll just "hold it in" somehow and impregnate themselves, later. THere's a lesson t...

...and end right up doing them anyway. For me, it's Weight Watchers. Because, really, right down to it, what the heck else am I going to do? Heave this weight around with me for the rest of my natural existance? Ummmm......no. No thank you. So, off I trot to the website and sign my happy self up for 3 months. A few clicks of the mouse later and ....voila! the heavens open up, and the FLEX point system is revealed! I have a certain number of points and many of my meals are happily within the range of the points. Then, I realize that the points have to last me the ENTIRE day. This is what we call "the whole picture", the "small print" of the exercise. I do not get to have 20-umpty points for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Nope. Has to last the whole day. So, I begin weeding out the undesireables, right into the grateful and astonished mouths of my children. "Here, sweetie, eat the icecream. Yes, I know it's Mommy's favorite flavor, so p...

He's such a sweet man. Really. It's a shame I dislike him. He's done nothing to deserve it, really. All he's done is tell me the truth. And the truth is: I'm fat. He's tall and thin, with brown hair and I think he has eyes. I'm not sure, because I cannot look this man in the eyes. Never have. Probably never will. There are reasons for this: there's so much ELSE to look at in his office, scales, blood pressure equipment and the endlessly facinating poster of "Lifeline - your blood's biological journey". I've stared at it so many times that I can practically tell you...nothing. Because I'm sitting in his office, with hands and knees tightly clenched as he delivers the news about my weight gain in a somber, gently chiding tone. "You were HERE in Feb. 2005, and now, you are HERE", he points to an appalling number. "Uh-huh." this is from me. "And we need to get you down here", he points again, the...

A "poser", a "wannabe", a "wuss", am I. I have just had any type of motherly pride slapped right out of me. I have seen Southern motherhood in action and I am AWED. It was a birthday party celebrating the 5th birthday of a little friend of my youngest daughter. It was issued, parchment style with ye olde English writing, asking for all "brave knights and faire maidens....to come to the castle for revelry, jousting and foolishment". Huh, said I. Clever, yet I am not cowed, not yet. Then, I RSVP and ask should my littlest be dressed in some medieval manner. A flowing veil, perhaps, at least a dress? No, sugar don't worry your little head, everything should be ready to go I was informed....oohkaaaay. Finally the day has come. Small child is fetchingly dressed, hair curled AND ponytailed and an appropriate gift in hand, I smugly enter....a castle? A restaurant? A restaurant with a castle theme? That is completely and utterly empty and decorated ...