Life's Too Short

My cousin, Dixie, was in town keeping me company while Brad was away.  We did lots of fun things, but mostly we cooked and ate what we cooked and talked about what we were going to cook and eat next.  

Anyway, while all this cooking was going on we took turns being the chef (or chief) and sous chef (or Sioux Chief) depending on whose specialty we were concocting.  When I was chefing, I would ask her to bring me this spice or that spice from the pantry, and every time when we were done with it, she'd ask "So where does this one go?"

"In the spice rack," was always my answer, and she'd come back looking confused.  

After about three or four of these episodes I said, "Dixie, why do you keep asking me where they go?  They all go in the spice rack."

"I know," she said, "but where in the spice rack do they go?  I've been trying to remember where I got them, but there's no system."

Wha?  Wasn't my system obvious?

It had literally never dawned on me to organize my spice rack.  Why on Earth would anyone, unless they are an actual chef, need their spices organized?  

"Dixie, there is no system; just put them on the rack.  Life's too short."

This prompted me to think of other things I've decided I refuse to do or not do moving forward.  

This is not a list of things like "To go to bed mad" or "Not to say I love you" or "To worry about what other people think."  Yes, those are all valid things that life is to short for, but these are real, actual things that I feel either take away valuable time or valuable pleasure from my life.

So, for your approval:

Life's Too Short...

1. To organize your spice rack (unless you love organizing then knock yourself out)

2. Not to push the button 
There's a button on our refrigerator that says "Ice Plus" and has a little frost symbol by it.  For over a year I have thought about that button every time I've gotten ice, but I have not pushed it.  Maybe because I didn't know what it would do or I thought maybe I'd get in trouble (by whom?  Brad?  No.  I'm the boss of him.)  But yesterday, I pushed the button.  I still don't know what it does, but our ice seems a little shinier, and I'm so happy I pushed it!  

3. To find the manual
I realize that in situations such as the one above, I could probably find out somehow what The Button does, but I'm not going to do that.  A. I don't know where the manual is or if we even have it anymore and B. I'm satisfied that nothing bad happened with the ice and that I didn't get in trouble by anyone.  I will just continue to speculate and know that our ice is just a little better thanks to me.

4.  To eat bad cheese
Not like rotten cheese, no one should do that.  I'm talking about bad cheese.  Like American cheese.  I hate that the worst most processed cheese is called "American" cheese too.  Like it it the epitome of America and our values?  What?  No!  No, I say to you American cheese, I won't eat you.  In fact, in my mind you are Un-American cheese.

5. To eat at Chili's
Unless I am in a desperate situation, like I have no other way of eating food, Chili's is never, ever an option.  Just, no.  I've had enough battered chicken with soft corn on the cob that is exactly like all the other battered chicken and soft corn on the cob I've ever had there for a lifetime.  

6. To pair socks
Yes, there will always be one missing.  No, I will never find it.  So I just buy a bunch of the exact same socks, throw them all in a drawer and grab two when I need them.  Done. 

7. To ignore babies
I don't get it when people don't smile and play with cute babies in front of them at the grocery store.  There is a cute baby in front of you in a shopping cart looking at you with his/her cute little eyes.  LOOK back and him/her and smile!  There are only so many babies in the world, and one of them is looking at you!  Play with the kid for two seconds. 

8. To make the bed
Unless I know for sure someone is coming to my house, I do not make the bed.  Pretty much ever.  Why?  I'm just going to throw those pillows on the floor again in about 15 hours and start the whole process over.  If someone happens to drop by, they just don't go in our room.  Or if they do, they're a dear friend or a paramedic, neither of whom will care that the bed is unmade.

9.  To listen to Top 40
At one point in American history, I believe Top 40 was pretty good (Elvis and The Beatles come to mind), but I'm sorry, music is in a terrible state.  Everything is synthesized and auto-tuned, and frankly just sucks.  Even if it doesn't suck, it gets played 10 times an hour and then you end up hating it in about a week.  Plus, now it's not like we need the radio to tell us what music we like.  There is a whole world of musical experiences thanks to iTunes, YouTube, Satellite Radio and the interwebs.  Therefore, Top 40 no longer has a place in my life- and I officially don't know what the kids are listening to these days.

I wish I could come up with one more so that there would be 10, but apparently, everything else in my life is necessary, so I'll stop there before I get frustrated.  Because hey...

Monsters aren't real...unless your father is out of town.

Brad's out of town.  On the one hand this is good because I have not had to suffocate him with my pillow to stop his snoring.  So, I'm sleeping better.  On the other hand, falling asleep is much harder due  to all the monsters and ghosts that have shown up since he left.

I'm still pretty sure that the upstairs guest bedroom is haunted despite having had a few house guests recently who did not feel any hauntingness.  However, now it's not just the guest room; it's the whole house.  Starting at about 10:00 PM.

Every night I tell myself that there is nothing to be afraid of in my house.  To prove this, I force myself to walk into every room, even the haunted ones, and do a little spin around and check all the closets for Evil Beings.  So far, none have appeared.

Pippy's husband asked me what I would do if I did find something in one of the rooms (I picture it being a Gollum looking creature, hunched in the middle of the floor licking its sharp little fingers...and then it would hiss at me).  

This is exactly what I would do:

I would slam the door and immediately start saying a prayer out loud to scare it and let it know that I have Jesus in my heart.  I would then run down the stairs and let the dogs out of their room (nothing haunting happens until the dogs go to bed), and the three of us would run out the front door and over to a neighbor's house.

Screw the cats, they're too hard to wrangle and Evil Beings would probably leave them alone any way.  Especially Itsy because she's so mean.

Anyway, once at the neighbor's we'd call a priest or preacher or rabbi or whomever we could find at that hour- and also the police- and then they'd come to my house and get rid of the Being.  I would then stay at a very nice hotel (because I deserve it after what I've been through) with the dogs (and cats if there was time) until Brad got home.  Then we'd sell our house and move far, far away.

I know.  That's crazy!  I can't run- I'm way too pregnant!  I'd have to waddle quickly.

Sigh.  

I tell myself that when the baby comes I've got to stop this and be a real grown up.  I can't be scared of things- I'm the MOM!  The Mom isn't scared of anything, she's the one who tells the kid that there is no such thing as monsters (or Evil Beings, ghosts, vampires, weird gray mists that waft under doors, shadows of trees that turn into werewolves who lurk outside your bedroom window, etc.).  None of those are real.  Don't be afraid of them.

What I should be afraid of are murders, rapists and robbers.  Those guys are real.  They are people I should actually be protecting my child against.  But I could just shoot them.  The undead are unshootable.  

Ugh!  I've got to get it together, I know!  There's not a lot of time left to be a crazy person who believes in these things.    Maybe when the baby's born I'll just automatically stop this and be like a mother lion protecting her cub.  Demons beware!  Vampires, go away!  Banshees be banished (and no, that was not just for alliteration, I am actually really afraid of banshees)!  The lioness is on the prowl!

Or maybe Brad can just take fewer trips and I can drink wine to calm my nerves again.

The Music in My Heart...is kind of bad

Everyone gets songs stuck in their head.  Well, I'm assuming that.  Maybe really smart, disciplined people don't get songs stuck in there head; maybe they will them out.  Or maybe they get a Bach concerto stuck in their head.  I get terrible songs by Pink and Bruno Mars stuck in my head.

It's not just that though, I recently realized that I pretty much have a running soundtrack in my head throughout the day depending on what I'm doing.

For example, if I mail a letter, I then have "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart stuck in my head, except I've changed the words to "Forever Stamp" because it works perfectly:  "Forever Stamp, Forever Stamp, Foooor-eeeee-ver Staaaaamp."

I bought Brad a book about being a dad called "Be Prepared," (which he has not read and which has not helped him prepare in any way), and every time I see it, I sing "Be Prepared" from Disney's "The Lion King."  You know the one- Scar sings it: 

"Be prepared for sensational news!  A shining new era is tiptoeing nearer." (Hyena, played by Whoopi Goldberg) "But where do we feature?" (Scar) "Just listen to teacher!  I know it sounds sorted but you'll be rewarded when at last I'm given my dues!"  

All that was from memory.  I did not Google any of that.

Pippy said that she does this sometimes too.  In the morning she sings a song about the days of the week that changes depending on the day it is:  "Today is Tuesday, today is Tuesday.  Tuesday wash day, Monday sooooup are you hungry brother? We wish the same to you!"  It is a terrible, nonsensical song from camp, and I can never remember what happens on what day.  I do not sing this song in the morning.

When I wake up, I sing the theme song to the 90's cartoon "Winnie the Pooh" that goes "Gotta get up, gotta get go'n, gonna meet a friend of mine!  He's round and he's fuzzy, I love him because he is POOH BEAR, WINNIE THE POOH BEAR!"  

I sing the whole thing, even the scary part about "when we're alone and there's nobody home, it's nice to be able to count on a friend, like POOH BEAR!"  Yes, that is in my head six days a week.

Only on Monday does it change to my Monday song, "Manic Monday", by The Bangles.  Which, let's just talk about this song for one second.  

So, she's obviously in this relationship with a deadbeat boyfriend who does not care for her wellbeing.  Why isn't he working?  Why does he only want to get down on Sunday night?  He could at least be supportive of her career if he's not going to work, especially when she has to work to feed the both of them and employment's down.  He should know that she just wants to watch TV, go to bed early and be depressed like everyone else on Sunday evenings.

I digress.

There are also songs for various situations involving the animals:
-"Stay, American Puppy" by Dave Matthews Band
-"If you are a kitty and your name is Saber, come on and give a meow" based loosely on the Rod Stewart song, "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"  
-"Leave it, leave it- drop that ball Molly leave it!" of course by the incomparable Michael Jackson.

I know.  It's weird.  Does anyone else experience this?  Maybe I don't have enough to think about so I have to fill the void with meaningless song.  Or maybe I have too much to think about and this is an avoidance tactic.  

Either way, it's probably not a big deal.  Maybe I should just "try not to get worried, try not to turn on to problems that upset you...oooo!"  (JCSS, 1973.  Obviously.)  

Shameless Self-promotion

Yesterday, I decided it was time to take the next steps in making this the most popular blog on all of the interwebs; I created a Facebook page.  If you're just joining us (perhaps from Facebook), welcome!  So happy you're here!  Or maybe you're a fan but haven't visited in a while.  Welcome back!  I'm equally happy that you're here!  Scroll down, there's been a lot going on.  Like we bought a robot, and also I don't have the plague!

In other news, the quest for fame and fortune via this blog exclusively (as opposed to real work and actual talent) hasn't been going super fantastically.  My hope was the BJ Novak would make this blog the hottest thing around without me having to do anything at all (see post "Dear BJ Novak, Thank you for reading my blog").  

By now I should have several million followers if BJ would have held up his end of the bargain, but he has very disappointingly fallen short of his obligation to me.  So, it's clear that this is going to have to be a grassroots campaign.

I firmly believe that through your support and the help of the Facebook my career will skyrocket, and by proxy so will yours.  Obviously.  So, if you haven't visited the FB page, please do.  I promise to post "exclusive content," let you know about new posts and provide exciting and entertaining things there.  Like unicorn pictures. 

Also if you'd like to follow the blog- which you absolutely should- there's a little box at the top left of the screen that says "Follow by Email."  Just type your email in there and you'll get a notice whenever I post anything.  Hooray!

In the meantime, thank you so much for coming by and reading my blatherings; it means a lot, really it does.  I know you could be on YouTube, taking Facebook quizzes or redecorating your life on Pinterest, but you're here.  Which is why I do this, for you, the fans.  And the possibility of a someday book deal, and the hope of being on "Fresh Air" with Terry Gross to promote said book deal, which is my ultimate goal in life.

Kisses!!

My roommate

We're having sleep issues.  I think this is mostly due to the fact that my bladder can't make it more than four hours at a stretch, so I am now constantly waking up in the middle of the night to waddle my way to the bathroom.  

Unfortunately for Brad, this is now his issue as well since when I come back, I'm PISSED that he's asleep and I'm not, and he's SNORING.

In all fairness, let me first say that Brad doesn't really snore.  It's more like heavy breathing with the occasional mini-snore.  I am very thankful that I did not marry a "real snorer" because, honestly, I don't think our marriage would have lasted very long. 

On the flip side, I have always had issues with sleep (falling asleep, staying asleep, spelling asleep which I used to spell a sleep).  So I take sleeping very seriously, and when I am awoken, it is as though an act of terrible injustice has been committed and I must avenge myself.  Long story short, I am a bad person and Brad is annoying. 

This "issue" has always been solved a by a very elaborate nightly routine involving a fan, my cell phone set to white noise with the volume all the way up, two ear plugs and a sleep mask (for the light, obviously, not the sound.  Light is just as annoying as sound).  I would then race Brad to see who could fall asleep the fastest, going so far as to ask him to actively keep himself awake a little longer so I could have a head start.

Most of the time this worked, unless I woke up.  Then it was just a matter of kindly and gently nudging Brad on the shoulder and asking him to please stop snoring and turn over.  

Usually that worked and then I just went back to sleep.  However, now that this is happening several times a night, I'm not as easily falling back to sleep and Brad is saying things like "You are the meanest person I know." and "You make my life miserable."  Clearly there had to be another solution, and its name was guest bedroom.

I had pulled this trick before, in the most desperate of times.  Only now, we've moved the guest bedroom. What was the guest bedroom is now the baby room, and what was the "workout room" (read room with an elliptical in it but mostly just all our other random junk) is now the guest bedroom.

It's a lovely room, it really is.  We had it repainted, moved all the guest furniture in there, hung pictures. It's lovely.  But it's scary.

If you're ever going to sleep at my house, just stop reading now because I don't want to taint the guest bedroom for you....and since there are about eight of you who read this thing and I know all of you, that should be pretty much everyone who reads this blog.

To the one person left whom I don't know, I feel like that room is maybe haunted.  I don't know why.  Our house was built in 2000, is not over an Indian burial site (that I know of), and has never ever felt haunted in any other way, but that guest room just creeps me out.

The first night I went up there, for some reason I couldn't stop thinking about that terrible movie "Paranormal Activity." It's the one where it's all "video" footage in a normal looking house with a cute couple, and then at night there's this demon being that comes into the bedroom and posses the lady.  That house looked normal, just like ours, and there was clearly a haunting for no good reason.  

Maybe the haunting is explained later or in a sequel, but I don't remember so I assume it was because they had a bad home builder or didn't pay their HOA fees.

Anyway, then, the next time I went up there, I swear I heard someone knock on the bedroom door.  I thought it must be one of the cats so I went to open it...and no one was there.  

That night I made a choice between haunting and snoring, and snoring won.

I'm sure there is nothing haunting that room.  It didn't feel haunted when it was the workout room (although to be fair, I rarely workout so I wasn't in there that much).  To convince myself, I have now gone into that room in the day and said things like "There is nothing in here."  "This is not a haunted room."  "This is a great room!"  "Go away haunting!"  But then I run away.

I think it's fine, really, but I have now explained to Brad that I am scared of that room and he has to go up there to sleep.  Since he won't get up in the middle of the night to go, we now part ways at bedtime saying "Good night, roommate!"  "Good night, roommate!", and I go to sleep in our normal, non-haunted bedroom and Brad takes his chances upstairs.

So far, he has not been possessed, and we are both sleeping much better.  I do worry that this is not good for our marriage, but I don't care right now.  Between snoring, haunting and sleeping, sleeping wins every single time.

So, would that make me a cannibal?

*Warning- this is a kind of gross post.  While I will not describe anything that has actually happened to me or anything related to birth in great detail, I'm just telling you now, there is a gross factor.  Maybe.  Or maybe you won't think it's gross.  I don't know.  Either way, you've been warned.  

I live in what has been described as a hippie town.  I think this is relative, but there are aspects of earthiness, some of which I embrace- like recycling, equality, and yoga.  So, when it comes to birth, there are lots of options and things that are available to us here that wouldn't be in our hometowns, and that I felt Brad and I needed to be educated on in order to make informed decisions.  Doulas being one of them.

I was vaguely familiar with what a doula does, but learned more from a friend in yoga.  Basically they are a non-medical birth coach.  Not to be confused (which I did) with a midwife who does do medical things and who I equate with a modern witch doctor, in a good way.  As one doula put it, they're like the choreographer who doesn't do any dancing.

It was all very mystical sounding, and I thought maybe we should check it out.  Brad was not really on board.  "This sounds hippie and earthy," I believe were his exact words.  

But, because I'm the boss of him and he loves me, I drug him to a Doula Meet and Greet with the promise that there would be food.  It was called "Eat, Drink, Doula" so I thought maybe there would also be beer.  I told him there would be beer.

When we got there the food turned out to be a few oatmeal cookies and the drink was water.  Brad was overjoyed.  "When can we leave?" he wanted to know after being there for two minutes.  

The doula leader, Marianne, was very nice and didn't seem too weird.  She asked us all to sit in a circle and please help ourselves to the refreshments.  Brad refused to even eat one cookie, I'm pretty sure to show me how much he didn't want to be there.

"Thank you all for coming," said Marianne.  "First, some of you may be unfamiliar with doulas, and maybe you have an idea that this is hippie, granola stuff," she said.  
"Yes!" I thought, she gets it.  Brad will come around.  
"Doulas are nothing more than a coach.  We're here to help you and your partner."  

She gave a very good, funny talk, and I thought things were going well.  Brad seemed more at ease.  Then, she dropped the bomb.

"Now, before we break out into groups, I'd like to go through one other service we offer."
"Oh no," I thought.  "Please don't let it be anything weird.  Please don't let it be anything weird."

"Placenta Encapsulation."  

My head imploded.

"It's okay to smile," said Marianne, "it's a taboo topic in our culture, and many people are unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the idea."  I couldn't help it, I laughed a little.  

Shit, this was not going well.  I had just broken my solidarity with Marianne and now Brad was sitting straight up in his chair and smiling.  He had just gone from actively disengaged to very much engaged and ready to mess with Marianne.  

Marianne explained that eating the placenta is very beneficial.  It's been shown to stabilize hormones, prevent post-pardom depression, increase milk production and also gives you wings.

"Also, humans are the only mammals that do not eat their placenta," said Marianne.  As if that was the resounding final fact that would convince us.

"Excuse me," said Brad.  "Did you say humans are the only mammals that don't do this?"
"Yes," said Marianne, "even giraffes eat the placenta.  I was told they don't, but then I did some research and found out that they do!"

"Mmmhmm," said Brad.  "And what other societies are doing this?" he asked.  Not that he really cared, mind you.

"Well, it's done all over the world," said Marianne.
"Like where?"
"Well, it's very big in Scandinavia.  And I believe Switzerland."  Efff, Marianne!  Those are the same.  Brad was smiling...a lot.

"Interesting.  So, what's the process like?" asked Brad.  "Can we grill it?"  Uuuuuuuuuuuuugh!  
"Oh, haha, no," said Marianne.  "We have two options."

Marianne explained that we could choose to have it dehydrated, crushed into powder form and put in a pill.  Then you just take the pill every day.  "Some women even save them for menopause!"

Or, the other, better option is that they will cut it up into little circles and put them in individual freezer baggies and then you just plop them in your smoothie in the mornings!

"So, raw?" I asked.  "I would eat it raw?"
"Oh yes, that's when you get the most nutritional value.  I promise you don't taste it!  I made one and had my mom try it, and she was very skeptical, and even she said she couldn't taste a thing!"

There is a potential problem though.  Some hospitals might not release your placenta to you.  If that's the case, you'll need either a court order or a letter from a mortician (I don't know why, maybe it's considered dead?) to get it released.  Not to worry though, they have recommendations for a mortician in town who will do it for half the price of the court order!  Fantastic!  

"God bless Capitalism," said Brad.

Okay, let's pause.  Now look.  If you want to eat your own placenta, whatever, that's your journey.  I was even thinking, at first, "Okay, well if it's really this beneficial, maybe I could do the pill thing."  But then, I decided to look some of this up, and here's what I found out about "Placentophagy" (which is the offical name for eating your own placenta).

First, I didn't find anything that said all mammals do it.  In fact, camels, seals, whales and dolphins do not partake*.  Marsupials don't either since everything just gets sucked back into their pouches, but they're only kind of mammals so I guess we'll let them off the hook.  Sorry kangaroos.

Also, I couldn't find any recent, double blind, human studies (and I looked, not that hard but I looked) on the effects of human placentophagy.  Therefore, evidence is anecdotal, based on studies done on non-primate mammals, like rats, or very old (like 1918) and spotty on methodology.  This was one the best sites I found PlacentaWise , but nothing in JAMA, nothing from Johns Hopkins, etc. 

Additionally, it is thought that the two primary reasons for mammals to do this are:
1. To erase traces of birth so that predators don't come into the area.  Makes sense that a large bloody thing on the ground could attract predators.
2. May have some nutritional value and hormonal benefits.  Some of the hormones are thought to help shrink the uterus and help with all that gross after birth stuff that happens.  This, incidentally, is one of the reasons proponents say humans should be eating their placentas.

Here's the deal though, there will, hopefully, be no predators in the hospital room, and they give you DRUGS that do all the same stuff (shrinking, etc.).

If you're thinking, "Well maybe people don't want the drugs, so that's why you should do it."  That means you'd have have eat the placenta in the hospital room right after you gave birth to get these same benefits that haven't been proven in humans.  "Nurse!  Hand me a fork!"

Again, if you're for this, yeehaw Sisterfriend.  I got nothing but love for you, and I hope it goes well and that you get all the hormonal value out of doing it.  Maybe I'm on the wrong side of history here.

I'm just saying that until I see a real medical journal publish something in this century saying that this is a real thing, I'm not paying a mortician to collect and then someone else to cut up something that was inside my body for me to drink in smoothie form.  I don't care that January Jones did it either.

Long story short, we left without signing up for either a doula or the Placenta Encapsulation service and got burritos.  I'm still really thinking about the whole doula thing though, which I think could be very helpful.  Brad has gone back to not eating granola, so we'll see if he can come around.  

Sigh.  If only they'd served beer.

*Wikipedia-Placentophagy

Not for your eyes!

This weekend Pippy came up and we cleaned out some boxes of old books looking for children's books to pass down to the baby.  And we struck gold.

We found a box of some of my old diaries, and they are ah-mazing!  First, I've learned a few things have, sadly, not changed that much since I was nine years old.  Obviously I couldn't spell, but you already knew that.  Also, I have a very hard time keeping diaries.  It is truly a miracle that this blog has lasted as long as it has.

Here is an example of both findings:

"April 7, 1996

Dear Diary,
This is probobly my 3red attempt at keeping a "Diary".  I haven't ever been able to keep writting in one for long, but maybe this time.  I can't spell to well so exuse mis-spelled words, (my teachers usally do).  Also if I skip a day or two exuse that.  I'm very busy you know."

I still think many of those words should actually be spelled that way, and sometimes do.  Especially "writting," which should have two t's.  Also, I remain very busy, you know.

Anyway, also in that entry, the reader learns I have a boyfriend, Keith Smith.  "He's shorter than me, but I really and truely don't care and neither does he so who cares what other people think any way?  Besides he'll grow over the summer."  Sadly for Keith, that did not come true and he remains rather short to this day.

Then, 11 days later, the next entry:

"April 18, 1996

Dear Diary (It's gonna be long),
Today so many things happend so I'll have to go in the order they happend so I don't leave anything out.  Well I didn't wear my new out fit today because it was to cold."

What?  Of all the things that happened, that's what I lead with?  Other things that happened that day were "langwige" class was cool and Keith gave me a bunny ("which I later named Bernarde") with a "Russal Stovers" candy box tied to its chest ("little box 4 chocalates").  Such an exciting day!  It was love!

Sadly, our love was not to last though, me and Keith Smith.  He must have broken up with me some time at the end of April.  You would think this would have been a long, sad entry, but there's nothing.  Only this short, but triumphant entry from May 9, 1996:

"Dear Diary, Today was the anniual trash pick -up and Keith was in my group!  Well, it wasn't like I talked to him (whew!).  But all my friends were rude to him when he talked to them.  I didn't even ask them to.  I guess when a guy brakes up with you he breaks up with all your friends too!!"

True that, sister!

Another theme is that in the period of me keeping up with each diary, for a while I am unfailing at keeping the entries regular- to the point of writing weekly summaries when I didn't have time to write every day.  Or, as in this entry, when it is inconvenient for both me and the people around me:

"February 3, 1995

Dear D (diary was a hard word),

Carla is spending the night (yes!!), Pippy is gone and I'm sitting on the pot.  (WHAT?  What?  What are you doing?  Why are you sitting on the pot writing in your diary when you have a friend over?  Where is she?)  Carla's in the other room asking "Are you almost done?"  

So there you go, militant vigilance at keeping the blog...I mean diary, for a while.  

But when I wasn't, I was very guilty and apologetic:

"May 7, 1996

Dear Diary,

WOW!  I'm SO sorry it's been a month!  But I just couldn't find the time to write in you!  (What was I doing?  Just one year ago I was willing to write while pretending to poop while a friend was over.  What happened to my dedication?)  I'm SO sorry.  I'll try to fill you in.  I won't let it happen again. (Okay good.  You're forgiven  So what have we missed?)  Well, last month we had to make a castle in Social Studies.  Mine was so good."  

Sigh. 

The last thing I learned is that I had a deep burning belief that my writings would become famous and be passed down from generation to generation (there are many references to my "children, grand-children and great grand-children" reading a particular entry).  In actuality though, they're pretty boring.  Just a lot of things about what I did that day or week.

So to recap, in the early 90s I couldn't spell, had a need to write on a schedule, had terrible guilt when I didn't and the hope that my mediocre writing would be discovered and make me famous.  

So, yeah.  

On the bright side, there are some pretty bad ass drawings: