It's Not for the Faint at Heart

Today has been a thought provoking day. It all started when for the one-millionth time I rubbed/snagged my dry, crackling heel across my bed spread. I've tried to do the home pedicure in an attempt to be fiscally responsible, but in the end, it's not the same. I'd had it. I was going in for professional help. On the way there, I decided to treat Songbird to a pedicure as well because she thoroughly enjoys them. Then my thought process went further and I decided to also treat Prince Lawn Gnome to one as well. After all, the feet of a 15 year old boy can definitely use a little primping.

So, here we are, all seated in the massage chairs, soaking. We soaked and soaked and waited and waited, "oh, yes, it's Friday, I should know better than to just walk in," I tell myself. Finally, it was our time and that's when it hit, the guilt. I always feel completely guilty for these foreign women that speak with a heavy accent I can barely make out. They sit on these tiny stools in a position that would cripple me for life. I can't help but apologize, "I'm sorry. I know. I know, they're bad. I'm sorry." The woman just smiles a smile that means "I pity you" in any language. Then she comments on my feet to her friend. The friend looks, and comments back. More smiles. "Yes, yes, I know," I find myself saying, but really, I don't know. What the heck is she saying?

I'm sure I don't want to know. It's one thing to feel bad that someone else is scraping and sloughing because I'm too inept to do them myself. It's another thing to hear about it. All in all, I'm glad I couldn't make it out. Three pedicures... $70. Tip+guilt an additional $18. Smooth heels, and knowledge that Prince Lawn Gnomes feet have been cleaned at least once this season, priceless.

Happy 100!!!!!

Believe it or not, this is my 100th post!!!! I think that should qualify me as an official blogger now. It's hard to believe that I've had 100 thoughts on anything... or at least 100 such random thoughts.

Thought for the day... I'm getting old.

I've spent a better part of the day thinking about fun and exciting games for the youth group this fall and I've decided that if it weren't for the Internet I'd be in BIG TIME trouble. Because, for the most part, it's not in my nature do such crazy, messy, disgusting games. The mom in me wants to worry about the ruined/stained clothing and all the cleanup each game requires. It's not cool to think about those things. It makes me old.

Cool/young people probably don't use the word cool anymore.
Young people recognize the musicians on MTV.
Young people have seen more than two movies in a theatre this year.
Young people don't have to pray before they start their cars, they drive convertibles.
Young people don't watch the news and wonder what the world has come to.

So, basically, what I'm trying to say is... I'm preparing to fake it. I'm preparing to fake that I have a tiny bit of fun left in me, that I have an once of an idea of what is going on in the world that young people care about, and you know what, it scares me to death. It scares me because all the youth I know can spot a fake a million miles away.

I am reminded of the saying, fake it till you make it. Not so sure that will work, but am running with it for now. I can use any advice out there I can get as the fountain of youth has been elusive.

Times Are A Changin'

The new school year is approaching with warp-like speed. All the children are winding down with all their vacation plans and all their camps for the summer. The school supply lists are out and the physical appointments are made. I find myself wondering where summer has gone to. It feels like it just began, and yet, here I am smack dab in the middle of planning out our fall.

My job has taken a turn for the better, and as it turns out, its turning into a career after all. Which means that I will have to return to school myself. So between, two homeschoolers and one in public school, and myself, our lives will revolve around schoolwork for a while. Will it even be possible to keep it all straight? I'm starting to question my sanity.

To top all this stress off, I am convinced that I need a chef, a maid and a gardener. Anyone out there willing to work for gratitude alone?

These Are the Days of the Dentist

Once upon a time there was a happy hubby that was not so happy anymore. He was suffering from horrible tooth pain. The oceangypsymom was at her wits end with the hubby due to his constant complaining. Unfortunately, her hubby suffers from the ridiculous concept that the dentist is not for routine maintenance. He believes that they wait by the phone and for him to have an emergency so that they can be ready, willing and able to assist. Oceangypsymom was feeling put out because she needed to call all over town to find a dentist that would see her hubby STAT.

God was smiling down upon oceangypsymom and her hubby and provided just such an appointment! This office was helpful, cheerful, and in a nutshell, all that the oceangypsy family could ask for in a dentist. Regular appointments were scheduled and kept! Indeed, this particular dentist and his assistants were becoming part of our regular and daily lives.

For those of you that may have forgotten, oceangypsymom hates going to the dentist. However, this office is good with the nitrous so she sucks it up (literally) and gets through. The assistants are always kind and ALWAYS ask about the hubby.

About a month ago the hubby blew off a dentist appointment for which oceangypsymom caught flack (hell) from the assistants about. When asked if she would like to reschedule for him, oceangypsymom replied, "you will have to ask him about rescheduling, here is his cell #". The conversation seemed of little consequence and was soon forgotten, until.... the hubby actually goes to the dentist and is asked by all the caring (nosy) assistants if he and his wife are still together. He answers yes, and laughs it off.

The next appointment was for oceangypsymom who is also asked if her and the hubby are still together. Nosy! Nosy! Nosy! Now I'm a little upset that anyone would even think that we weren't together anymore and make a vow to choose my words more carefully in the future lest anyone get the wrong idea.

Fast forward, hubby goes in for a followup appointment. Now the assistants, each and every one of them, make a point to come by his room and "check" on him to see how he's doing. The hubby, not accustomed to such volumes of unabashed flirting, comes home smiling from ear to ear.

Now, ladies, I ask you... are these women after my man? Because, it seems to me that they are in the business of making our business their business if you know what I mean. I don't think these assistants are the least bit concerned for the health of our marriage. I think they're like vultures circling the area hunting for easy prey. And if so, what should oceangypsymom do about such flirtation? Should she a) kick the office to the curb and take her business elsewhere
b) take it as a compliment and leave it at that or c) cause a scene?

Who Is This Crabby Woman?

I'd like to say that it was lack of sleep or the impending illness I feel coming on, but truthfully, it's more than likely not that. I'd like to say that it's not me, but my hubby would roll his eyes and laugh at that one. I don't know when it's coming on. I can't seem to control it. Before I know it, I open my mouth and out comes EXACTLY what I really think. No filter.

Today, it was the poor server at my friendly neighborhood Applebees. I ordered a bowl of french onion soup for my sore throat. What I was served was a soggy crouton and the smallest ration of broth that I'm sure would rival concentration camp cuisine. Oh, and it came with a plastic spoon! The plastic spoon that when put into the bowl was not even covered with broth. Pitiful, really.

The next thing I remember is the horrified look on the server's face when I explained to him in DETAIL that such a pittance of soup was NOT what I had ordered. I had ordered a BOWL of soup and this surely was NOT representative of a BOWL of soup. I went so far as to suggest that he bring this egregious error to his kitchen manager's attention so that he could remedy the problem. Picture a deer in the head lights and you know what my server looked like. Picture a look of slight amusement and "you're not married to her" eyes and you know what my hubby looked like.

Our server brought out two new "bowls" of soup. I use the term "bowls" loosely as they were exact replicas of the aforementioned problem. I couldn't help but complain about the price soggy croutons paraded around as soup cost these days. And that's when I felt old. I was ready to go to the mat over the price of a "bowl" of soup. Who is this woman that I've become? I'm beginning to feel like Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes, "TOWANDA!!"

Mama Bird and Baby Bird

Some children come with an extra dose of imagination. They live in their own little worlds full of imaginary friends and wonders. To the untrained eye, these highly intelligent children may seem a little "off", especially if engaged in an argument of some sort with them self. But, to the parent in the know, these children often hold special places in our hearts. Not only can they entertain themselves for hours on end, but once in awhile they let you into their little world. My youngest, Songbird, is such a child.

Yes, I've been known to set an extra place at the table for the imaginary friend. For a full year, I watched every step in the yard as not to accidentally step on "sticky" and wreck his house. But, my favorite was momma bird and baby bird.

Songbird would come snuggle up to me in my bed and gather the blankets around her in an attempt to build a nest. She would then cheep, cheep like a baby bird. As the momma bird, I would wiggle my finger in her direction as if it were a worm and she would pretend slurp it down. This would continue until I tired of the game and then told her it was time for the baby bird to learn to fly. She would protest and not want to leave my bed. Inevitably, the momma bird would have to kick the baby bird out of the nest in an attempt to get on with the day.

Songbird is twelve now and it's been a long time since we've played momma bird and baby bird. But today, I was reminded of this, oh so, telling game. Today, Songbird flew on a plane for the first time, by herself. Today, Songbird faced her fear of flying and boarded a plane to the busiest airport in the continental United States... alone. Part of me just wanted to shelter her and keep her home and walk right out of that airport! But, taking a lesson from the momma bird, I knew that she HAD to face this fear. She needed to spread her little wings and learn what is out there past the neighborhood nests.

I used to feel sorry for the baby birds, now I feel sorry for the momma birds, they need just as much courage.

Back to the Grindstone

Back from vacation and I'm exhausted. I need a vacation from my vacation. The fireworks tent was a great success and I'm very thankful that it is all said and done for another year. I thought I'd never get the gunpowder residue off me. Braveheart is unfortunately sporting a souvenir from the season. She has a burn on her arm from an artillery shell that fell over. She IS brave indeed. She has never even shed a tear! (For all Grandma's reading this entry... she is fine, really. We are taking good care of her.)

My stepdad, came up for the week to help with the tent. He was great and is running circles around me. Now that he's had his heart attack and new stints put in, he is so full of energy I can hardly believe it. He never stopped for a minute. On top of helping at the tent, he made five or six batches of homemade ice cream, fixed my dryer, did all the laundry (think mountainous), cleaned out the furnace filter, took out the trash, ran errands, etc... I may start referring to him as the Energizer Bunny.

My mom joined us after all the fireworks fun (she's no dummy). To her credit, she did not drive me crazy with advice or guilt over Braveheart's arm. Instead, she accompanied us to the doctor's office where we were held hostage in the waiting room for 45 minutes watching Michael Jackson's funeral. I have never seen a more glorified and celebrated pedophile in my life. Sorry MJ fans, but it's a sad day in America when we gloss over the truth and concentrate only on the image and the music; proof that we really are going to hell in a hand basket.

Now, I'm back to the grindstone. Back to work, back to trying to figure out all the home school stuff, back to running kids all over the place and did I mention that I need a vacation from my vacation?