Heptadecagon

We bought a new computer -- a laptop to be exact -- mostly for my use.  I am enjoying the laptop, although I have yet to move it from the spot where the old computer is.  What then, was the point of getting a laptop, right?  Never mind.  It will move. Tim set the whole computer up for me, complete with password for logon.  When the kids want to use the computer, they come to me and I type in the password. "Mom," one of the kids said the other day. "We are going to figure out your password.  We already have the letter O." Sure enough, there on the whiteboard in the kitchen, the kids had made a list of letters for my password.  The big black O stood out against the white on the wall.  I smiled.  O is not a letter in my password. "We have more letters, mom!" I heard Aaron say yesterday.  And they do.  The list now includes the following:  E, F, M, L, and of course, the O.  Apparently, each time I type in the password, all three heads look down, hoping

Way back in February 2011 , I told you about the people I saw walking to and fro in the pedestrian walkway at school.  The post was more of a fashion commentary than it meant to be, and it concentrated on the different types of pants people now wear.  The kind that barely stays on took center stage that day, and since I have once again started walking that same pathway into the building, I can happily say that perhaps, just maybe, fashion has moved on.  It seems as though people's pants are riding where they should. However, there are many other things that stand out now.  Things that keep me laughing for the 25 yard walk, and make people look at me funny.  Who is that crazy lady laughing to herself ,   they ask.  Yeah, sometimes I ask myself that, too. Anyway, I started school on Monday, and so far, this is what I have to report. 1.  Patterns that don't match, at all (my kids have been doing this for years). 2. Girls dressing like guys and vice versa. 3. Lots of colo

I love my Saturday morning runs.  I live for them.  I run long on those days, anywhere from 7 to 10 miles.  I'd love to get up to 12 miles, but lately, I just haven't had the time. This Saturday was no exception, for the most part.  The weather was nice, and there was no rain.  My legs felt fine, as did my lungs.  To be honest, I couldn't ask for anything more. I don't carry water with me, so I tend to stop at outdoor water fountains.  About halfway through my run, I stopped for a drink of water at the parking lot of a local church. Kids and parents were starting to gather for the morning soccer games. As I stepped back from the water fountain to continue the run, I overheard a mother say to one of her kids, "Hurry up, you butthole!" I don't run with contacts, so I couldn't see how old the child was, but th e kids on the field were pretty small.  I was flabbergasted.  I did a double check to see if the lady was speaking to a child.  Indee

Back in July, I received a phone call from a friend.  She asked if I'd be willing to input some data for the PTO when school started.  I said that would be fine. Computers and I are friendly, and I've done enough with spreadsheets over the years that they don't scare me. The data I needed to enter is basically a volunteer sign up form that the PTO sends out.  You put your name, phone number, email address on the form, as well as the names of your children, their grades, and their teachers.  Then, you check the box as to what you might be interested in helping with over the course of the year.  This system allows the PTO to have a complete list of people willing to help.  Need to get the Spaghetti dinner accomplished?  Check out the spreadsheet with the list of people who said they'd help with it.  Easy enough to send the emails/calls out due to the spreadsheet.  Having people say they can actually do it is another problem. Anyway, these orange sheets and I have spen

I received an email today from someone I normally see on a weekly basis.  I haven't known her long, but we have emailed quite a bit back and forth.  I tell you this, because our emailing means that she has been repeatedly exposed to my email address and name, which clearly says Christina .  Not Chrissy or Chris or Christi .   And most of all, not Christine .  But yet, there it was, in the middle of the email, a reference to Christine .  I looked up at the list of addresses, hoping she meant someone else, but knowing that she didn't.  I am tired of this mistake.  It has happened all of my life and I am just plumb tired of it.  Nothing more to say.  Except this:  if I can make sure that you are Kelli with an i , and not a y , than I think you can make a more conscious effort to make me ChristinA .  By the way, Gina says I should sign all of my emails that way.  And of course, Kelli is a pseudonym.

All I really want to do is take a shower, but the universe is against me. I haven't shampooed my hair since 11 am yesterday, although I did shower this morning at 8 am.  But my hair is starting to feel stringy, I am tired, and I just want the steam to help clear my head. I've been trying since about 7 pm to get into the shower.  I thought I could do it after I put Melina to bed.  But Aaron had other ideas.  About a million of them.  And then, after he was in bed, I had to put the laundry in and check in on the girls.  And finally, after their snacks and such, just when I had gotten together my jammies and fresh underwear, the inevitable happened. The part of my family staying with me, in our room, all went to bed; therefore, the shower is off limits.  My parents are now occupying the other full bathroom.  And I just can't see myself trying to bath in the sink found in the half bath.  Can you see it? I never thought I'd have to put shower at the top of my priority

I have a love/hate relationship with cheese. I love it on pizza.  I hate it if it smells funny.  (Romano, I'm looking at you.)  I love it in enchiladas.  I hate it if it is too hard.  (That would be Cheddar.) Back in college, I was so convinced that cheese was bad, I actually tried the fat-free variety.  It was tasteless and rubbery, and didn't satisfy properly.  I soon caved and learned that eating healthy is the key to weight maintenance...not getting rid of cheese in your diet.  I still cringe at the thought of eating fat-free cheese.  Something is just wrong with that. The dichotomy extends into macaroni and cheese, too.  I was raised on Kraft, which for a while was okay, but I'd only eat it with a fork.   Why?  So the cheese sauce would drip off of the noodles and into the bowl.  It just had too much cheese.  Someone tried to serve me Velveeta brand once, but I turned up my nose.  To this day, I'll eat homemade mac and cheese if someone serves it to me, but I

Tim, Melina, and I all attended a funeral today.  The funeral was for a man that lived in our neighborhood, one that we saw walking his dog and having fun with this family.  I encountered him many times at the grocery store, and Tim coached his daughters in volleyball.  He was a part of our parish, and judging by all the other people that attended the funeral, he was also well loved. I think funerals are hard for everyone, but I find them even more difficult if the people attending and those conducting dwell on their loss.  I know that sounds absolutely callous, but what I mean is that I prefer to have a funeral that is a celebration of life instead of an elegy of loss.  Today's funeral certainly fit the bill. I can't do justice to the homily or the songs and readings chosen by the family, but it was apparent that the mom and daughters took some time and put some thought into the selections.  They chose the songs and readings because they represented this man, or reminded t

I am sitting right here, in the family room, writing from my new laptop.  Woo-hoo! It is a beautiful machine that will ultimately replace the 12 year old computer that has served us well.  And it is all mine.  Mine.  Can I say that again?  Sure, I'll let Tim and the kids use it.  Tim did, after all, buy it for me.  But when push comes to shove, I can claim the beast as mine; I'll push the user off, and scurry my fingers over the keyboard in an attempt to either write the next best line in my novel or upload an image to my lectures.  And 12 years from now, I'll move up again to the next technological marvel in existence at the time. 

I did it. Despite my better judgment, I friended a friend on FB who just happens to be a salesperson.  My FB experience will never be the same. Want to buy a new toaster?  A bag?  A new recipe book? A new life?  I would not put it past this person to try and sell new lives.  If it can be sold, there will be a post about it. I'm just waiting for sanity to be the item of the day.  That is something in which I just might have some interest.

We did it again. The girls and I have stripes. Talia went with a somewhat brighter orange this time. Zoe chose a neon green (yikes!). I decided to go nuts.  Right at the hairline, framing my face, I now have brick red hair.  Behind that, on the top layer, I have golden blond hair.  Underneath is my own chestnut brown with two stripes of the red peeking out in the hair that lies on either side of my neck.  A lady at the grocery store did a double take today.  I don't know if it was good or bad.  But I like it, and that is all that counts. Pictures to come, of course.

Yesterday at dinner, the kids and I ate without Tim.  For some reason, they wanted to know details about our engagement and wedding, and I gave them as many as I could remember.  It isn't that I didn't enjoy our wedding.  I absolutely did and would do it again in a heartbeat.  But I cannot do justice to the day, company, music, and food with words. I gave the kids a few details and told them that we'd had two desserts at our wedding.  The traditional cake, which was cut and put into cute to-go bags, and a lovely dessert called Paris Brest.  If you don't know what that is, take the time to check this site at Joy of Baking , and try to imagine indulging is the yummy treat.  It was delicious.  Leave it to my kids, though, to find the humor in it.  Here's how the conversation went. Me:  We had a super delicious dessert called Paris Brest. Kid 1:  Oh.  What is that? Me:  It is sort of a huge cream puff type dessert. Kid 2:  What is it called again? Me:  Paris Br

The wasps are haunting us.  And I don't like wasps.  In fact, after Melina was born, I called a neighbor to come over and help me get a wasp out of the house.  He probably thought I was crazy, but I had 3 scared little kids and an infant, and my hormones weren't quite back to normal.  Plus, Tim was out of town. Back to present time, though.  On the way home from camp, amongst the rave reviews of all the fun the kids had, I hear, "Mom, there is a bee or something back here."  I looked in my rear view mirror, and then sharply turned the wheel and pealed into the nearest parking lot.  By the time I got out and opened the sliding door, the poor thing decided he'd had it with our lot and went out the window.  I bet he was tired of hearing the kids talk.  Anyway, that was encounter number 1. Encounter number 2 happened yesterday, when Melina got stung on the thigh.  When I was able to coax out of the shaking little lady a description of what stung her, it seemed mos

In the last 24 hours: I picked up two kids from camp and have heard every camp story just about 5 times.  I should have enjoyed the quiet when I was down two kids. We lost power, again.  And the power came back on.  In fact, I am betting that the local power company sent out a crew to our area when the winds started to blow.  They knew it would need to be fixed.  That's how quickly the power was restored. Zoe and Talia had a check at the orthodontist.  Once again, Dr. M confirmed that the girls mouths are identical.  It never ceases to amaze me that two separate people can have the same number of baby teeth left in their mouths AND the same number of loose teeth. Zoe had a headache and vomited this morning.  Her symptoms and subsequent normal behavior lead me to believe that she might have had a migraine.  I don't wish that on her, but I also don't feel like dealing with a GI virus this close to the start of school. And finally, a lovely black and yellow striped b

"Are you excited?" I asked the twins as we pulled up to camp.  The incoming fifth graders would be spending two and a half days at a local YMCA camp. "Yes!" Both girls piped up from the back seat.  I glanced at them in the rear view mirror.  For a moment, I saw the two as they were when they were much younger, poking each other in the ribs and rubbing their eyes with closed fists.  Then, my vision cleared.  The identical hazel eyes swam with joy, and broad smiles spread across the twins' faces. As I put the car in park, the girls quickly unbuckled themselves.  They opened the door, ran around to meet me at the rear of the car, and started to grab their bags. "I don't need any help, Mom," one of the girls said.  The other followed suit.  Maybe they did not need help, but I wanted to help.  I wanted to extend the time it took to drop off my precious girls because this was the first time we'd been away from each other for so long.  I know, i

It must be positive vibe month around here.  This post and the last one have to do with bettering yourself.  I promise not to go preachy on you. Today at church, Fr. N spoke about having something greater in store.  We might not all know what the greatness inside of us is, but I agree.  We need to keep in mind that we can all achieve greatness. So make sure you strive for it. As for me, I hope I can someday make this blog greater.  At the rate I am going, though, it could be a while!

I realized the other day that I am defined by the people around me.  I am Tim's wife. I am Aaron's mom. I am the mom of identical twins. I am Melina's favorite person.  A woman can get lost in that world, always doing things for other people, making sure the environment is calm and serene for everyone, attempting to keep sanity, but in the process making life revolve around the family members instead of herself.  But when the kids are grown and the house is empty, save for the animals and husband (who really, just might be an animal himself, you know?), what can a woman say for herself?  Where is that definition of self?  Where is the purpose?  To paraphrase a friend of mine, we don't want to exist and simply stay sane, we need to flourish . So simple and yet absolutely well said.  Perhaps the word flourish should be written and stamped on a t-shirt and sold in women's stores.  I think most of the women I know would look at that shirt, stop in their track