Friday Night Frolicking

I sang karaoke, multiple times, Friday night.

Okay, I'll admit it. I love to sing karaoke, almost as much as I love to go out dancing, neither of which I get to do very often. Those of you who read this blog back in the dark ages, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, may remember that my lack of opportunities to sing and dance like a crazy person has been a running theme in my life. I love to think about life and meditate upon its possibilities, and am a first class navel-gazer. I am also terribly silly with a performance streak and love to dance!

So, now that I'm around a group of young party people on a regular basis, I have plenty of opportunities to live it up, if I so choose. And I don't choose to all that often. But every now and then, it's nice to blow off some steam.

Friday night, Hubs and I went to the bar to hang with some people there and have a few drinks. And afterwards, he went home to avoid the spectacle, and I went with a few friends to karaoke night at the local pub. I started with a little Gretchen Wilson (everything sounds country when I sing it, so might as well work with it). My loud, yeehaw voice, paired with some phenomenal hip action (if I do say so myself), drew a little attention, some of it from a crowd of fun and rowdy lesbians across the bar. Then, I sang some Meredith Brooks as a duet with a friend, sharing a microphone and again making a scene. Then, a duet with a friend's boyfriend. And later, we put in a request for me and my three girl friends to sing Lady Marmalade, and we waited.

While we waited, two guys came up and sang "Hey Ya" by Outkast, which of course necessitated the kind of crazy dancing from me that made my friends all think I was drunk (which I wasn't, as I had quit drinking around an hour earlier). But it's Outkast, people. It's one of the laws of the universe that you MUST shake it like a polaroid picture when that song comes on, especially when all the other cool people in the bar are.

At some point, feeling all happy and full of joy, I went around and started inviting women I had seen having fun earlier in the night to come sing with us when we get called. I invited a few of the Outkast duo's backup dancers. I invited a woman who had been sitting with her boyfriend, quietly but happily lip-syncing along all night long. And I went over to the studded-belt ringleader of the lesbian crew and invited her. She put her arm around me and said, "You want me to sing with you, baby?" Yeah. That would be fun, actually!

Anyway, we never get called, and eventually all my karaoke friends (except for one guy I know, who seemed thoroughly disinterested in karaoke) went home. As luck would have it, within 10 minutes of everyone leaving me there, the karaoke dude gleefully calls me *and all my friends, who are no longer there* up to sing Lady Marmalade (the Moulin Rouge version). I giggle uncomfortably, being thoroughly sober at this point, and shuffle all alone up to the karaoke stage, a little bit nervous about the spectacle I was about to have to make all by myself. Before the music starts, I mutter into the microphone something along the lines of, "all my drunk friends left already." As if drawn by the inexplicable force of sisterhood in self-humiliation, the entire crew of rowdy lesbians (who had been making spectacles of their own all night singing Dixie Chicks and some old school rap) come out of the woodwork-- weaving through the crowd, jumping the railing, and crawling through the bar to make their way to the stage with me.

Before the first beat of the song began, I was surrounded by what has to be the most awesome, funny, live-it-up crew of tipsy, fun women that this progressive college town has to offer. We made a spectacle, alright, and it was SO. MUCH. FUN!

A little later, after the bar had thinned out a bit, a few other friends (who had just gotten off work) came and joined us, and I got to shoot a little pool with a couple of guys from work (something else I haven't done in YEARS).

.....

I sang karaoke and blogged about it back in January of 2006. Once, maybe almost two years ago, we lived in an old farmhouse across the highway from a biker bar, and I went to the biker bar to sing karaoke with the hellraisers. I need to get out more often. Friday night was fun, and although Hubster, being the strong and silent type, isn't much for karaoke and doesn't necessarily want to have to go party with me, he is enjoying second-hand all the benefits of having a life partner who (for the first time in many years) feels alive, youthful, playful, and fun, and it's all rubbing off on him as well. I don't think I want to be a crazy party person all the time, but if getting out every now and then keeps me feeling young and alive and silly, I might have to up my biennial karaoke night to make it something a little more standard.

My family, my marriage, my continually growing relationship with God-- those are my priorities. But I'm starting to think there's a way to keep those as priorities while still giving myself regular outlets for silliness and spunk, which nurture my heart and feed my spirit as well, albeit in much different ways from spending time with my family or in meditation. There is room in my Reality for a much wider diversity of celebration and joy, both of which I seem to need more of in my life. Don't we all?

Free Spirit Sunday

Those of you who know me well in real life know that I appreciate full and random outbreaks of joy and spontaneity, being prone to occasional such outbreaks myself. One of the things I love about where we now live is that half the town seems to be prone to random acts of joy and life, individually and communally.

The local natural foods co-op hosts Sunday Brunch events during the summer, with live music and a huge crowds on the lawn. We've been to two of these in past weeks, and took the family today for an outing to Sunday Brunch for oatmeal cookies and coffee. Today's band played a mix of Eastern European Jewish music, Russian cabaret, vaudeville, and polka.

The tall guy in the green has been there every week; the other guy, today was my first time seeing them. In either case, I love watching both of them! They are unique, that is for sure. They have a style that I may not end up adopting for my everyday casual style. However, I don't know that I have ever seen two humans as seemingly comfortable in their own skins, enjoying their lives, and not worrying about what others think.

What a fun day!

The Think'n Southerna

My blog, according to gizoogle.

A bizzle fo` tha southern ladies n gentlemen who aren't afraid ta think a bit `bout life, tha universe, n everyth'n. Commentizzles news, reflection, accusation, prognosticizzle n everyday shiznit frizzay a southern point of vizzy is our specialties upside yo head. Pull up a ho-slappin' chair on our digital porch, pour some sweet tea over ice in a mason jar, n let's git ta ponder'n, chill yo.

That's me, all the way. ;-)

Maybe I'll start running my podcast scripts through that before recording.

Me, the Uptight

Through clicking on a series of profiles for people that commented in a friend's blog, I have discovered that I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much more sheltered, straight-laced, and removed from what a lot of people out there are doing than I ever thought. Which is A GOOD THING, as far as I'm concerned. :-)

I may post more about this later, if I can ever get my jaw up off the floor. Or maybe I'll spare you.

In other news, someone found my site recently by searching for "unstructured bellydancing" on google. While my belly is somewhat unstructured at the moment, and I do love dancing, I'm still not convinced that they found what they came here looking for.

Lessons Learned

Figured I'd dispense a little unsolicited advice, just to start practicing so that it will come a little more naturally when I'm 50. So, read and learn, dear friends.

Gentlemen: if your lady calls you from work and asks you to bring her gym clothes when you come to pick her up from work so that she can go to the YMCA, ask a few specific questions before simply deciding to bring the first thing you grab out of the closet, which just happens to be the oldest clown-suit highwaters and too-tight workout tank top in her possession, which she really should have thrown out a few years back. And... if once you get to the gym you decide to play racquetball with her while she's still annoyed at you for forcing her to look like a fat and creepy clown around a bunch of extremely healthy and hard-bodied people, it's not likely to be a good idea to keep serving to her left, especially when you know she's not left-handed and can't return very well in that corner. Because... once you finally serve to her right, where she can aim (and with a good deal of power), she's likely to aim straight for the back of your head, just because she can. Just a suggestion, though. Do what you like.

Ladies: If you haven't worked out in a month or so, and decide to get back into the habit, an hour of racquetball followed by an hour on an elliptical machine is a good way to kill yourself. Fortunately, if you somehow make it through without severe injury or death, it is also a good way to guarantee your first good night's sleep in months.

And, I wrote a skit last night that will hopefully end up eventually being podcasted. I'm a co-leader for the 10-11 year old class in a national scouting organization for girls. They asked me what kinds of topics I could present on, and I told them that podcasting is my latest hobby. So, I wrote a skit about some girls learning what Locks of Love is. We're going to record our parts tonight, and I'm going to teach the girls how to do some basic audio editing at our next meeting so that they can edit it themselves. Then, assuming I can get parental permission to play it on my podcast, I may do one in the near future about some kids who have donated to and benefited from Locks of Love. Neat. :-) We'll see!

Holy moly beach madness

So, I guess that most of you guys were too chicken to comment in public. My hubs and I had a little bet going as to what kinds of comments my last post would get, and whether or not they would be divided along the gender line. So, you peeps are costing me a full body massage, I'll have you know. Go back and comment, darnit!

We drove to the beach today (5 hours), through thunderstorms and tornado warnings, but it is BEAUTIFUL now. This is the place we stay every time I come to the beach (I worked here in high school-- Chubby Checker, remember?). Usually, I'm rushing in during the busy season, for a high school reunion or quickie visit, and we get stuffed into whatever little room they have available. And when the Christy family stays in other hotels, it's usually on a long road trip, when we're just too tired to drive anymore, and it's a crappy four-hour-sleep kind of hotel. So, since I've been out of the business world where I traveled, we haven't done nice hotels very much, or at least not nice rooms in the nice hotels.

And it's free, right? And I'm the kind of person who is simply grateful for whatever I get, so I wasn't expecting much... Just a couple of beds, a TV, and a bathroom. We walked into our 12th floor room today, and my 9 year old grumbled, "Oh, great. No beds." That was when we realized we were standing in the living room. We're in a super-fly suite that has a living room, dining room, and kitchenette, and hubs and I have our own room separate from the kids. Yeah, baby! ;-) And we have TWO-- count them-- 1, 2-- balconies overlooking the ocean. Holy snot, folks-- I'm overwhelmed. I think maybe my old friend heard my desperation yesterday morning when I called to ask for a room-- "I need a break, really bad. We just need to get away..." He certainly delivered, and it will take everything I have not to throw myself at his feet when we get to see him tomorrow.

So, I'm sitting here at the hotel business center, just because I wanted to tell my blogpals that I am the happiest and most relaxed I've been in a long time, and that it will only be getting better over the course of the weekend. Fifteen feet away from me is the hotel lounge, where some drunk weirdo is singing "Strokin'" by Clarence Carter-- heck yea, KARAOKE, baby! I'm in weirdo heaven! After I go back upstairs and get the munchkins to sleep, I might be down here singing "Strokin'" before the night is over. Or "Like a Virgin." Or "Lady Marmalade." Or any number of my karaoke standards (yes, I am that big of a nerd). And tomorrow during the day-- little sis is taking me shopping to buy some sexy club clothes for our dance outing tomorrow night (she's taking me to the hottest new clubs here). DO YOU PEOPLE REALIZE HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE I BOUGHT A SEXY GARMENT OF ANY KIND?!?!?! HMMMMMMMMM?????????? And then hubs and I are going to spend the day playing on the beach (the weather is gorgeous), playing laser tag with the kids, and generally having a better time together than we've had in a long time. And then tomorrow night-- GIRLS' NIGHT OUT. My little sister's man might come over to knock back a few with hubs, while the girls are out cavorting all over Myrtle Beach. I'm giddy like a schoolgirl, if you can't tell. I need to get out more often, yeah, I know. But three kids... Priorities shift.

I may not be able to do this very often, but you better believe I'm going to get enough of it out of my system to get me through to the next time, just in case it's another 2 years. ;-)

Later, gators. Clarence Carter is calling out my name... He says Christy... Christy... Christy... LOL

Small Town Christmas

(Advance apology: I'm making this post from my laptop, which had almost all the keys ripped off a couple of years ago when Short Stuff was 2, and the M and W keys never went back on right. So, I will try to proofread, but if there is a missing M or W, love me anyway.)

Ahhhhhh... family time. Much needed, much wanted, much appreciated. It's funny how I tend to let things get more and more hectic, partially so that I won't have to think as much about some of what's going on in my life, that when I finally slow down, I can't decide if I'm going to cry, enjoy my weekend, or just fall asleep.

This part of Alabama is beautiful-- foothills, little winding creeks, and crisp, cold weather. We're visiting my mother-in-law and her family, and getting to visit also with Daddy-O's little sister, who is my age and a single mom of a little guy about the same age as Sassy Pants. It is nice. It is peaceful.

This morning, MIL asked if I wanted us to try to go to the Christmas parade. My mind went a little something like this: "Parade? Ack! Sitting outside in too-cold weather, trying to wrangle my children and keep them from running into the street, while watching one crappy small-town papier-mache'd float after another stroll along, cheesy beauty queens, and a guy with a cheap Satan Santa costume wave out of obligation... Sounds positively frightful." Call me a grinch-- I don't care. I'm really just a homebody, most of the time. But in spite of the humbug happening in my head, what came out of my mouth was, "Wow. That would be nice."

We rushed to get everyone ready in time, and sprinted out the door 20 minutes before parade time. "Mom," said Funky Monkey. "I don't want to go to some stupid parade. I'd rather just stay here and play." "Nonsense," I said in my most enthusiastic game-show-host voice. "This is going to be fun!" He didn't seem convinced. I leaned in a little closer, so that nobody else would hear me. "Listen, kid, I don't want to go to this parade either. But, it's going to be fine, we're going to have a good time, and Grandma is excited to be taking us. If I can stuff it and smile, you can, too." Now, realizing we're on the same team, he smiled and nodded. Our little secret, you know. He kind of likes the idea of us being in cahoots-- us being in it together and all. Camaraderie. Cool. Especially if you're 9, and your younger brother and sister are not in on the secret.

We arrived at the parade site just before the start time, and were shuffled by the local police into a parking zone near where a bunch of horses and riders were gearing up for the big hoopty-doo. So, I hopped from the car, toting both of my cameras, and we settled in along the route. Chelsea, Alabama, has a population of around 3,000 people. I'd estimate that about 400 of them were lined up along the route near us. Another 400 or so of them were actually in the parade. For all my grumbling, it turned out to be so much fun! For starters, any parade in which candy, stuffed animals, footballs, beach balls, green tea, and bead necklaces are thrown at you without any expectation of nudity is A-okay in my book. Some of the kids on the floats were so carried away, that they sadistically pelted the onlookers with candy, so much so that all would duck and scream when the floats came by. One float had a little boy on it who was gleefully and repetitively shouting, "We celebrate Hanukkah! Wheeeeeeeeeee!" while flinging candy violently at the onlookers. He seemed so happy and full of joy, I almost didn't mind when the dum dum lollipop he had fired at me like a spear almost took my eye out.

And then the float for the local Curves gym worked its' way up the road. I could see that they were flinging larger-than-candy objects off the float like frisbees. Could it be...? Is it really...? My heart raced with anticipation. I shot out of the crowd, tripping over roadside piles of leaves and knocking down small children, determined to claim mine... And then I saw it being sailed toward me, and I flew through the air with the kind of slow-mo agility seen in The Matrix, and caught it in my hand as I landed on the ground. A banana flavored Moon Pie. Ahhhhhhhh, the Deep South. Hallelujah and praise Alabama. I love Moon Pies. :-) Now, whether or not a weight-loss gym tossing Moon Pies into a crowd of sugar-crazed individuals constitutes a breach of ethics-- who knows. As for me and my Moon Pie, we don't care.

Shortly thereafter came the float for a local native tribe... As they drove by, I yelled out a heart-felt "Happy Holidays!" A lady on the float yelled something back that I didn't understand. Seeing my look of confusion, she added, "It means 'Merry Christmas' in Cherokee!"

After the parade, we came back to the house to rest for a while before opening presents.Three things about presents:
1) Whoever it is that designed the humongous Hot Wheels thingy that Short Stuff got from Grandma should be praised for his or her genius and creativity, shortly before being shot for creating anything that requires the painstaking assembly of 321 small parts and stickers;
2)Cabbage Patch Dolls still smell exactly like they did when we were kids, and my sister-in-law and I took turns sniffing "Nancey Tiffany" until my daughter, disturbed by the fact that we'd rather smell her new doll than play with it, forbade us from doll-play for the night;
and 3) A remote-control helicopter that really flies will put the kind of smile on a 9 year old's face that hasn't been there for a very long time.

The kids played with the presents until dinnertime, and then just as we were about to sit down for dumplings, greens, and sweet potatoes, we hear a ridiculously loud siren from outside. My husband and I, conditioned to think of sirens as a bad thing, hid under the coffee table. My MIL and SIL jumped to their feet and shouted, "SANTA!" We grabbed the children, threw on their coats, and ran into the front yard. Driving up and down the streets, at 6:30 pm in the evening, in the dark, a big, red fire truck was toting the fat red dude through neighborhoods, tossing even more candy to children. Up and down the street, children, in various states of dress and/or pajama goodness, stood in their front yards shouting and celebrating.

We came back in, ate tasty home-cooked vittles, and started a fire in the fireplace. The children were asleep almost immediately, and the grownups were mellow and satisfied.

Getting away for a bit has done me good already, and I still have a couple more days to go. Family time is a luxury I fight to maintain when back home in the daily grind; here, away from work and chores, it is my life... a good life. I tend to be one to let the worries of my mind and heart surround me, turning them over and over until I'm not sure I can escape the anxiety. Today has been different. Today has been good. It is starting to feel like Christmas.

Almost Winter

We had our first big winter-style weather during the night last night-- everything was frozen over on my drive to work today. Big pine trees lumbered over from the weight of the ice, almost like willows. It's cold. Really cold (for South Carolina in December). Last week, I wore a long-sleeved t-shirt one day and was fine. This week, winter has announced its impending arrival.

Signs of the season: For starters, I'm back down two shades in my foundation makeup-- I've gone from "Almost Pasty White #200" through "Slightly Pasty White #100" to "Damn, Whitey, Get Some Sun #104." When my youngest son, the firecracker, was 2, he went through a fascination with body lotion, and would get into my bathroom and cover himself with smelly girl lotions, simply because he was two and didn't know better. One day, he got into my #104 foundation, and thought it was body lotion. So, he stripped himself naked, and covered himself with my foundation from his chest to his knees. Ladies, when your foundation shade is a perfect match for your 2 year old's naked rear, you are WHITE.

Signs of the season: Static electricity! Having lived in Florida for the past 7 years, last year I was not accustomed to the way winter lights you up. Lately, it seems that every time I go to kiss my husband, a big zap connects us and it scares us half to death. Like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, I've learned to slug him in the arm before kissing him, just to get out any electricity first. His response, equally conditioned? Kick me when he sees me coming to punch him. So, we have a mini-sparring match followed by a tender kiss. Nice. I mean, come on, I know I'd like some electricity between us, but that's not exactly the kind I was thinking of. Oh well, I guess after 6 years, we'll take what we can get.

Signs of the season: Navigation through the living room is now obstructed by the tree and the growing mound of gifts beneath it. I decided that this year, I was going to put all the items that weren't already boxed into boxes, so nobody could guess what it is from feeling it. And, working in a warehouse that stocks exterior building materials, the only boxes I could find are, say, the size of a shutter. Or a roll of PVC trim coil. Neither of which is actually small enough to fit under my tree, but hey, I'm creative, right?

Signs of the season: My beautiful children did their final performance of their church Christmas play, The First Leon, last night. My son's Leon made me cry on several occasions... He plays sweet and unassuming so well. Must be from 6 years of watching my husband, because it sure isn't from me! The child sings like an angel, and had everyone in the audience going, "Awwwwwwwwwww..." with his every word. My 5 year old daughter, who was a narrator with big words like "Caesar Augustus" and one line with more intos, out ofs, and untos than I could remember, was perfect! Even if her sequined headband (that was supposed to look like a halo) gave her that Olivia Newton John "Physical" kind of 1980s ambiance. And my youngest (the firecracker, remember?) dressed as a sheep and followed Mary and Joseph in at the end. Until he rammed himself head-first into the side of a front row pew, fell to the ground, and lay there on his back twitching like a dying cockroach for a few seconds before moving on. Then, during the finale, he jumped up onto the stage and did a stagedive, just for kicks. Oh, and the "Shepherd Boy Band" dance I choreographed and taught the boys? It stole the show. Nothing like a bunch of 5-11 year old boys breakdancing, doing the worm, and generally being ridiculous (exactly as instructed) to bring the house down! It was wonderful, even if my friend Maher (who is Muslim, but came to see the play to support my kids) declared us all infidels and made fun of my boy band dance. "They learned freak from the finest."

Not a sign of the season, but a fun thing I have to throw in: After the play, we came back to my place with Zaxby's take-out and some "party" supplies for my kids to celebrate their great job. After their bedtime, Daddy-O, Maher, and I sat up until 1:30 AM goofing off, telling stories, reminiscing about stupid things we did as teenagers, and engaging in what can only be described as the tetris armageddon. It was the battle to end all battles, but in the end, I think Daddy-O and I agreed that Maher was the winner. Quite possibly because while we were out dating, partying, and generally being heathens in high school, Maher was locked in his basement, playing tetris with a level of skill and dedication that is usually only reserved for surgeons and rocket scientists. His level of tetris mastery is simply not normal. He is a freak.

So, that's what's happening in the wonderful world of almost-winter so far this year. Hope you're all doing well! We're leaving tomorrow morning for Alabama, so posting may be sporadic for a few days, although I'll definitely be checking in. If you're much of a pray-er, pray for safe travel for us and a nice visit. We haven't been back since one of our family members there was killed, and it seems that both our lives and theirs have taken some crazy turns since then. It will be good to be with family.

family time, bad dancing, and hair color

So, I been away from the blog a few days. Truthfully, I'm still working through this sickness, and between the sinus pressure and the cold meds, my head is barely clear enough to put together a coherent sentence. In fact, the previous sentence, which I can only assume is grammatically correct, took an extremely long time to write and made my head hurt a little in the process. *FOG*

Anyway, since fluency has been a bit of a challenge lately, I've been focusing my energies on activities that don't require as much clear thinking, speaking, or writing. So, last night, the kids seemed to be desperately seeking some attention, and I've been a bit distant the past few days. Trying to come up with an activity I could mentally hang with, I popped in a dance mix CD I made for a road trip last year-- Moby, Dirrty Vegas, Shakira, Wink, and the like-- and we had a little dance party in my 5 year old daughter's bedroom. Imagine, if you will, 3 beautiful little children (ages 4, 5, and 9 for those of you who don't keep up) crowded around Mommy, ready for her to impart her years of wisdom gleaned from teaching dance, performing in live shows, and generally ruling the dance floor. Anxiously awaiting the first move, they all stared at me intently while Bodyrock blared in the background. The intensity built, the pressure grew, and I knew I better come up with something good. So, I started with the robot. What kid doesn't need to know how to do the robot?

I must mention at this point, just to help you get the complete mental picture in your head, that Daddy-O (who does not dance) was sitting on the daybed, watching the spectacle and trying not to laugh too hard. So, where was I... Oh yeah, the robot. So, we were roboting all over the room, and then I showed them popping (remember that from that slew of really crappy breakdance movies from the 80s?). My kids really liked popping. Then we moved on through the whole slew of cheesy dance moves that I can do oh-so-well: The Running Man, The Roger Rabbit, The MC Hammer, and the "MC Lyte." I don't think it's really called the MC Lyte, but I saw her do this step once where you hold your right foot in your right hand and put your left hand behind your head and then spaz out rythmically, and ever since I have called it the MC Lyte. Sadly, I bet that many of you between the ages of 20 and 40 know exactly which dance move I'm talking about. Anyway... Cold meds... *fog*... Where was I? Oh yes, the MC Lyte. Then, as "Days Go By" blasted from the stereo, I decided to teach my children how to do the worm. Have I ever done the worm? No. But hey, I figured, how hard can it be? Answer: Very. Especially for particularly busty women like myself who have never before done the worm. Ow.

So, then, "Whenever, Wherever" came on, and I decided that some basic bellydance instruction might be in order. So, drawing on what I remember from these belly dance videos I used to have, and many entertaining meals at the Morocco pavilion at Epcot, I began to shimmy and shake and twirl. My 5 year old daughter thought it was DELIGHTFUL and joined right in. My 9 year old son stood in the corner, grimacing at my every move. My 4 year old son, it might be noted, continued to do the same kick-yell-fall down combo that he had been doing for most of our dance party. (He's at the age where kicking followed by yelling followed by falling down is extremely cool and edgy. If I were 4, I might have to agree.)

So, we bellydanced until bathtime. After baths, we turned on the TV to discover that the Celtic Woman concert was on PBS. I might note, at this point, that in spite of my penchant for dance music, rap, and rock, I am a BIG SUCKER for celtic music. So, Daddy-O and I curled up on the couch with three beautiful children smelling of freshly shampooed hair all around us, and enjoyed some of the most beautiful music I've ever heard. It was a perfect end to a perfect evening. Ahhhhhhhh....... I would LOVE to go to that concert, or at least own the CD and DVD. What beautiful voices...

All in all, we had a surprisingly wonderful evening, considering how sick we've been, and I am once again reminded of how precious my family is to me.

Was I going to talk about haircolor? *FOG* Stupid cold meds...

The Good, The Bad, and The Very Very Ugly

Every now and then, things just come together to make for a day that leaves you not quite knowing how to feel. Some things are great, some are not great at all, and some are just bizarre; and when all is said and done, you aren't quite sure if you're tired or stressed or happy or slap-happy or just plain fried.

Here is a recap of my last 24 hours, categorized for your convenience.

The Good:
*The disco ball I ordered off of eBay last week came in earlier than expected! Woot! (Why a disco ball? Why not?)
*I got my first love note from one of my music students-- a 6 year old first grader who is the sweeeeeeeeeetest little munchkin in the world (other than my own kids, of course).
*I got ten more knives listed on eBay.

The Bad:
*After working a full day at my regular job, I rushed to church last night to teach a boy-band style hip hop routine to 14 boys (Yes-- me, in a room with 14 boys, chaos, madness, and all) for our church Christmas play.
*After teaching said rowdy boys, I went to teach Daisies, only to learn that all the girls but one were not there. And the one who was there-- let's just say she's one of those 20-kids-in-one kind of girls!
*My cell phone was stolen last night... AT MY CHURCH'S WEDNESDAY NIGHT SERVICE.
*I had to get wheel bearings on my car replaced today to the tune of $273.88. Hence the 10 new knives listed on eBay.

The Very Very Ugly:
*I got totally busted today at a stoplight rocking out to the Offspring. Which is not in and of itself a bad thing, except that I'm a 30 year old mother of 3 who drives a minivan. When I noticed that the lady in the SUV next to me was looking over at my mommymobile, watching me headbang most of my hair right out of my ponytail, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I'm no longer the same age I was when that song first came out. I was suddenly unsure of how to feel about the fact that I'm 30 and gleefully listening to "Pretty Fly" by the Offspring-- wondering if perhaps I should listen to some Don Henley, or maybe a little Celine Dion. Not that I don't have any Don Henley or Celine Dion in my iTunes, but... The Offpsring? Shouldn't I have outgrown them by now? And if-- no matter how much I may have grown, matured, or settled-- I'm still going to totally dig The Offspring, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock, and The Clash, then shouldn't I have the good sense to only dance about like a fool in the confines of my own home, when the kids aren't there, with the blinds closed?

I confessed my embarrassment over what a freak I must have seemed to my husband. "I must have looked like a total idiot," I said. "No," he said sweetly. "You just looked like every other 30 year-old minivan-driving mom looks rocking out to thrash while trapped in traffic." Thanks, dear.

I think I'm just going to hide somewhere for a while until my embarrassment subsides. Somewhere with a radio would be nice... and a disco ball.

Do It Yourself = Therapy for Stubborn People

Hi, my name is Christy, and I am a Do-It-Yourself-er. I'll admit it-- few things give me more pleasure than knowing that I have created something with little or no assistance. I once changed all the pipework under the sink in our old house. Sure, I had no idea what I was doing and asked the Home Depot salesperson to assemble all the parts for me before going to the checkout to pay. Sure, I then walked out of the store brandishing a fairly large and unwieldy work of pipes and washers. BUT, nothing compares to knowing that after a week of cursing and mopping failed to fix the kitchen leak, my industriousness (aided by a Home Depot associate who went above and beyond) did.

I think my anti-establishment roots are showing. My inner rebel, stifled too long, is starting to come out in whatever ways it can. I might not quite feel compelled to get multiple body piercings, quit shaving my underarms, or join the next World Naked Bike Ride, but I can find ways, however subtle or small, to buck the system, whatever that system may be.

Exhibit A: I homeschooled my children for the past 6 years. I have no anger against public schools, and will likely be enrolling my three children (who are currently in private school) in the public school system sometime in the next few years. But for a time, and I'd like to think it was during the most important time in their lives, they learned at home and in the community, in a completely contextual and integrated manner. Books about history were joined with field trips, documentaries, and historical fiction books and films. Books about science were paired with science experiments, nature walks, films, and discussions with real scientists. We read tall tales, folk tales, classics, and fantastic fantasies for literature, and learned grammar through the experience of writing our own stories, and telling our own tales. We not only learned about beliefs, society, and God, we learned in a way that more fully demonstrated how our beliefs and society provide the context and method for our learning, and how God is ever present and awesome. It was a wonderful experience, and one, I hope, that my children will carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Exhibit B: I have tried, as much as possible and increasing over time, to raise my children in a fairly natural and wholesome way. Beginning with the birth of my second child, without an epidural, I have worked to avoid succumbing to pressure that parents are stupid and always require a doctor/ author/ professional/ psychiatrist/ large corporation/ commercial announcer to tell us how to raise our children. I trust, as much as possible, in the natural processes of becoming and being a parent, and preserve for my children, as much as possible, the natural experience of being a child. I've done midwife care; prepared for a homebirth (that didn't get to happen because my midwife recognized her limitations in an emergency situation); breastfed all my children; ground my own baby food once they were old enough to eat; used natural remedies for situations that didn't require a doctor; avoided junky or overly processed foods for the most part; and taught my children about the intent and underlying messages of commercialism, so that they will hopefully grow into savvy consumers. I'm not a perfect parent, and as much I fantasize about being a granola-crunching, co-housing, organic-gardening hippie, my ideals often tower high above my capabilities and practice. But all in all, my husband and I have done an okay job of raising our children ourselves, and without excessive outside influence.

Exhibit C: I keep trying to sew things, even though I can't read a pattern to save my life. Squares, corners, angles-- these I can do. I have made curtains, pillows, and blankets. I once tried to make pajamas for my son. They were, I regret to admit, pretty pathetic, and would not conform to the body of a child... a human child, anyway. This goes right along with Exhibit D: I wish I were a gardener, and every few years I decide to pretend to be one. About five years ago, I decided we were going to grow a lot of our own food, and ended up at harvest time with 3 jalapeno peppers and a bug-infested tomato. Not pretty. I think that was the same year as Exhibit E: The summer I tried to bake all my family's bread. My oldest son, then 4, finally begged me to buy some honey wheat at Wal-Mart-- anything to stop the flour-dusted madness.

And yet, here I am, still obsessing with the notion that I, the 30 year old daughter raised by a singer/ dancer/ dance studio owner and magician/balloon guy/stunt artist, can build entertainment centers out of scrap wood, and still believing, against all odds, that I will one day learn to change my own oil without the use of any mechanics, auto shops, or tricky camera angles. It will happen. It will.

And web sites-- don't get me started. I'm far too stubborn to enlist intelligent and experienced help before a crisis occurs, which might explain why my sidebar has often appeared somewhere below the footer and I have to reinstall my template every time I try to fix it. I would rather, for some inexplicable and masochistic reason, make things more complicated if it means that, in the end, I can say I did it myself.

So honey, if you're reading, call the auto shop and cancel that brake job we were planning for next week. It's been a tough week, and I think I'm going to need a little more therapy than usual.

My Technical Ineptitude

Those of you who have read this blog for more than a few weeks are probably aware by now of my severe ineptitude with technical things, particularly web stuff. Don't get me wrong-- I'm a bit more savvy with a computer than, say, my 82 year old grandmother. But my problem is that I try to do things beyond my capabilities. I see a big ol' string of code in my blogger template, and I think, "Ooooooh. I can add a link there." And then crazy things happen.

Sadly, I must inform you that I am working on another top-secret web project that will not be up for a few more weeks. Yet again, I feel the need to subject innocent internet-goers to my skill-lessness.

Luckily for me (but unluckily for him), one of my best friends from when I first went to college 12 years ago is now a computer geek who has done tech support in the past and now does MS network trainings and stuff. (I don't even know what the heck he does, I just know he's the one I call when faced with a computer challenge, even a challenge I have clearly and willingly brought upon myself.)

So, on the phone the other day:
Me: You busy?
M: Not really.
Me: Question. I've just installed postnuke on my new site, and I'm getting administrator error messages.
M: What do they say?
Me: (Reads the messages)
M: Hmmmm... So, how did you install postnuke?
Me: With the instructions?!?!?
M: Oh, great. I've got Seinfeld on the phone.
Me: I'm not being funny, Beavis, I just don't know what you mean.
M: I'm trying to figure out if it's Linux or Windows you put it on.
Me: How would I be able to tell?...

This goes on for about 30 minutes. Then...

Me: Are you starting to get the feeling you're talking to someone who has no business trying to create a website.
M: Something like that.

Anyway, I was using one of the other computers at work last week, and had to use Internet Explorer to check in at my blog. (I use Firefox on my computer, and the blog looks just fine with Firefox.) Lo and behold, the sidebar, which from the lily-white beauty of Firefox had seemed to be fixed, is not. I have failed. So, I will start over, with a new template, and streamline. Fewer links, no google ads, nothing that I'm not absolutely confident I can manage. In the meantime, if the blog looks whacked out, understand that I'm going through a personal, spiritual, and internetual process of change. It will be back, and better, and if it doesn't work, I know who to call.