It sounds almost decadent.
The luxurious choice to stay in bed, enshrouded by sheets and blanket with a pillow tucked just the right way beneath the head and the sleep number adjusted to the perfect setting.
Alas, it was not to be.
While I never have been the type to sleep in until noon (frankly, that makes my back hurt), I think it would be nice to ignore the alarm once in a while and get up when I choose to open my eyes.
However, my life is blessed by early risers on any day that I am not supposed to have anywhere to go or anything outside of the house to do.
Habitually, I wake just prior to my alarm going off every morning - yeah, I know, it's an affliction. But I harbor the secret fear that I will be late and that is something that truly irks me to the core of my being.
While I never set out as a carefree cotton-top little child to become so wound up about the whole issue of waking up early. Even if I have been out hooting with the hoot owls for some fun at night, I still get up on time.
But once in a great while, I anticipate that I could catch up on a few winks which might add a bit of fuel to my tank which normally is so empty even the fumes are long gone.
Saturdays are the acceptable day to wear plaid pajama pants, sleep past the normal time and catch those elusive "Zzzzz's" that are hard to come by most of the time.
Oddly, the Sleeping Prince (aka Jared), who normally SLEEPS through being dressed and prepared for his school day, wakes at the crack of dawn to ensure that any chance of sleeping in are far removed. Compound that with the fact that getting him to go to sleep while Daddy is out with the scouts and sleep becomes a pleasant memory.
Zombie-like, I rise and prepare him breakfast and watch him drift into a somnambulant state before sleep overtakes him. But now, dang it, I am AWAKE.
Should I choose to go back to sleep, it will be at a price. The reality of stuffing myself back into the covers means that the phone will begin to ring.
Not just one phone call - oh no! Everyone will suddenly develop some sort of wild attachment to me and to my opinions, advice and counsel in a psychotic bond that prevents sleep as surely as the sun rises.
These kind people who call are not normally concerned about what I think or how it might affect their lives. They function in day-to-day society without handholding or head patting. But come Saturday morning, some sort of personal irresponsibility gene kicks into overdrive compelling them to call and consult with me on a variety of topics which could not wait until after 11:30.
Why?
They could FEEL the vibes.
They knew I was sleeping in. Or at least that I had hoped to.
Which is apparently now one of the 'thou shalt not' passages of the Bible I missed out on during reading time.
Oddly enough, these same people can often be found sleeping in.
WHAT THE HECK?!??!?!!
How come YOU get to languish beneath the covers and drift in and out of consciousness while I am condemned to be awake?
My only hope is to catch a brief nap later on. 40 winks or even 20.
But the Sleeping Prince isn't sleeping - yet. He is in that talkative, cooing and babbling gear that compells him to be drowsily engaged like a motor that just won't turn completely over. He sounds a lot like an old Chevy with a bad crankshaft. Rrrrr - rrrrr - rrrrr.
And because he KNOWS regularity on the rrrr babbling cycle would act as a sleep aid, Jared willingly varies the pitch, intensity and inflection of the rrrr just enough to make me stay on the knife edge of alertness.
People wonder why women look so old in their pictures by the time they hit their 40's bearing bags under their eyes that could be employed in a pinch to carry home a week's worth of groceries.
Yawning and rrrr-ing his way through the morning news, I am not fooled by Jared's antics. I have already seen them. This is merely an encore presentation. He will stay in this gear until no possibility of sleep remains for me, then promptly fall asleep himself. The only reason he will go back to sleep is because he doesn't have school today and he is bored.
To add icing on the cake, my sweet husband left his alarm on for me so that I wouldn't be tempted to sleep in while he was gone. I can guarantee that the scouts didn't get up for reveille. They languished in their tents and sleeping bags until well past 7 and perhaps even past 8. After all scouts on a campout need not adhere to a strict schedule.
Those are for people at home who have to do laundry and mop the bathroom floor.
Right on cue, the Sleeping Prince has just started to snore lightly as he is drifting back to sleep. Once he is down in full REM mode, he will be good until about 11 or so.
The good news is, I have the first load of laundry almost done and I'll be finished with the bathroom floors pretty soon.
Here's hoping YOU got to sleep in, 'cause honey, you look like you need it.
Nitey-night!
August 30, 2008
August 26, 2008
And the grand total thus far is . . .
Before the rant begins, let me say I am blessed beyond all I deserve. I have more than sufficient in my life and have abundance in ways in which I am not even aware.
But holy flaming piles of cow manure! Hundreds of dollars waving goodbye . . . Publisher's Clearinghouse really needs to cough up some money for me and soon.
The van, good old reliable, broken-down 9 million year old high mileage cheesebox is yet again up on the blocks waiting for repairs. Again! Again! Again! Grrrrrr!!!
This isn't like a few repairs and tinkering is going to make it a classic showpiece that will inspire envy and drooling from car enthusiasts.
On the contrary. Expect swearing and plenty of it, babe!
I want to get something else to drive, but common sense and a quick peek at the balance in my checkbook tells me that I am more likely to be struck by lightening twice in one afternoon than to get to pull off the lot with a handicap van that is new. And the good news is, I am not bloody likely to even get one that is used. Yippee.
My best hope is to keep putting bandages and bailing wire to use on the current model and pray for the Second Coming. I have every belief that Jared will not NEED any handicap equipment then.
I know there are greater issues in the world than my problems, but forgive me for being a little whiny, because, right now, they PALE in comparison to dealing with the money pit on wheels. Don't be jealous. I hate it when you wish you had my car and I had your money!
Here, for your dining and dancing pleasure, is a list of the many fine qualities that make this vehicle a modern day wonder. Please don't hold your breath in anticipation. You won't live to tell the tale otherwise.
The drivers side window has the exciting propensity to 'pee' on your left leg (and on a really heavy rainstorm it can get the right one, too!) whenever the rain is coming down. There is also a leak in the windsheild which keeps things exciting during the wintertime when icy water dribbles down forming a patch of interior black ice on the drivers side floorboard.
Know how I know that little bit of information about the black ice? Well, it happened on the day I qualified for the U.S. Gymnastic team with my right leg at an impossible upward angle wedged up next to the center console thingy that covers part of the engine while my left foot was still on the ground outside the van. Gripping the steering wheel with the zeal of a madwoman, I realized if I let go, I'd rupture something. Probably permanently. So, using all the strength in my arms, which is considerable, I heaved my not so voluptuous self into the seat and my leg over the hump of the console toward the passengers side. And the seat ... it was wet. And cold. And icy. And nothing like the rush you get when eating a York Peppermint Patty. Ooooh, frosty! On a chilly day like that, it inspired me to swear in soprano or like one of the Soprano's. . .
The carpeting throughout the van no longer maintains the original color thanks to repeated applications of Clorox to kill off the multitudinous variety of mold, mildew and blight which have assailed the interior because the van's windows all leak. Even when they are shut. So there is the constant feel of being in a mobile greenhouse even on a cool day. There is that earthy smell that is at once oddly placed and somewhat disturbing when you realize that we'd do better growing pot in the old van and selling it than waiting on the kind people at the Publisher's Clearinghouse to fork over the cash. The only thing that keeps me from converting it with hothouse grow lights is that I'd have to explain the large tithing checks to the Bishop.
Dangling headliner and trimwork highlight the interior which oddly enough still has the ambient lighting working and offering a dull, yellowy light on dark days. The strange amber glow emitted by the overhead decorative light strip is a lot like the kind in elevators in cheap hotels. Except the cheap hotel elevator smells better.
I try not to inflict a ride in the "white ghost" on other people when the weather requires the windows to be closed. It can be somewhat stifling to those unaccustomed to breathing through their ears where there are no olfactory buds to take in the various aromas assaulting them.
Because I frequently run chores after exercising in my sweaty shorts and t-shirt and because the van, despite thousands of dollars spent in its behalf, has NO air conditioning, I zip the windows down and pray for enough breeze to keep me from melting into the velveteen simulated interior. There is an inexplicable rip in the drivers seat right under the left thigh of the driver in shorts that exposes a nasty thing with some sort of sharp teeth on it that will rip the hide right off if you don't get into the seat VERY CAREFULLY. I've learned through sad experience that the Red Cross will not take blood donations that have been squeezed out of seat cushions and onto Kleenex no matter how much is in the dirty ziplock bag the tissues are in. Cowards.
For those not familiar with using a handicap lift, ours is a model that isn't even on the market anymore. It has the appeal and charm of a pit bull matched with the sophistication of a Doberman. I have smashed the living snot out of my fingers so many times, I have lost count.
And, if you aren't paying attention to where you are standing when the lift is in motion, you can knock the whale tar right out of your head when you either open the doors and the guywires of the lift have decided to go slack without warning making the lift a mobile projectile, or when you are lowering it and it exceeds normal operating speed just for fun. This might explain why I am a lunatic, except for the fact that people know I was crazy long before we got this van. Dang it! When closing up the lift into the van, you can smash fingers and arms in a ballet of "Dodge" ball that can leave you black, blue and battered.
We retain the two captains chairs that were pulled from the center of the van in order to weld in the tie-downs for Jared's wheelchair. They have been in our storage room for so long that they now smell like your Great Aunt Mildred's house in July. I can't imagine anyone wanting them. But if we ever DID get rid of the van in favor of something else, we could always stuff them back into the center section like they had always been part of this rolling science experiment. Trust me when I tell you, no one could discern the difference in the smell.
Sometimes, the van decides it's tired and refuses to start. Dead battery issues are relatively common since it only has the one battery and it gets tired a lot. Normally, a handicap van has two batteries with one solely dedicated to the lift. (Makes me think of the song "Hopelessly Devoted To You" for some reason. Not sure why. Just another foray into my madness.)
But since ours was an after, after, after market vehicle bought used and fixed up by the application of money and time, the regular accomodations are not there. We have poured money into battery replacement so often the dude at the battery shop just smiles his money smile when we limp in for the new one. Thankfully, that process doesn't happen a whole lot because Rick had the foresight to buy a battery charger which sees a lot of use.
But now, seeing the old girl up on the rack being tended to from a box of assorted parts, I can't help but feel sad. Sad that it comes to this about this time every year. Sad that I don't have a clue about things mechanical. I married my husband for that junk. Sad that I can't just slip down to a dealership and say "This is what I want and how I want it and this is what I'm going to pay."
I realize there are starving people in the world and some of them are even in America. I understand that there are wars and violence and horrors that I can't fathom.
What I don't understand is where is my dang check from the sweepstakes!
But holy flaming piles of cow manure! Hundreds of dollars waving goodbye . . . Publisher's Clearinghouse really needs to cough up some money for me and soon.
The van, good old reliable, broken-down 9 million year old high mileage cheesebox is yet again up on the blocks waiting for repairs. Again! Again! Again! Grrrrrr!!!
This isn't like a few repairs and tinkering is going to make it a classic showpiece that will inspire envy and drooling from car enthusiasts.
On the contrary. Expect swearing and plenty of it, babe!
I want to get something else to drive, but common sense and a quick peek at the balance in my checkbook tells me that I am more likely to be struck by lightening twice in one afternoon than to get to pull off the lot with a handicap van that is new. And the good news is, I am not bloody likely to even get one that is used. Yippee.
My best hope is to keep putting bandages and bailing wire to use on the current model and pray for the Second Coming. I have every belief that Jared will not NEED any handicap equipment then.
I know there are greater issues in the world than my problems, but forgive me for being a little whiny, because, right now, they PALE in comparison to dealing with the money pit on wheels. Don't be jealous. I hate it when you wish you had my car and I had your money!
Here, for your dining and dancing pleasure, is a list of the many fine qualities that make this vehicle a modern day wonder. Please don't hold your breath in anticipation. You won't live to tell the tale otherwise.
The drivers side window has the exciting propensity to 'pee' on your left leg (and on a really heavy rainstorm it can get the right one, too!) whenever the rain is coming down. There is also a leak in the windsheild which keeps things exciting during the wintertime when icy water dribbles down forming a patch of interior black ice on the drivers side floorboard.
Know how I know that little bit of information about the black ice? Well, it happened on the day I qualified for the U.S. Gymnastic team with my right leg at an impossible upward angle wedged up next to the center console thingy that covers part of the engine while my left foot was still on the ground outside the van. Gripping the steering wheel with the zeal of a madwoman, I realized if I let go, I'd rupture something. Probably permanently. So, using all the strength in my arms, which is considerable, I heaved my not so voluptuous self into the seat and my leg over the hump of the console toward the passengers side. And the seat ... it was wet. And cold. And icy. And nothing like the rush you get when eating a York Peppermint Patty. Ooooh, frosty! On a chilly day like that, it inspired me to swear in soprano or like one of the Soprano's. . .
The carpeting throughout the van no longer maintains the original color thanks to repeated applications of Clorox to kill off the multitudinous variety of mold, mildew and blight which have assailed the interior because the van's windows all leak. Even when they are shut. So there is the constant feel of being in a mobile greenhouse even on a cool day. There is that earthy smell that is at once oddly placed and somewhat disturbing when you realize that we'd do better growing pot in the old van and selling it than waiting on the kind people at the Publisher's Clearinghouse to fork over the cash. The only thing that keeps me from converting it with hothouse grow lights is that I'd have to explain the large tithing checks to the Bishop.
Dangling headliner and trimwork highlight the interior which oddly enough still has the ambient lighting working and offering a dull, yellowy light on dark days. The strange amber glow emitted by the overhead decorative light strip is a lot like the kind in elevators in cheap hotels. Except the cheap hotel elevator smells better.
I try not to inflict a ride in the "white ghost" on other people when the weather requires the windows to be closed. It can be somewhat stifling to those unaccustomed to breathing through their ears where there are no olfactory buds to take in the various aromas assaulting them.
Because I frequently run chores after exercising in my sweaty shorts and t-shirt and because the van, despite thousands of dollars spent in its behalf, has NO air conditioning, I zip the windows down and pray for enough breeze to keep me from melting into the velveteen simulated interior. There is an inexplicable rip in the drivers seat right under the left thigh of the driver in shorts that exposes a nasty thing with some sort of sharp teeth on it that will rip the hide right off if you don't get into the seat VERY CAREFULLY. I've learned through sad experience that the Red Cross will not take blood donations that have been squeezed out of seat cushions and onto Kleenex no matter how much is in the dirty ziplock bag the tissues are in. Cowards.
For those not familiar with using a handicap lift, ours is a model that isn't even on the market anymore. It has the appeal and charm of a pit bull matched with the sophistication of a Doberman. I have smashed the living snot out of my fingers so many times, I have lost count.
And, if you aren't paying attention to where you are standing when the lift is in motion, you can knock the whale tar right out of your head when you either open the doors and the guywires of the lift have decided to go slack without warning making the lift a mobile projectile, or when you are lowering it and it exceeds normal operating speed just for fun. This might explain why I am a lunatic, except for the fact that people know I was crazy long before we got this van. Dang it! When closing up the lift into the van, you can smash fingers and arms in a ballet of "Dodge" ball that can leave you black, blue and battered.
We retain the two captains chairs that were pulled from the center of the van in order to weld in the tie-downs for Jared's wheelchair. They have been in our storage room for so long that they now smell like your Great Aunt Mildred's house in July. I can't imagine anyone wanting them. But if we ever DID get rid of the van in favor of something else, we could always stuff them back into the center section like they had always been part of this rolling science experiment. Trust me when I tell you, no one could discern the difference in the smell.
Sometimes, the van decides it's tired and refuses to start. Dead battery issues are relatively common since it only has the one battery and it gets tired a lot. Normally, a handicap van has two batteries with one solely dedicated to the lift. (Makes me think of the song "Hopelessly Devoted To You" for some reason. Not sure why. Just another foray into my madness.)
But since ours was an after, after, after market vehicle bought used and fixed up by the application of money and time, the regular accomodations are not there. We have poured money into battery replacement so often the dude at the battery shop just smiles his money smile when we limp in for the new one. Thankfully, that process doesn't happen a whole lot because Rick had the foresight to buy a battery charger which sees a lot of use.
But now, seeing the old girl up on the rack being tended to from a box of assorted parts, I can't help but feel sad. Sad that it comes to this about this time every year. Sad that I don't have a clue about things mechanical. I married my husband for that junk. Sad that I can't just slip down to a dealership and say "This is what I want and how I want it and this is what I'm going to pay."
I realize there are starving people in the world and some of them are even in America. I understand that there are wars and violence and horrors that I can't fathom.
What I don't understand is where is my dang check from the sweepstakes!
I Have Confidence
Julie Andrews character "Maria" sang the song "I Have Confidence" on her way from the abbey to the home of Captain von Trapp and the host of children who needed a governess.
Her bravado was in full swing and her abilities were not in question - until she reached the house. Even when the butler opened the door, she was in control. Then the facade cracked when she realized just what she was up against when the Captain 'caught' her in the formal parlor dancing.
There she was, trapped in her own folly and there was literally no way she could escape. No face saving move was available. She had to deal with it and take the harsh rebuttal that the Captain rebuked her with and say nothing in return.
Moments like that happen to all of us soon or late in life.
Sometimes there isn't a stinging rebuke following a life altering moment. Sometimes the quantum shift is enough to bring you to your knees wondering why.
My Grandpa Moore used to say things like that happened because the Lord had confidence in US.
Then he would smile slyly and say, "Sometimes, I wish the Lord didn't have quite so much confidence in me."
Where do we separate the confidence of God from the false confidence of mankind? That's a line that is often crossed without realizing it. Forging ahead on a path that we believe to be right for us at that particular time means that we have to take a leap into the unknown. But does that unknown mean we leave God behind in our leap?
When I pray to know what to do based on the choices I have before me, I do so after choosing the course I think is best based on what I understand at that time. In those prayers, I ask that if my choice and understanding are wrong that He will gently show me where I have placed my confidence in the wrong things or people, including false confidence in myself.
Sometimes, the prayers have been more like begging.
I am, after all, still a whiny child who makes mistakes because I am impatient, petulent and willful.
Gee, those sound like stellar qualities for a pupil of life!
I have confidence that God knows the plan for my life and that He will help me to overcome myself if I am willing to let Him.
Even when I am caught dancing in His ballroom instead of waiting on His instructions, He will help me survive not only my stupidity, but my embarrassment at being caught out.
I have confidence in Him, even when I have none left in myself.
Her bravado was in full swing and her abilities were not in question - until she reached the house. Even when the butler opened the door, she was in control. Then the facade cracked when she realized just what she was up against when the Captain 'caught' her in the formal parlor dancing.
There she was, trapped in her own folly and there was literally no way she could escape. No face saving move was available. She had to deal with it and take the harsh rebuttal that the Captain rebuked her with and say nothing in return.
Moments like that happen to all of us soon or late in life.
Sometimes there isn't a stinging rebuke following a life altering moment. Sometimes the quantum shift is enough to bring you to your knees wondering why.
My Grandpa Moore used to say things like that happened because the Lord had confidence in US.
Then he would smile slyly and say, "Sometimes, I wish the Lord didn't have quite so much confidence in me."
Where do we separate the confidence of God from the false confidence of mankind? That's a line that is often crossed without realizing it. Forging ahead on a path that we believe to be right for us at that particular time means that we have to take a leap into the unknown. But does that unknown mean we leave God behind in our leap?
When I pray to know what to do based on the choices I have before me, I do so after choosing the course I think is best based on what I understand at that time. In those prayers, I ask that if my choice and understanding are wrong that He will gently show me where I have placed my confidence in the wrong things or people, including false confidence in myself.
Sometimes, the prayers have been more like begging.
I am, after all, still a whiny child who makes mistakes because I am impatient, petulent and willful.
Gee, those sound like stellar qualities for a pupil of life!
I have confidence that God knows the plan for my life and that He will help me to overcome myself if I am willing to let Him.
Even when I am caught dancing in His ballroom instead of waiting on His instructions, He will help me survive not only my stupidity, but my embarrassment at being caught out.
I have confidence in Him, even when I have none left in myself.
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