This Morning

I woke up very early… even for me. Most mornings we’re up at 5:30. This isn’t by choice, but by necessity. This morning, however, I woke up, thirsty, at about 4:45.

I wandered out to the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and got a glass of cool water. I stood there and drank half of it, thought about going back to bed, but realized that I was awake. Wide awake.

My house was still around me. Everyone slept, and I could hear their deep breathing, the rustle of their blankets as they shifted, and in the case of my husband, snoring. I felt like I was in the middle of holding a very deep breath; the sun had yet to rise, and when it did, so would my household.

I came into the living room, gathering the green and white blanked I’d crocheted along the way, and curling it around me. I sank into the depths of my couch cushions, rested my head on the pillow, and opened my curtains just enough to see outside.

The sky was that deep, dark gray just before the sun brightens it; I could see stars, even. The streets were silent. For long minutes I could imagine that I was completely, utterly, and totally alone.

What was going through my head at that early hour? I’d like to say I was thinking thoughts both deep and profound, but I wasn’t. I can’t even say that I was mapping out my day, because that wouldn’t be true, either. I wasn’t thinking about my husband or my kids, my bills or my chores, my errands… nope. None of that. So what was I thinking about….?

I was thinking about Farmville.

Farmville, an application/game on Facebook. I play it. I have my own little virtual farm, with crops and animals and trees and a cottage. I have alien cows, even.

Here I was, with quiet and solitude, sitting in blessed darkness, with nothing to do and no one to interrupt me, and I was thinking about a virtual farm, and plotting out just what and how I was going to plant my virtual crops. And I was serious about it, too. I mean, I had a plan. I could see it all in my head, the layout, the plants, just what it would look like. Serious stuff, that is.

Yup. My husband thinks I’m crazy. But as usual, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I prefer to think “special”.

Peace :)

 

Windows

I love to look in the windows of houses. Not in a pervy-wearing-all-black-and-nite-vision-goggles kind of way; more like, if I’m walking by, and you have your curtains open, I’m gonna take a peek.

If the room is empty, I’ll check our your decor. Briefly, of course, since I don’t actually stop to look. I mean, if I saw a dead body or a vampire I might stop, but typically, no. I just glance. I’ll wonder where you got that lamp, why you chose that color combo, have you ever puked on your couch… you know, normal stuff.

If there are people in the room, even just one person, I’ll forget the decor entirely and wonder. Who are you? What’s your name? How long have you lived there do you like it? Then I’ll mosey on, and start making up stories about you and your life; at least, until I come to the next house with the next view of people.

I’m curious by nature. My husband calls it nosey, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. So we’ll go with, Jenna has a healthy curiosity about everything and everyone. I just really want to KNOW things.

If you’re windows are open, I figure that if you don’t want people to look in, you at least don’t care if they do. I figure, if you didn’t want anyone to see, then you would shut the curtains. So you don’t mind my passive observance, right? Brief as it is and all.

I know that I have an overactive imagination; I always have. I know that the people I see in the windows of their homes probably don’t really do any of the things I make up for them, but in that moment, it sure feels more real than reality to me.

It’s just fun, I guess. Harmless.

So if you see me passing by one day, and I’m checking you out, don’t be alarmed. Just go back to whatever it was that you were doing; it’s probably way cooler than what I imagine you to be doing!

I’m Out of Milk

My in-laws landed last Sunday nite, or reeeeally early Monday morning, depending on how you look at it. It was my husband’s mother and her sister-in-law (wife of my husband’s father’s brother) who came to visit, and visit they did. They were only here for two days, because they’re storming America by train, and couldn’t stay any longer than that.

So for the past two days we have crammed in about a week’s worth of San Diego tourism.

I am exhausted.

We did- get ready for this, now, deep breath- breakfast on Monday, then we went shopping, and more shopping, and more shopping, then to Old Town, where we did more shopping and lots of walking (I bought some delightful salt water taffy and dark chocolate) and even more sight-seeing, then the beach, all along the pier, then home again, home here to see the offspring, then straight away to dinner at Casa de Pico where we lingered over delicious Mexican food and great conversation, then we were all very tired and ready to fall onto our faces thus we deposited them to their hotel room and me and The Man made our way home.

The next day…. we made what should have been a fifteen minute drive to pick them up in over an hour due to a suicidal jumper on an overpass (she didn’t jump, by the way, but she sure FUBARed traffic), went to breakfast at a Cafe that had been in San Diego since my husband was born (it was passable, not great, Coco’s was better), then more shopping, headed over to Balboa Park where we wandered the Arboretum, ogled the koi, considered going to the museum but instead explored the museum gift shop (where we did more shopping), then off to the San Diego Zoo, arguably the BEST zoo in the world, where we had lunch then took a fantastic bus tour (that was first for me; I was glad to sit and ride and let the wind blow through my hair) where we saw all the highlights and had to deal with none of the walking, then it was off to home so Grandma and Aunt could hang with the offspring some more, then it was to dinner, just Chili’s this time but still delicious all the same, then it was time to deposit them at their hotel while The Man and I headed BACK to the shopping center to pick up a few thank you gifts for them, then it was home and falling into bed, thank the gods for bed and sleep!

I had to take the man to work today, the kids to school, and Grandma and Aunt to the train station.

All in all, a delightful visit. Too short, too short, but we did not get cheated!!

My youngest had a doctor appointment today(she needs glasses) and I had a lot of errands to run, and then the eldest daughter needed to come home (sick; it’s been going around) and I had more errands to run, none of which meant going to the grocery store…

…and because of all the madness of the past two days, I haven’t looked into my fridge, and I am out of milk. This went undiscovered until this evening when The Man went to pour the milk for the dinner. It’s absence was then conspicuous. And I am so tired, I’m rambling and writing in run-on sentences with little regard for coherency.

I guess the day is not yet done. It should be, but alas, it is not.

Can you put apple juice in cereal…? No…? Dang.

 

I Live In Controlled Chaos

There are eight people who live in my house. Myself, my husband, my eldest Bonus Son, my Extreme Teen from He---- I mean, my other Bonus Son, and my four biological spawn.

We have two bathrooms and three bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a teeny laundry room, and a hallway.

I have managed to successfully retrieve all of my books from storage, and they happily reside here, too. I have hundreds of books, just in case you wondered.

My house is in a constant, perpetual state of unclean. Not dirty (ok, mostly not dirty, but there are days when yeah, it’s a leeeeettle dirty), but unclean. Not like the whole “this house is unholy!” unclean, but cluttered. Lots of clutter. Way too much clutter.

For one, myself, my spawn, and my Extreme Teen are all packrats. I have over the years managed to improve my packratted’ness, meaning I actually throw away receipts now instead of keeping them for months and months, for one thing.

Two, even if we didn’t have minor issues with being packrats, we have a lot of freaking crap stuff. Books aside (and even my kids have a lot of books), we have a ton of clothes, dishes, toys, notebooks, knick-knacks, utensils, DVDs, video games, shoes, D&D paraphernalia, and other… stuff… that I can’t think of right now.

Three, cleaning is done sporadically. I mean, I do all the dirty stuff, like dishes and mopping and wiping and dusting (ok, dusting is sporadic, it is, I admit it), and my spawn do their bathroom and bedrooms (um, their bedrooms are in a perpetual state of disarray), and the Extreme Teen does… nothing… and thus the clutter is never de-cluttered. And if that wasn’t a run-on sentence, I don’t know what is.

Four, I have no natural clean-gene. I have given this much thought, and I truly do believe that there are just some people who are just made that way. It’s coded into their DNA or something. They are biologically neat freaks. I just don’t have that genetic desire to make my living space spotless. As cool as that would be if I did, I don’t. That’s my theory and I’m stickin’ to it.

And five… wait. I had a five, I did, but I got distracted with all the science talk and… oh yeah. I get distracted easily. I mean, I start to clean something, and usually wind up having to into another part of my home for one reason or another, and finding something wherever I went that needs doing, and instead of finishing job one, I start another one. Before I know it, I’ve got three or five cleaning jobs happening, and then I get overwhelmed and frustrated and quit. I figure half cleaned is better than no-cleaned and call it good.

And then six, I’m kinda lazy. I would rather read or dick around on the computer or watch BSG than clean. I hate going through things with the sole purpose of “straightening it up” because that’s. so. BORING. So I find reasons NOT to do it, and that reason can be as simple as “it’s Tuesday” and voila, no cleaning for me!

So my house is in a perpetual state of chaos, but I don’t worry (and neither should you) because I know right where everything is, and if I don’t know, I will know, once I find it.

Woman Who Waits

If I could define myself in a single word, it would be, waiting.

I wait for things everyday. I wait for sunlight in the mornings when I wake up. I wait for it to be time to take my children to school. I wait for the treadmills at the gym. I wait for the water to heat up for my shower. I wait for the mail. I wait in line for gas, to pay for groceries, to buy my books. I wait for it to be time to pick my children up, and then I wait in a long line of cars that curls from the school, onto the street, and around the corner, inching my way forward. I wait for it to be time to drive to get my husband from work. I wait for dinner, the timer ticking on my oven, delicious smells filling my house. I wait until it’s time for my children to shower, to go to bed, until everyone is where they are supposed to be and then I clean my kitchen. I wait until I am certain that my house is complete before I go to bed. And then I wait to fall asleep.

My life is filled with waiting, from one thing to next, day after day. I fill my calendar with things to look forward to, good things and mundane, birthdays and anniversaries and holidays. I wait for the day when one son will finally move forward in his life, and the other son will finally be taught by life.

I wait for books that I want to read to be published, shows I want to watch to be aired, movies I want to see to come to theaters, but usually I wait until they are on Netflix. I wait for paychecks to fill my bank account so that I can empty it again paying for the necessities of life and living.

I wait for summer in the winter, and winter in the summer. I wait for nite when the sun is so glaring it hurts, and the sun when the days are cloudy and gray, again and again. I wait for rain when it’s too hot and heat when the rain is relentless.

I wait for gas to go down, and then wait because I know it’s going to go back up.

I wait for friends, for phone calls, for evenings out, for evenings in.

I wait for solitude when I am bombarded by children, chores, noise. I wait for my loved ones when the silence is too oppressive.

I wait. And wait some more. Would I change it? No. If I didn’t have all these things to wait for, my life would be very empty indeed.

 

Once Again, Start Anew

This whole bloggy thing is just… weird. I blog. Just not here. I usually do it on my other site. But I like Blogger. I like the blogs I follow. I like writing. I have things to write about, I just don’t. Do. It. Here.

And yet, I’m not willing to scrap this blog and give up. So once again, I am making a go of this whole Blogger thing. Once again, for the umpteenth time, I am going to make some kind of pact with myself, and stick to it. This time for reals. No, really. I mean it.

I have the time; no school for me this semester, and maybe not again. The offspring are gone all day at their schools, leaving me home not-quite-by-my-lonesome (Stephen is couch-crashing for who knows how long), but he’s 20. I do DO things around here, but it’s not, like, a total time-suck or anything.

Sooo yeah. This is me, declaring to self, here we go again.

Um.

Oh. Okay. I guess this is the part where I write… stuff…. Wow, I hadn’t considered what to write after my declaration there. I kinda thought I’d say “yeah, trying this again” and then write something really interesting or profound but… yeah. Got nothin’.

Soooo… I guess I’ll be going now. Dishes to do, and stuff. You know. Stuff. Pret-ty busy tonite. Yeah. Me. Whirlwind of activity.

Ok, I promise, my next entry will be more interesting than this one. That’s the plan. Sooo until then….

Peace!

 

Oh, To Start Anew…

SO. Apparently I have issues with this whole blogging business. I mean, what’s the point of keeping this blog if I don’t ever write on it?

It’s not like I don’t have anything to say. Quite the opposite; I have too much to say. The words are there, choking me, and I get overwhelmed and quit before I start. There is a backlog of words, waiting to get written, and yet… write them I do not.

What’s that about?

What to write about? I’ve gotten so good at keeping secrets that  even I believe there are no secrets to keep anymore.

I wish that I could just… speak.