Life as Lou

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A Dripping Wet Ball Of Humiliation

  • June 13, 2006 5:42 pm

I found out very quickly that what I enjoyed doing in the water was not swimming. I enjoyed splashing around, jumping off of docks and swimming about three yards at a time. I liked the water, not the exercise. This enlightenment notwithstanding, I decided to give this swim team thing my all anyway. I did laps for three to four hours a day, for several weeks until my body was more toned than it has ever been, and I had developed deep, dark circles under my eyes due to the over work. I started eating everything in sight, because that much swimming truly works up an appetite. I even bought the team swimsuit two sizes too small, because it was the aerodynamic thing to do. I shaved my legs more in those few months than I think I have the rest of my life. I slapped the edge of the pool and screamed my lungs out in encouragement to my fellow team members at our meets, even though they really couldn’t hear me from under water anyway. I even got naked twice a day in a locker room filled with other women! In short, I totally played the part, and I think I was fairly convincing, up until it was my turn to race.

Something interesting about me is that although I love to win, and I thrive on being “the best”, I don’t thrive on competition. Actually, let me rephrase that with a little more honesty: I am completely chickenshit when it comes to competition. My legs quiver, my mouth goes dry and I just pray to get through it without making a total fool of myself. Most of the time, I don’t even care about doing well, I just want to live through it. My first race was no exception.

As I took the starting block, my mother was in the stands cheering me on. To fully understand the rest of this story, it should be noted that at the beginning of every race some yells, “Ready!” and then there is a loud, electronic “BWAAAAMMM,” which stands for “get set”(lean over and put your butt in the air so you are ready to dive off of the block), and then someone fires the gun which means, “get in the water and start swimming”.

My mother watched me shivering on the starting block. The guy said “ready”, and I was. Then that buzzer went off and scared the living daylights out of me, and I fell off the block and into the pool. The person behind my mother commented to a friend, “wow, she’s nervous,” as I climbed out of the pool and got back into position, dripping wet, and very shaken.

Once again, the guy hollered, “ready”, and then the buzzer screeched loudly, and I, once again, fell off my block, into the pool, in fright. The commentator behind my mother said, “wow. She’s really nervous!” My mother, who hadn’t publicly admitted that she was the mother of the soggy ball of nerves climbing back onto the block for the third time, had to agree.

This time, I prepared myself better. After all, falling in once was understandable, twice, humiliating, but a third time, well, a third time would be just inexcusable. This time when the buzzer sounded, I held on to the block with a death grip, and when the gun went off, I left my block a good two seconds after the rest of the competitors, for fear of falling in again. I was so flustered I ended up being disqualified because my foot scraped the bottom of the pool during one of my laps, so an auspicious beginning, it wasn’t.

Needless to say, I didn’t last long on the swim team. Oh, I had a few good races (mostly the short, relay races where the win didn’t depend entirely on me), but on a whole, I was losing weight and beginning to look just plain sick from all of the exercise. After being encouraged by several teachers, family and friends to quit, I did. And I didn’t miss it at all.]]>

Just Take A Little Off The Top. . .

  • March 13, 2006 6:17 pm

My mother picked me up a few hours later, and we went to buy some groceries at Cash Wise Foods. I can still point out the exact end of the isle where my mother finally took a good look at me and discovered my mutilated brows. You must know that of all of my features, my mother is most proud of my beautiful eyebrows. You see, most babies have no eyebrows when they are born, but I had lots of hair and two perfectly formed brows, and they were the talk of the nurses in the hospital where I was delivered. It is also notable that I was born into the era of Brooke Shields, and full eyebrows were very much the trend. My mother was proud that a genetic twist had given me such an edge up on beauty, so when my perfect brows had all but disappeared, she was horrified, to say the least.

She had me trapped between herself and a shelf of canned corn and began firing inquiries about the state of my eyebrows. Had I plucked them? Did I let Laura pluck them? I repeatedly answered no, insisting that nothing had happened. After all, she hadn’t landed on what I’d really done, and I suddenly had the impression that she just might flip her lid if I confessed. I kept up the stalemate for a little while longer, until I realized that I was going to be trapped with the corn until my mother had a good answer. I finally muttered that I had shaved them. This did not help the situation. After many pathetic explanations and a lot of curious shoppers walking by, my mother finally told me that sometimes when people cut their eyebrows off, they don’t grow back. My mother chastised me by saying that it would be all my fault if I had ugly, misshapen brows for the rest of my life and had to paint them on in a perpetually surprised pose like one of the old ladies my grandmother worked with. I had been blessed with naturally beautiful brows, and I had utterly destroyed them.

There is nothing like guilt to teach a child a lesson. I spent the next month worried sick over the state of my eyebrows, knowing that unless they grew back, I would look weird for the rest of my life. Thankfully, they did grow back. Now I see things from my mother’s point of view, and hope Maggie never gets creative with a razor, because I know I’ll be the one in a tizzy by the corn. ]]>

Shot Therapy

  • February 13, 2006 5:34 pm

One Halloween my little brother, Bernie, was playing with toothpicks on a woven rug. As luck would have it, I stepped on one. It hurt quite a bit. I turned my foot over to yank it out, because it felt like something was there, but to my surprise, saw nothing. I gingerly poked around, but really couldn’t tell if anything was in my foot or not. The only evidence was a painful dimple on the ball of my foot and, after a few days, a little pus and swelling. Being a die hard Trick or Treater, I made the usual candy rounds anyway, limping from house to house laden with candy. By the end of the night, my foot really hurt.

Six days later, on my eleventh birthday, convinced that something was not right, my mother took me to the Dr. for an x-ray, which proved nothing. The Dr. agreed that something was probably in my foot, and so we set up an appointment with a surgeon. Three days later I was laying on my stomach in a surgery clinic reading a Soup book, trying to distract myself from the fact that they were about to slice open my foot and go digging around. The nurse prepared the anaesthetic, putting it in a needle that I am certain was as thick as my finger, and then jabbed it into the ball of my foot with sadistic glee.

At this point in the story, my mother’s version and mine vary dramatically. At the time, I was certain I merely squealed into the pillow as tears ran down my face. Soon after the procedure, my mother informed me that I probably scared away patients in the waiting room because I screamed so insanely loud people in Nebraska could hear me. At any rate, it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. There are billions of nerve endings in the bottom of your foot, and everyone of mine were on fire and ready to jump ship. The nurse kept wiggling the needle around saying that when I couldn’t feel it any more she would take it out. After a minute or two, either the numbness set in or I had gone to a happy place where I no longer felt pain, and they sliced open my foot. After several minutes of not finding anything and threatening that they might just have to close it up and try again next week, (as if I would have showed up for that!) they extracted an inch long piece of toothpick.

This event marked a major turn of events in my life. Up until this day, I had always been a trooper when it came to shots. I didn’t like them, but I was a tough kid and handled them pretty well. Here, at the wellsprings of my adolescence, that ability to cope with shots was completely destroyed. It took five nurses the next year when it came time to receive my MMR booster at school. Two to hold me, one to get me orange juice and a donut because I was lightheaded, one to stare directly into my traumatized face and talk me to distraction, and one to poke me. Every shot became an anxiety attack waiting to happen. I thought I would never recover. They don’t make a twelve step program for shot phobias.

Or so I thought. Nine years later I was married and expecting my first child. I went into pre term labor and landed in the hospital for seven unending weeks, during which time, my daily medications included three to six shots to keep the contractions at bay. I admit, the first few days were pretty rough. I was worried about my baby, worried about being in a hospital all alone, an hour and a half away from home, and the constant stream of shots didn’t help my stress level any. But, humans are adaptable creatures, and within three weeks I had gone from biting my cheeks and trying not to cry to laughing my head off at the entire situation.

Whenever a new nurse would have the job of administering my shots, she would inevitably ask which arm I wanted it in. I usually rotated arms, so I’d pick which ever one wasn’t used last. The nurse would roll up the sleeve to my hospital gown, and it never failed that I there would be an audible gasp, and the occasional profanity, at the sight of my completely black and blue upper arm. The nurse would always ask, “Are you sure you want it in this arm?” To which I would always suggest that she use the other one if she preferred, since it really made no never mind to me. So she would go for the other arm, which was just as abused as the first.

This kept me entertained for weeks, and often got me extra desserts when the nurses really felt badly for me. They also turned a blind eye when the pizza delivery guy showed up. After seven weeks of shots, I had a healthy baby boy and was completely cured of my shot hang up. ]]>

Rummage Sale Junkie

  • February 4, 2006 6:28 pm

That’s what I call a successful morning. Last week was pretty good too. I got an HUGE outdoor plant for three bucks, a fifty cent Winnie the Pooh video for the kids, and a five dollar mountain bike that had been ridden once.

Rummage sales haven’t always intrigued me. When I was a kid my crazy grandmother used to drag me to every discount store and garage sale that crossed our path. She was the Queen of the Blue Light Specials, slowly nickling and diming herself into bankruptcy. We would stop at every sale and she would buy ugly little knickknacks to add to one of the four massive curio cabinets or various decorative tables in her house. She had so much bric a brac that when I ran through her house as a child it literally rattled, and I would get hollered at to stop running in the house before I broke something! Very few of her pieces had any true value and I lived with the constant fear of her dying and my having to go through all of the clutter.

When I was a kid I didn’t mind going to the garage sales as much, after all there were toys to be had, not to mention the piles upon piles of children’s books! Grandmother was always good for a few books, so I tolerated these rummage raids with a good sense of humor. It wasn’t until I hit my teenage years that I put my foot down.

It had gotten to the point where she would send me home with so much ugly bric a brac that I had started having to throw things out just to make room for the new. I didn’t want it and she didn’t need to waste her money on it, and I had a job and a library card, so I could get my own reading material. So, slowly we stopped checking out the rummage sales. I maintained a firm ban against them until I was an adult, and even then it was only an occasional thing.

Just a few months ago I was clued in to how completely amazing the on base rummage sales are. You see, civilians are just trying to get rid of a few pieces of junk, whereas military folk are PCSing and have a weight limit and a space limit and really truly need to get all the stuff out of the house. You can find tons of clothing, movies, toys, houseplants, furniture, and other goodies, all in great condition simply because military families can’t be hauling six bins of baby clothing to Germany and back. It’s just not practical, so they practically give the stuff away.

With the invent of ebay, some of this junk does truly have value. Last October I found two baby Halloween costumes for a quarter a pop. After a week on ebay they sold for over thirty dollars. Not a bad turn around for a fifty cent investment! So, between the chance of finding something with good resale value, and the fact that my children always seem to need clothes, and I’m addicted to houseplants, I’ve become one of those crazies who scours the base paper every Friday and gets out of bed way too early for a Saturday so I can be the first person to buy the junk. Not every week has a great find, but the few times I’ve hit the jackpot (try six pairs of baby shoes for a dollar fifty!) make it very sweet indeed.]]>

Self Portrait Tuesday: Focus On History

  • January 18, 2006 5:19 am

I’m the one with the shiner, pigtails and the t-shirt that says, “My aunt wears combat boots”.

I don’t remeber a lot about being six. I remember frequently being told not to sulk, but I was a pretty sulky kid. I was a tom boy who climbed trees and picked fights. I’m sure the shiner was the result of the trees. This has always been one of my favorite photos of myself, moping and bruised. It speaks volumes that I can’t even begin to write.

I know this isn’t a self portrait, but with my camera in the shop (still) and the theme for the month being personal history, it was the shot I felt most compelled to share. Mom, did I really sulk as much as I remember you telling me not sulk? Probably.


Blue Streaks Of Shame

  • January 11, 2006 3:09 am

My friend and I had the not so brilliant idea to wax our legs. We had been up at all hours watching the infomercials for products that would guarantee you silky smooth legs for the next three months. These fancy products were all beyond the reach of a starving student’s budget, so we waited until we were sufficiently hairy and then took a walk to Wal-Mart where we were instantly intrigued and befuddled by the assortment of hair removal products available. There were depilatories that would simply dissolve unwanted fur by just sitting there, powders to shake, creams to smear, and exfoliates and triple bladed razors for a smooth shave. The waxing section alone boasted at least seven different kinds of wax, some you could apply with a plastic paint stick and then press a piece of paper over and rip off, and then there was the variety we chose. This kind you spread the wax over your hairy legs and then peel the wax off by yanking the wax- sans paper. We bought it because it was the cheapest one.

Back at the dorm a crowd of curious girls crowded around us out of what can only be described as morbid curiosity. The jocks shook their heads, the girly girls squealed at the pain, and the artsy types ignored us and went back to braiding their armpit hair. We shooed them away, put on some short shorts and began to nuke the wax. After a few minutes of careful stirring we began the agonizing application to our naked calves. It burned!

There didn’t seem to be much wax in the little tray so we very carefully applied a thin layer all over both of our hairy legs, yelping every time the burning hot wax hit our tender flesh. When we finished with the application process we sat back and admired the orange, gloopy logs that were our legs. We did this not for aesthetic reasons, but because we were stalling.

Finally, we decided the wax had to be hardened and it was time to rip off all of our unwanted hair. The pain had been carefully discussed at great length, but we decided that it just couldn’t be that bad, considering how many women routinely have it done, and from areas much more sensitive than the body parts we intended to shear. The payoff just had to be worth it.

We each tried to wedge a fingernail under an edge of crusted wax to get a good grip. The women on tv had seemed so perky and barely winced as the strips of wax were ripped off. It was a quick process, a moments pain for the sexiest, smooth legs possible! I could barely get my fingernail under the wax. You see, as it had been applied, the edges were made up of a very thin layer of wax, so thin, in fact, that it couldn’t actually be peeled off. After a few minutes of trying to remove this area, I cracked a thicker spot a little higher and managed to get a good hold on it. In triumph I tore the wax from my leg with gusto!

The pain was amazing. And to add insult to injury, half of the hair was still attached to my leg! As my eyes teared from the pain I realized my only way out of this mess was to keep peeling off the wax. Time and time again, I would rip off pieces of my skin only to find that half the hairs had managed to hold on during this incredibly painful exfoliation process. I found that after I had removed the thicker portions of wax the thin layers that were at random all over my calves were only to be removed by rubbing off the skin underneath it. After causing a couple of extremely raw spots to appear, both my friend and I decided that enough was enough and the weird wax patterns could simply wear off on their own. We went to bed.

The next day I awkwardly pulled on a pair of jeans (the wax acted like little rubber grips, so it took a lot of wiggling to get the pant all the way up) and attended my classes. That evening I had a rehearsal for the musical I was in. It turned out that the day’s rehearsal was actually a costume fitting. I peeled down to my skivvies only to find that the bright blue lint from my jeans was now artistically adhered to the remaining wax. Between the spots and streaks my legs looked like Jackson Pollack had had his way with them, and there was no hiding it from the rest of the cast.

The sheepish explanation of what had caused the blue leprosy to appear left the cast members rocking with combined mirth and horror. The spots remained almost until opening night, causing much undue concern over my ability to appear on stage in a knee length dress. I have not waxed my legs (or any other part of me, for that matter) since. Some things just aren’t worth it.]]>

My Mother: She’s A Clever Old Grinch

  • December 16, 2005 10:44 pm

I told you that my family never waited until Christmas morning before diving headfirst into the stack of presents under the tree? My mom tolerated this tradition. Oh, she had her fun like anyone else, but it bugged her just a tish, so one year she decided that when the Day of Unwrapping arrived, she was going to be ready.

That year was no different. It started with eleven year old Janice wheedling and needling Dad until he had very little choice but to turn to Mom with big puppy dog eyes and ask, just like Jan had been pleading, “Just one present?” Usually, it took a little work to get Mom to give in, oddly, this year she acquiesced quite quickly, only after making us promise that once we opened this gift, we’d wait for Christmas for the rest. We agreed and never suspected that the wool was being cleverly pulled over our eyes. She gave the customary, “I’ll choose the one you get to open first!” and then ran to choose three gifts from under the tree.

She had to select the gifts because we kids were so terrible about guessing and peeking and shaking that she had to devise a new code each year of how to mark the packages so that only she knew who belonged to which gift. There were many years that she would be second guessing herself as we unwrapped as she tried to remember the recipient of a certain gift. Accidents were made, but it never made anyone upset- we just tossed the unwrapped gift to it’s rightful owner and continued on.

Mom had us each sit at the table with our present and told us that we should unwrap them all at once so we didn’t spoil the surprise. My younger brother and sister tore into their gifts with rabid glee while I more delicately teased the pretty paper off of the box. Before I was done unwrapping my sister and brother had torn the paper off to reveal Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. They immediately began to tear into the boxes because my mother has a habit of wrapping gifts in whatever box is available, and those usually happen to be food boxes. As I unwrap a cake mix, Mom yells not to open the boxes because that’s really what they are.

Jan and Bernie are devastated. Bernie gets mad and Jan dissolves into tears; I start laughing and congratulate my mom on pulling a good one. I’m about fifteen years old, and the humor is not lost on me. My sister sniffles and then wails, “Of course you’re happy! At least you got cake mix!”

I’m still laughing. I can’t help it. My siblings start looking mutinous and declare that they still get to open a real present. Mom tries to hold them to their promise, but after many tears she gives in and, as usual, the gifts are all unwrapped that night.

To this day I still think it’s one of the funniest things my mother ever did. If I get the opportunity to pull something similar on my children, I will.]]>


  • November 25, 2005 9:10 pm

In reality, traditions do fail, people change, ideals change, entire religions and nations change- but somehow, in the moment that we are here, those little rituals mean so much. Because my little family is so young, most of our traditions are borrowed from past generations. Chris and I are slowly picking and choosing what rituals will speak Christmas to us.

Growing up, we had several traditions, some born by accident and some passed down from grandparents. Some were unique to our family, and some were pretty typical. I think most families have a certain way of opening the Christmas gifts. Ours was interesting, not so much in the how aspect of things, but in the when. Now, from what I hear, most people open gifts on Christmas or Christmas Eve. We tended to travel to grandparents homes on the holidays and we had a small car. There was barely enough room for our family of five and the few gifts we packed for others, let alone for our own gifts, so we opened things early.

It started out innocently enough. We were going to Gramma’s a few days prior to Christmas so we opened the gifts right before we left. Once we found out that one didn’t have to wait until Christmas, the presents spent less and less time wrapped. Now, I really think that, despite my younger siblings pleading, things would have stayed wrapped had it not been for my Dad. If one of us kids wanted to open a present, we knew Dad was most likely to give in. In every other aspect of life, we knew to ask Mom, but when it came to Christmas presents, Dad was just a big push over. He liked seeing us kids get so excited, and we were going to open them early anyway, so why not open them three weeks early? Why not open them before all of the gifts had even been purchased? Sometimes you’ve just got to live a little!

The process always happened in the same way. My little sister Jan would ask dad if we could open just one. Just one little gift, that’s all, then she’d be happy and she could wait for Christmas for the rest. Of course, if she got to open one gift then it would stand to reason that we all needed to open a gift, to be fair and to keep things even for the Christmas morning unwrapping we all knew was never going to happen. As soon as we had all opened one gift, Dad would get a boyish gleam in his eye and the next thing we knew the only thing left under the tree was the skirt!

Now, this tradition isn’t one that we are practicing in our family, as it was unique to my family’s circumstances. But it did form bonds between us and made our family stronger.

One thing that we are doing is opening pajamas on Christmas Eve. This is a tradition form Chris’ side. Another tradition that we are starting all on our own is to read a children’s book about Christmas each day until Christmas Eve, when we read the Bible story of the Savior’s birth. So far, we can only read for about a week prior to Christmas, although I hope to someday have enough holiday themed books to read for all twenty-three days. Another tradition I grew up with is driving around town to look at Christmas lights. I hate this tradition because I get carsick and suffer from light induced migraines. It’s not one I’m eager to carry on.

It has been interesting for Chris and I to adjust to the blend of traditions. He is still amazed at how camera happy my side is (his family gives each other camera as gifts and then you never see a photo; I think it’s bizarre. In my family you see photos of everyone else taking photos. Equally bizarre.) I adjusted quickly to clam dip as a holiday appetizer, but his family’s line up according to age and then walk into the living room to see what Santa left is still kind of odd for me, fun, but odd. Chris gets my passion for lefse, but doesn’t understand why I’m so appalled that the TV is on instead of everyone chatting and playing games. The good thing is, we both enjoy this adjustment. It can be fun to suddenly experience a whole new set of traditions. Now if we could just marry someone who actually sang carols around the piano, I’d be stoked. Right now I’m just biding my time until Jonas and Maggie are taking piano lessons; after that, let the new traditions begin!

The Red Cup

  • November 18, 2005 10:07 pm

For us, food isn’t the main issue. It’s all about the dishes. Traditionally, in “normal” households the table is set with matching tableware. They may not be the fanciest of plates and bowls, but matching is a goal most of us try very hard to achieve and feel a certain sense of accomplishment when we can actually set a table for six and see that the plates and bowls and flatware all somewhat resemble each other. It takes awhile.

Somewhere in the taking awhile phase of things, we all developed favorites. I blame this on Dad; he is the original My Bowl Is Superior To All Others And Will Not Be Touched By The Urchins Formerly Known As My Wife and Children man. While most men, upon marriage, start using whatever was given to them as wedding gifts, my father brought his own cereal bowl. It is cream, tall and ceramic, and I must admit, is a very fine representation of superior bowlage. However, having your breakfast happiness dependent upon your special bowl can somewhat reduce the authority you might try to use on your children as you try to dissuade them from claiming their own special dishes. In other words, there was no way to not pass on this particular quirk to us kids.

After many years of this, Mom has her special glasses, almost everyone gets touchy if you don’t set their places with the correct spoon/fork/knife combination, and a few have even branched out into the more advanced plate and bowl preferences. Usually, it isn’t a problem. An offended diner has shrieked at most of us often enough to remember that they only use forks with the wavy edges, never the monogrammed ones, and no, they do not care if it’s the letter that begins both their first and last names. You pick this stuff up after awhile, just as you pick up the customs of any alien planet once you’ve visited long enough.

The only time a real problem happened was when we were little kids. Mom bought Tupperware dishes so us children wouldn’t bang up the nice Corel. The dishes came in red, blue and yellow. Now, the plates and bowls didn’t receive too much attention, but the cups, well, there were full scale battles over the cups. My sister, Janice, and I fought over that red cup like our lives depended on it. Bernie, being a boy, automatically claimed the blue one, and my mother would hear nothing of us taking that one from him, so one of us was going to get stuck with the nasty, ugly yellow cup, and one of us would get the splendidly bright red cup.

We bickered for at least two weeks until one lunch time when Mom reached her limit. She wrote the colors of the cups on little slips of paper and made us draw. Whatever happened was final, and the loser wasn’t allowed to whine about it.

I drew the yellow one. My little sister gloated mercilessly. Every meal for at least a year after she won the red cup she would smirk at me while sipping her drink. In time, the cup rivalry fizzled out. We matured a little, and more cups were brought into the house. A few years down the road my brother started to bicker over the yellow cup, not because he preferred the color, but because he had gnawed on his cup, as little boys do, and it was unpleasant to drink from. Being six years older than my brother, my cup had been spared the bites and was relatively untouched. The bickering ended when my mother reaffirmed that it was, indeed, still my cup.

Today, almost twenty years later, my husband brought me a drink of grapefruit juice. He had poured it into the coveted red cup. I admit, I sipped my drink with the glee of a six year old who has finally gotten what she wanted. Jan is half way around the world, and here I gloat.

An Autum Layout, Today’s Events, and Sr. Airman

  • October 28, 2005 6:46 pm

We had a great weekend with my in-laws. We visited a pumpkin patch in Half Moon Bay, CA, took pictures, enjoyed the crisp fall weather and took lots of pictures! It was Maggie’s first year doing this and Jonas’ third. It is absolutely one of my favorite (and quite possibly the only) tradition my little family has.

So, yesterday I threw this together and boy did it feel good to be scrapping for myself! I’ve been doing so much for ebay and custom work I haven’t been able to touch my own photos. Not that I’m complaining, I like doing the custom stuff. If you like this layout, I have a mini album done inn the same style on ebay right now and it’s going for a song, quite literally for the cost of supplies, so if you are interested, check it out.

Tonight we will attend our church Halloween party, eat lots of junk and participate in the annual “Trunk or Treat” where we trick or treat from cars. Jonas is going as Spiderman and Maggie is going to be a lady bug, as long as I can locate all the pieces to the costumes. With all the weekend trips and illness and constant all consuming scrapbooking, the house is, well, not quite up to Good Housekeeping standards. Today I must pay my dues to the master of all household cleaners and scrub, organize, and spit shine until I drop. I may, at that point, have turned the house from a certifiable health hazard to someplace social services would approve my keeping the children.

Other good news: Chris got a promotion! He has been elevated from Air Force Piss-Ant to Humble, Groveling Lesser Peon and all the privileges and the raise that comes with that. So we are grateful. We thought he wasn’t getting promoted for another month, so this early business is great! We also found out that Chris’ name is on a Utah state list for unclaimed property. Apparently Wal-Mart owes him $186.00 from way back when he was their slave in order to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. I was pretty sure we left Utah with them owing us, but since they are a truly horrible company who treat their employees like dirt and sometimes the stress simply isn’t worth the gain, we never pursued the issue. Now, Utah is sending us a claim thing and we should get paid relatively soon. Excellent. Now repeat after me: DO NOT SHOP AT WAL-MART unless they are the only people who carry what you need. If you live in a small town where Wal-Mart is it as far as shopping goes, I understand, we’ve been there, but if you have a Target or something like unto it- go there.

Enjoy your day. Enjoy the weekend, Enjoy life. Create something and show it to me on your blog or in person. Creation is good. Creation is healthy. Try it.