A friend cut my hair last night. I did NOT make it easy. I had my first ever wine cooler beforehand. Strawberry. It was a disturbingly vibrant red. And then it was gone. And then I couldn’t sit up.
She did a great job trimming it anyway. She doesn’t really cut hair. But if I flatiron my hair completely and wear a horizontally striped shirt, she can line up my hair with a stripe and cut it really evenly. Better, if I’m totally and completely sober and can actually manage the workings of my spine and neck. But apparently that’s not required.
Same friend and I went to a grocery store i don’t like recently. It’s all organic and natural and I don’t know but you just feel like you should maybe throw on some birkenstocks in order to buy your produce there and it makes me rather uncomfortable. This is west texas. So it’s a weird vibe.
When we go there together, I always feel like I suddenly appear to be this friend’s really butch girlfriend. Like, it’s SO much completely and exactly like that and I just assumed it was this unspoken but weird thing we were both aware of but chose not to acknowledge in the pursuit of good vegetables.
The last time we were there, I only bought one thing (freeze dried green beans, on HolyCousin’s recommendation, naaaaaaasty they taste like grasshoppers, EW). The sacker wandered off so I sacked all of my friend’s groceries and took out the bags. She was like, “uh? I can get some of those.” And I shrugged her off and struggled with ALL the bags and started talking about something else and then she said something like that again when we got to her car, and I was all, “Yeah, i think it’s that whole butch girlfriend thing I lapse into when we’re here that had me sack your stuff and carry it all for you.”
Okay, I TOTALLY thought she knew what I was talking about.
She gave me a really weird look.
And… maybe not.
Then her eyes got all big and she realized what I’d said.
“THE WHOLE WHAT?”
I explained. “It’s something about the way that store feels. Like I’ve turned into a lesbian hippie and you’re my pretty girlfriend or something, i mean, what? you don’t think so too? that’s why I never want to go here with you. the atmosphere confuses my sexuality or something. i thought we were on the same page–”
“NOT ON THE SAME PAGE, OH MY GOSH, I’M NEVER BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN.”
“Um. OKAY. Fine! I’D TOTALLY LIKE THAT!”
“SOOOOooOOOOo self conscious now, I canNOT BELIEVE… WHAT?!”
Sometimes you can assume you know exactly what the other person is thinking and you’re in it together. And be completely wrong. And sometimes it’s funny.
And other times it’s not.
Other times it rips you open years later in the middle of the night and you wonder how you lost someone you absolutely adore and always will.
Sometimes, it’s like THAT.
I knew I should have replaced the lock with the little key on the back gate with a combination lock. Really. I knew better.
But it had worked okay for 6 months. Little key in the house, Ethan-13yr picks it up and takes it when he takes out the trash, comes back, hangs up the little key. It used to have a cute boxing glove keychain that HolyCousin gave me but that fell off a few months back. And so it was just a little silver key.
Until it wasn’t there one day.
And he sorta thinks um, maybe, he threw it in the dumpster last time. Which has certainly been emptied since ‘last time.’
It instantly occurred to me that this was a typical 13 year old kind of dilemma and I tried not to show that I found it somewhat endearing.
“Huh. What do you think you should do?”
He went out to the backyard and looked everywhere for a key on the ground. Then he asked Caden-9yr to help. Caden-9yr is my “I can find ANYTHING” child. It’s AMAZING, his talent.
So thorough is his talent that when they came back in and said it wasn’t out there, I believed them fully. If CADEN-9YR says something is not there…? It’s truly not there. Don’t bother looking. He woulda found it with his eyes closed in two seconds if it were anywhere in that giant backyard. He said it’s gone? He is the ultimate authority on lost and found items. I do not question it. I recognize the God-given bizarre superpower he has for visual observation challenges of any and all varieties and gladly let it benefit this family ALL the time.
Once when he was three years old, I was facing away from him, and was mildly upset about something but trying not to show it. He instantly asked me what was wrong. He’d seen a flicker of something on my face in the reflection of the black, blank television screen.
NOTHING gets past that child. Not an emotion. Not a reflection of a passing emotion even when my back is turned. Not a lost silver gate key.
And back to that silver gate key…. I asked Ethan-13yr how he would take out the trash without the use of the gate.
He ran out to the fence, climbed it, asked a brother to toss over the trash, put it in the dumpster, and then realized he couldn’t get back over the fence. I stayed in the house so no one would see how adorable I thought this was. Three boys problem solving and yelling and running around and acting like it was really kinda urgent and it was just SO stinking cute.
I went out and asked Ethan-13yr how he planned to return home to us. (okay, I put on a dramatic quivery voice for my own entertainment). He sighed and said he guess he’d walk down the alley and come around the front. I told him I loved him and wished him farewell. We live in the middle of the block. So it’s a decent walk.
I thought about getting him a cell phone to take.
And then I thought about how weird that was. I used to have free reign over a large subdivision as a kid. I had just a bike, and friends, and miles and miles of hilly wide roads to traverse and explore and wooded, brushy areas to disappear into for hours at a time. (i loved to do that when no one could play.) The best part about it was NO ONE in the world could possibly know where I was for those hours. No one even knew about those places. I’d take a book and stay as long as possible. Or dig in the dirt for bugs. Or do whatever else I could think of for as long as possible. A cell phone or GPS pinging thing would have ruined the entire mystique. Not that we had them then, but STILL. It was a kind of freedom my kids will probably never know. Not with a mama like me.
How did I get to be the mom who wanted to give her TEENAGER a cell phone to walk halfway around the block…?! Could it really be that I trust the little girl I used to be far more than the young men i am raising? How strange.
When Ethan-13yr finally came back home, I was standing on the porch wild eyed and saying, “I WAS ABOUT TO COME AFTER YOU, YOU TOOK FOREVER.”
I am not proud of that.
My mother arrived at that moment, and if she thought anything about that, she wisely didn’t say anything.
She was making a triumphant entrance to regale us with the details of her fantastic success with an endeavor that had pitted her against a city government entity. (way to go, Mom!)
So. After she left I took the kids for half price milkshakes – and then raced back home because Caden-9yr’s did NOT agree with him and that’s all I’ll say, WOW- and then we went to Lowe’s for bolt cutters. To cut off the lock.
I mean, right? That’s the next step? UGH.
The guy assured me any of the bolt cutters would work.
I bought the Kobalt 14″ ones and went home to try them. (no i did NOT entrust this task to Ethan-13yr, are you kidding me?! His ten baby fingers are precious and he needs them ALL and he doesn’t ever EVER need to touch my new bolt cutters, and yes I told them all that. Gone was my, “it’s your problem what’s your solution?” approach. It was gone as soon as there were blades involved.)
The Kobalt 14″s didn’t work. They made a tiny hairline dent.
I went inside and looked up how to adjust the tension on them. Learned what an ‘eccentricity bolt’ was and what to do with it. Tried forever. Texted my dad to tell him about the issue and how it came to be and ask for advice.
My dad was all, “WHAT? Get bigger bolt cutters. Get BIG bolt cutters. And even then it isn’t going to be easy.”
They’re $50, the big ones! That’s why I didn’t get them in the first place.
Somewhere around this point i realized that I no longer found this endearing or cute or adorable and I really need the stupid gate lock issue fixed so the trash can be taken out without me wondering the rules for issuing an Amber Alert on my children for having to take the alley.
In the front yard, I messed up the water hose switch off thingy. And then I thought I had everything i needed to fix it and then i MOWED OVER some of the relevant metal pieces. And that’s a problem too. (partly because that hurt a LOT when the mangled metal flew out at my legs, and partly because the grass will need to get watered and I am not sure how that’s gonna happen now.)
I need to teach the 13yr old how to mow. But that’ll be difficult because I hate to give that job up.
I need to let the kids slightly out of the nest without freaking out.
And definitely least importantly, I need to figure out the bolt cutters and the metal hose thingy.
Maybe I could go sit in the dirt for awhile without a cell phone and think it all through. Oh, that sounds so nice.
A few weeks ago I was BEYOND thrilled at the idea of what I thought would be the PERFECT job for me. Surely this was GOD.
I applied. I was hopeful. VERY hopeful. And when I was so ‘hopeful’ in the middle of the night that I really couldn’t sleep, I bought the PERFECT skirt for that job. I called it my ‘faith skirt.’
Because that sounds better than my ‘counting chickens before they hatch skirt.’
Two things are important here:
1) The skirt is GORGEOUS.
2) I did not get the job.
So i decided it is going to be called my Faith Skirt anyway, and it just awaits another kid schedule friendly type office job that I just have not found yet. I hung it next to my Secret Mermaid outfit on my closet door.
(and, sidenote, my mother tells me, quite belatedly, that the Plumber Guy I Did Not Lick had to go into my bedroom to look for something and SAW my secret mermaid outfit and was apparently so affected by it in some way or another that he did not find what he was actually looking for – right next to the Secret Mermaid outfit. I wish I did not know that this happened.)
I love the people I work with. And NO WHERE ELSE ON EARTH would any workplace be as accommodating of my custody schedule as this sweet store. However. I do feel it is probably not too gripe-y to point out that no, I am not a natural fit with retail. I can do it, and do it well. I like to make people feel as if they are SO welcome when they come in, no matter where I am.
Well, I mean, except my house. Don’t be coming into my house. No one is welcome here, leave me alone, and don’t go snooping in my mermaid wardrobe.
But if we are both at the gym and you are nervous looking, I will chat you up just so you feel comfortable and accepted. If you are lost in a store, i will talk to you. Not because I want to or need to do this for ME. I wish you weren’t there. But since you are, I want you to feel at ease. It’s not exactly hospitality. It’s something much less… nice. I’m not sure what to call it. Obligatory friendliness, maybe.
I was raised to smile at people when we passed. My father takes it a step further and waves at other drivers he doesn’t know and nods his head or says hello. Even though I’m pretty sure he has social anxiety issues too. THAT’S JUST WHAT YOU DO.
(hey, Daddy. I think you have social anxiety issues too. Have i ever told you that? i think i get it from you. but you handle it all better than i do.)
Anyway. Helpful to be that way in retail I suppose. Goes a long way. But if I had a job that allowed me to wear cute shoes that didn’t hurt and there was office-y stuff to do WHILE kids were at school…. okay, I’d like it better. I admit it. I’m looking. Just in case.
Have skirt, will wear.
I just texted my dad and asked if he thought he has social anxiety issues.
Oh, and guess what? if you go in a store and the girl who works there points out what you’re looking for instead of walking you over like a toddler and handing it to you, do not be offended. do not wonder “why does she not WANT to do her job?” I used to think like this.
ha HA! i really did.
Now I know better. That girl is probably beyond grateful for her job, wants to do her job, and loves her coworkers. However, she has been standing on concrete for 8 hours in ballet flats and her feet are KILLING her and she actually CAN’T move. She’s positively numb. So instead she smiles and points and prays about jobs where she could sit on her butt instead. And wonders if she’s being ungrateful for doing so.
But. There ya go. Now we know.
My dad has not answered my text.
I sent another one.
And another one.
I shall not be ignored.
Then he seemed to intentionally misunderstand and think I was linking that social anxiety question to something earlier. And then about something ELSE earlier. And then he said, no he is fine because he avoids all that.
Then he took me all serious as if maybe I were in need of a real father daughter text analysis and he wasn’t quite doing his job. Asked all kinds of questions and like, tuned in. I was just thinking how much alike he and I can be. And that’s kinda all it was.
Love ya Daddy.
I’m not a musical person.
Never have been. I can’t sing AT ALL. My ability to hear and retain anything musical is about as good as my ability to remember faces. A musical element would have to be deliberately, methodically seared into my brain before it is in there to stay.
I hardly discuss or mention music. As you can imagine, it’s like it’s not my first language. Or second. Or third. I’ll never be fluent in the sounds and components and workings and patterns.
But when I was 11, I became quietly obsessed with a certain musician. And a certain album. Lots, if not all, 11 year old girls do this. Yeah, I know.
I’ve never really discussed it before because I’m so out of my depth in anything musical I doubted I could even adequately communicate anything about this obsession. And it was really too special to mess up. So I left it alone. Almost never ever discussed ever. It’s not a secret. It’s just…. too personal and important to miscommunicate.
But I’ll try.
At the end of my sixth grade year (a horrific year in which I became very aware of my many social shortcomings), my parents were divorcing. It was sudden. To me, at least. Not to them. But to me… very.
The object of my complete musical fixation was Paul Simon. His Graceland album, more specifically. I’d halfheartedly liked all the Simon and Garfunkel stuff. But Graceland grabbed me and held me very tightly for years. It was unexplainable. It still is.
The cassette tape was often played in my mother’s Volvo. And when everyone else tired of it, I took it off to my room, and never returned it. I still have it today. It was the soundtrack of my adolescence. My hero was the beautiful, short man with the soulful eyes who had somehow managed to write those lyrics that had me so utterly transfixed.
If I’d had internet access, I would have researched every last word I didn’t understand – and there were many. I would have looked up why and how that album came to be. Everything about apartheid and South Africa, and how Paul Simon and this album played a role – was completely unknown to me. I didn’t have a clue. All I had was the music. And the creamy little paper album cover that had all the lyrics written in tiny print. I studied them. I memorized them. I adored them. I would take a phrase I didn’t understand and quietly hold it closely for weeks or months until i thought that maybe, just maybe, I understood. (“who am I to blow against the wind?” )
It wasn’t that the lyrics were all that confounding to anyone else, probably. But I was just 11. I didn’t know what a ‘cinematographer’ was. But if Paul Simon could toss that unwieldy word into a song…. I wanted to know everything about it. I learned a lot of words that way. I took a lot of phrases that seemed so complex in meaning… and waited until they made sense. I filled my hours with his phrases and patiently waited until I understood. The sheer number of syllables he managed to squeeze into a song astounded me. I admired immensely what he did with words. The amazing musical sounds that accompanied it all were less interesting to me, but not by much.
I didn’t like to ask questions. I was the youngest in a very smart family, and I didn’t want to show everyone else how little I understood. Maybe I didn’t want anyone else to explain to me what those words meant… when surely they meant not as much to them as they did to me, regardless of their literal meanings. So mainly, I just waited until the meanings revealed themselves in their own time.
And when they did, they were already a part of me. They found their way into my way of thinking and seamlessly slipped into my own vocabulary.
Every line, every inflection, every odd mystical sound and foreign syllable uttered by the various African artists on that album… I internalized all of it the way some children learn Scripture. We were not a religious family. But up in my second floor bedroom, the quiet kid whose parents were divorcing had found her own sort of religious experience. The lyrics and the music and the blending of American and South African sounds and talents gave me something huge and complicated to consider for weeks and months and years…. it was so much bigger than my messed up little world. It was lively and fun and joyful and sad and endlessly thought provoking in a way I’d never heard or expected music to be.
Even though I can’t sing at all, I still hold in my heart every precious syllable of that entire album. Even the ones in various African languages. I know them each well, like old dear friends. They never sounded quite right whenever i sang them, but it never stopped me.
My resources were limited to the music and the cream paper with the tiny lyrics, since I was reluctant to ask questions. I studied the credits given for each song. I wondered how it had come to be that Paul Simon had written a song with someone with an African name. So many different times. I wondered at all the credits and what they represented and how it had all come together. I wondered what all the instruments were and what all the foreign sounding syllables really meant. Some of it sounded like animals, but was it supposed to, or did it mean something else? Who were all those people? How did they meet? Why did he suddenly go to South Africa and do all of this and what do those people look like, those people whose African names I’ve memorized off the little white paper….? How….?
I had a thousand questions I never asked. I had a thousand more questions I didn’t know HOW to ask, because my musical understanding and fluency is so poor. Instead, I just soaked in the music. Night and day, on and off, for years. I still listen.
My mom sent a text last week telling me that there would be a television show on the Making of Graceland, as it’s the 25th anniversary of that album, and how I should record it.
I intentionally waited until tonight when I had no interruptions, to watch it. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to share any of it with anyone, still.
A huge number of my questions were answered. The ones I never asked. The ones I never thought I’d know. I laughed and cried and sang and danced and I kept having to reminding myself to blink. I didn’t want to blink and miss anything. As soon as it was over, I tried to figure out if there was a way I could be certain my kids would never ever accidentally delete it. And then I started watching it again, from the beginning. Finally. A new resource. I hadn’t expected it.
This probably didn’t come across nearly as well as I’d like. But it was time. It’s okay. I adore Paul Simon and Graceland in more ways than I will ever, ever be able to articulate.
I just wanted y’all to know.
Because apparently I’ve kept him to myself for 25 years and maybe it’s time I shared.
Baseball is almost over. I’ve hardly mentioned it.
Seth-7yr running the bases and Mom and I watching in disbelief as his ‘cup’ moves from original crotch position to his ANKLE as he runs. Lesson learned: do NOT wear boxer briefs with a cup. I met him in the dugout and he gave me the big serious brown eyes and i told him to just discreetly let it fall out his pants and just put it in his bag. I tried not to call any more attention to this event with laughing or crying or smothering him in kisses but it was REALLY difficult. OH SO CUTE.
He’s playing catcher and doing well.
Caden-9yr is a truly superb base runner, and more so when he has to go to the bathroom. Again, Mom and I watched from the stands, clutching each other in sympathetic agony every time he shifted, sat, squatted, punched his cup, crossed his legs, turned red, danced, grabbed himself, or almost stole a base without permission just so he could get to the bathroom faster. His cup truly did runneth over that day. it was painful to watch. He sprinted to the bathroom with a bright red metallic batting helmet still on his head, and emerged with it positioned conspicuously like a bunch of fig leaves. Lesson learned: potty BEFORE.
I’ve been present this season, but only from a much larger distance than usual. no idea what it is about married baseball coach types who think that flirting with moms is an inherent part of their coach role. There seems to be one like that every year. It’s so disappointing. Lesson learned: park super far away at practices and keep to myself even more than usual.
also? I cleaned out my purse and got the car washed. That may not seem noteworthy to you. But that’s only because you haven’t seen my purse or car lately. i simply HAD to share that.
I found a baseball in my purse. It’s been lost in there for over a month.
Whoah, what just happened to the formatting here?
Nevermind. need to take dog to vet soon so I can’t fix it.
She’s fine. the dog. But she’s butt scooting. I told my mom she was ‘boot scooting’ earlier. I meant to say butt scooting. I do not address butt scooting. I leave it to professionals.
And I do not address formatting issues. I leave that to just annoy us all and hope next time it’s somehow better.
Within hours of that last post, Claude (who I think is actually on vacation somewhere) contacted me with a request.
He wants to be left off this blog, and all hints of him left off this blog. I should not use him as a source, as the kids do so many amazing things I should just write about all that.
I take requests around here seriously.
But anyone will tell you that you do NOT tell me what to write about and what not to write about. You do NOT control me by telling me I am not a ‘godly woman’ if I do not adequately protect another person’s flawed image from any and all inspection. (excuse me, correction, but not ANYMORE). You do not tell me that I should not say anything to the kids. THAT’S KINDA NOT REALISTIC.
The KIDS, I might add, are having a lot of fun pretending to be me looking at a credit card statement and then SHRIEKING and bugging their eyes out and yelling, “NOooOOOO!! He did NOT do that again!!?!??? NOooOOOOOoOOOOO!?”
SO. I THINK AN EXPLANATION WAS IN FACT, WARRANTED. It did at least make them temporarily stop re-enacting the Moment of Shock and allow a good opportunity to discuss the importance of always checking one’s statements for errors.
Pretty much a good way to get mentioned here is to make me scream. If I scream, I kinda need to tell the internet about it. I screamed yesterday also. My mom’s cat was to blame. This is an equal opportunity blog, and so I WILL TELL YOU about that also. Not because my life revolves around a cat. Not because I need him as a ‘source’ for writing material. Just because that is kinda how it works here. STUFF HAPPENS? I SCREAM? IT’S BLOGGED. So don’t make me scream. It’s not hard.
An excellent way to go UNmentioned here on this anonymous blog would be to go on with your own life and vacations and do not make decisions that negatively impact my or my children’s finances, schedules, credit, or make any silly demands of us and our ability to think or speak that limit our worth or freedom in this world and do not make me scream. I FIND THAT ALL PRETTY EASY. PERSONALLY. BUT THAT’S JUST ME. For Claude and my mom’s cat, not so much this week.
Maybe don’t text me from a vacation somewhere and tell me what I should and shouldn’t say to whom and where and why even if it is true, because then you won’t think I’m godly enough.
BECAUSE. THAT. IS. BIZARRE.
I think I actually care more about how godly my mother’s CAT thinks I am.
I CARE MORE ABOUT THE OPINION OF MY MOM’S CAT.
Ladies, none of us answer to Claude. Isn’t that a great thing? We will never have his approval as a Proverbs 31 perfect women. We will never measure up. We have too many feelings and thoughts and words that conflict with, like, everything. We are terribly inconvenient like that. BUT DO NOT FEAR!
There is God.
ONLY His opinion matters. Don’t let Claude confuse you for even a second.
And with God, we do measure up. His amazing love and grace covers us and surrounds us and we can be exactly who we really are. God is not threatened by our ability to think, feel, believe, blog, or get upset with stuff. SHUT UP, but He kinda LIKES that about us and designed us that way. When Claude’s standards are unrealistic, take heart and remember how irrelevant that is, because it is MUCH easier to please God. Much more rewarding. Much more, I don’t know, worthwhile and relevant.
And He NEVER rents cars in Albuquerque with other people’s credit cards. God just WOULDN’T.
Neither does my mother’s cat.
I have issues with this cat. I admit it. But because my mother adores him and because he really is a nice cat sometimes, I choose to overlook his flaws most of the time and it’s not like I’m married to him and it’s really not a big deal. But, as with anyone – if you make me scream, it’s blogged.
Yesterday the boys and I were sitting around mom’s table with her, playing Apples to Apples. We took the dogs. They were asleep on the floor. I wanted black rice and brussel sprouts for lunch (YUM), but hadn’t started on it yet.
The cat gets on the table, comes over to me, and BITES my left boob. I mean, ATTACK. Like, teeth. Like, the cat totally ‘latched on’ to use breastfeeding terms. No warning. Just, BAM. And now there’s a cat attached to my chest.
I screamed. I threw my cards. The cat let go. I grabbed the cat spitty part of my shirt and yelled WHAT WAS THAT?! And three boys looked on in amazement, much as they had the previous day when I’d started screaming.
Mom said, “Uh….. I could see it coming. I knew it was going to happen… but there was just nothing i could do! you have long hair. I think he was going for your hair and he just… missed.”
The cat glared at me, all wild eyed with his ears flattened back. I did my best to give him the same look. He left.
Apples to Apples continued.
The word was “Emotional.”
Caden-9yr chose the card, “At My House.” Then he went on to explain, “it was really EMOTIONAL at my house when [this really special person] died. And it was emotional when [this really special dog at my grandparents' house] died. And also when dad used mom’s credit card.*”
My mom said, “YES, OKAY. GOOD ONE.” And smiled encouragingly and let him know we all got the picture.
It IS emotional at this house. We’re figuring it all out. We’re getting through it. We scream and we laugh and we cry and we pray and we talk about the stuff that is ACTUALLY going on and what it does and does not mean and we just LIVE. And then we may write about it. Or not. But it’s all okay. We get to do this. We get to live and think and feel and say.
I’m so grateful.
And then after all of that I made brussel sprouts and black rice and the kids were sure that Duke was having gas issues, but i think it was just the delicious smell of bruseel sprouts that they didn’t recognize. So Mom and I giggled and ate while the boys fanned the air and falsely accused the sleeping dog. We tried to explain. But it was SO bad they didn’t believe us.
It’s okay. That’s their opinion.
*still working on figuring it out. there’s a slim chance it’s an old charge from when Claude was doing that sort of thing LAST year after he moved out and it only just now showed up. still not okay. he wasn’t supposed to move out and then run up charges on my card, on which he was not an authorized user, and then not pay the bill. but maybe it’s not recent, despite it just now making an appearance, and i suppose that IS notable. Maybe he’d NEVER do that sort of thing THIS year. Who knows? Whatever.
*The kids were in the room when I opened a credit card statement and discovered the latest fraudulent activity. It’s not something I would have otherwise planned to discuss with them. But I was justifiably, suddenly furious. Unavoidable I suppose, to have to explain.
*Haven’t yet gotten to the bottom of it all. Will tomorrow. FURIOUS.
*jeana had suggested Old Yeller for the name of the yellow lizard. I laughed every time I thought about it. But NO, because surely it didn’t die.
*Pretty sure I was wrong. And it should be called Old Yeller after all.
*Although the official line I give the kids is that the lizard probably needed to move in with the neighbors for awhile since I was using so much bleach to clean up the plumbing nastiness. But he’ll probably come back.
*When I am mad, I clean. And I bleach. And I make my corner of the world even less inhabitable for little yellow lizards. So if he went next door, it’ll be longer before he can return. Since I’m all bleachy mad.
*I also look up the word ‘fraud.’ And read the definition aloud. And make sure it REALLY does apply, regardless of what some people claim because DANG I’m mad. And a nerd. A mad nerd. Who likes words.
*if you use someone else’s credit card to rent a car for business purposes, without that person’s permission, it is FRAUD. Yeees. It is. And I don’t really see any way around that.
*I combat credit card fraud with bleach and shouted clarifications of definitions and context. It makes PERFECT sense to me.
*My kids led devotional and prayed tonight since I was doing my Angry Staring thing and couldn’t possibly discuss Daniel, as requested.
*Unless they needed someone to pretend to be a lion and roar, and then yes, i TOTALLY coulda pulled that off tonight, EASY.