Browsing Archives for May 2009

I have been analyzing and assessing and using my critical thinking skills and walloping my victuals, and sawing the callouses off my big toes with my thumb nail, and ruminating, and obsessing and lying on my bed in a twisted heap of pain, and staring at the ceiling fan… and I have finally decided that my sinking blog stats having nothing to do with me.

Nothing at all!
As usual it is the fault of other people that are causing me to fail.
This is how it has always been.

Example Number One Of Other People Causing Me To Fail – Or Math Suicide
My poor math grades… throughout my entire life… including the remedial math class I was forced to take in college and also failed are actually not my fault… but the fault of other people…

Mostly my poor math grades are the fault of my math teachers who did not seem to understand that when they spoke in numerals… all I ever heard coming out of their mouths was “blah, blah, blah, number, number, protein, legume, nitrogen, blah”.
Why could they not speak my language instead? Why could they not read aloud long segments from Nancy Drew Books and later the startling literary revelations of V.C. Andrews and Jean M. Auel? I would have especially liked for my math teachers to explain in great detail the weird sex stuff in those books that completely riveted my fourteen year old brain and held it captive for entire semesters at a time.
Why could they not replace word problems with fashion shows…
And geometry with silent sustained reading of Seventeen magazine?
Why did they not consider letting me make up cheerleading routines instead of taking tests?
And how about writing our boyfriends names in our notebooks instead of homework?
If only they would have taught me math the correct way, I would have succeeded and I would now be a nuclear physicist with a second home in Shropshire, instead of a failing blogger and general lunatic.
Problem Number 2 – IBS or Irritable Bowel Syndrome
Did you know that I used to suffer quite dramatically from Irritable Bowel Syndrome?
Did you?
Do you want me to tell you all about it?
Do you?
I started to suffer from IBS soon after my first son was born. The unusual thing about my particular case of IBS was that it only struck whenever my husband’s family was due to show up at our house en masse at any minute.
Suddenly and quite tragically, I would be overcome with such violent twisting stomach pain that the only cure was to lie motionless on my bed in a curled ball of agony until everyone had left our house.
Note to readers – The Country Doctor’s family is huge, vast, as numerous as the individual grains of sands on all the beaches in all the world.
My own family of origin is tiny.
I had a bit of trouble adapting.
But again this is not my fault.
Why could not The Country Doctor have noticed my pain for just a teensy second instead of merely stepping over my throbbing intestines on the way to open the door to the first wave of dinner guests?
Why could not The Country Doctor have insisted, just one tiny time, that perhaps I was too weak and shaky to host a massive flood of virtual strangers and force everyone out in a gallant and brave act of uncompromising love?
Why could not the Country Doctor have realized that although my tummy troubles only struck at the onset of a visit from his family, that did not mean I was in any way, shape, or form a faker. I was simply allergic to his family. An allergy I have overcome with the help of meditation, prayer, and the ability to escape into my own cloud of happy unicorns at will.
Problem Number Three – The Crimson Girls
Just this evening, I was pestered with yet another phone call from the University of Kansas asking for money. I had no intention of giving them a dime as well… you know… I already gave KU a lot of money.

That is where the Country Doctor went to Medical School and um yeah… so anyway – when they called they asked for $100.00 and I said no. Then they said what about $50.00? I said no… Then they said okay, you are really pathetic, but would you give $25.00 and I said no. You know why I said no?

I think if you look back at the Crimson Girl line-up between the years 1987 and 1991 you will notice a huge sucking hole where I SHOULD HAVE BEEN!!!
And yes – NOT MY FAULT
Which brings us to Problem Number Four That is Not My Fault – This Blog.
Why is this blog sucking wind?
Why is it turning into a vacuum of endless night?
Why is this blog becoming the black hole of burning gas from the nether regions of Planet Xerxes?
Clearly this is not my fault.
I show up everydaywell almost everyday… and blather on about the same inane, stupid, ridiculous, things… and put the same blurry, ill focused, vague
photos up of a bunch of people that no one knows and occasionally a long mindless video of my family watching TV… and EVEN with all that – the blog still declines!
After a lot of soul searching I have decided just whose fault it is and I hereby Pronounce PHOTOSHOP as the evil that so infests blogland that it is impossible to succeed without it.
Yes, Photoshop is the culprit.
Photoshop is The Enemy
The Devil
Satan’s Scourge
Yellow Puss Boil Weed
Rocky Mountain Hippie Stink

and Death in A Pasture.
It is Photoshop’s fault!
You see, I don’t do photoshop on this blog. Not even for a nanosecond. The idea of manipulating a photo is as foreign to me as the idea of eating live earthworms.
I mean here is the photo.
It is already done.
Why would you do more to it???
This is sheer madness.
If someone were to give you a piece of hot cherry pie with a scoop of vanilla bean speck ice-cream on top, would you feel the need to highlight the vanilla bean specks before you ate it?
If someone gave you a puppy that was the exact breed and personality and calm quiet potty trained cuteness that you had always dreamed of, would you send him back for a more misty background?
If suddenly you were handed a pair of keys… to a house… on the beach… in Italy… and told you that you would never have to work again, but to just go, live your life, take all your friends and family (or not) and just go and never worry again… would you insist that the sky in Italy be just a tiny bit more blue before you accepted the offer?
Photoshop is nuts.
Pure NUTS!!!
But then So Am I
So I went out and I bought PhotoShop.
And I quickly became a genius photo manipulator.
I now give you the Country Doctor’s Wife Capitulation into the Realm of PhotoShop Whosit Whatsit, Whatever…

Here is the Country Doctor before I photoshoppped him.
Here is the Country Doctor after I photoshopped him.

Here are my kids before I photoshopped them and used actions.

Here are my kids now…
Here is my sister before….
eating unphotoshopped pie and drinking unphotoshopped coffee.

Here is my sister now. Do you see how I highlighted her hair and sped up
the motion by applying an action which I invented myself which I hereby name the “Great Balls of Fire” action.
And finally…

Here is me before Photo Shop… before actions… before painkillers… but just after birth. Just after the birth of one of my boys… I don’t even know which one…
If ever there was a photo that could use a little help…
Add a little Photoshop
And here is me now…
I can’t wait to see what this does for my blog stats.
Tra La La,

My eldest son had a basketball game tonight. Evidently, four boys playing baseball is not enough so we had to throw in one more sport. I had to take him to his basketball game, which was very hard on me as I am still weak and shaky from his birth thirteen years ago, but somehow… someway… I gathered all my inner strength and hobbled off to his game.

I struggle mightily with how large of a place sports seem to occupy in my family’s life. I really, really, really wish my boys could content themselves with pogo sticks, and tricycles and little bits of sidewalk chalk out on the driveway, but those days seem to be over.
I’m sorry to tell you this, but even in my most heroic moments of motherhood I find it difficult to muster more than a dry raspy hoorah when my kids win an athletic event.
hoorah – I whisper weakly two minutes after one of my kids scores a basket…
woohoo I say thirty seconds after one of my boys cracks a line drive…
I find that I often clap for the wrong team, because I am clapping when others clap and not when my son’s team actually does something good.
I think the other team parents think I have a learning disability.
There goes Calder’s mom clapping for the other team again! Do you think she even knows which team her kid is on??? Do you think she even knows which kid out there is hers?
I do have a hard time following the games. Mostly because I am too busy watching the unicorns play in the shadows, but also because the sparkly elfin nymph druids have just asked me to dance in the magic circle of pines.
Over the years, as sports have progressed like an aggressive scabby disease all over the face of my family, I have perfected a few ways to GET OUT OF GOING to all these games. With four sons playing ball and one son playing even more ball this has become increasingly difficult to do. Still, I manage it occasionally and will now share with you a few of my well worn tactics.
The optimal word for you to remember is wedge.
CD – Rechelle, can you take Ethan to his game tonight? I have to coach Drew’s team up north in Onaga.
Me – Gosh honey – gee.. that is too bad… unfortunately I seemed to have wedged myself underneath the sofa and I can’t get out, so you will just have to take care of it…
CD – Um Rechelle – There is no way I am going to be able to get all four boys to all their games tonight as they all start at 7 PM and they are all in different towns.
Me – Oh wow that is really awful – but gosh – I don’t know how it happened but I seem to have wedged myself in between the window screen and the glass and I can’t get out…
CD – Dear! Really! I’m not kidding! Tonight there is no way you are going to be able to sit at home wedged inside of anything because we have nineteen games in a row starting at 6:30 and ending when Hell freezes over. You are going to have to show up.
Me – What… huh… I can’t seem to hear you as I am wedged inside of the microwave and also the dishwasher and my legs are stuck inside the bathtub drain and my fingers are wedged up in the ceiling fan…and I…. I…. I am really stuck good this time. You might have to call the fire department.
But tonight – it didn’t work. I couldn’t seem to wedge myself in or behind or underneath anything and was thus forced to attend a basketball game.
Which brings me to a super fun survey!
Tell me gentle readers… where does you and yourn fall along the spectrum of youth sports obsession???

Dear Martha,

Hello. Wow! Thanks so much for personally picking me to be in your contest! That really means the world to me. I have been a big fan of yours for a long time. Well… okay… I used to be a big fan of yours. Back when I was younger and had a LOT more energy. Back when I had crazy ideas about making curtains for the laundry room with four hundred pleats per square inch and hem stitching my own handmade leather crafted photo albums with silk thread imported from the barrier reef and decorating my homemade sugar cookies with exact replications of all the oil paintings in the Louvre using only your very own very special royal icing recipe. Then suddenly… out of nowhere… things changed.

I had a baby… and another baby… and then I had two more… and then I woke up one day on a sheet drenched with leaking milk from one breast while the other breast felt like it was about to explode. I stumbled to the baby’s crib and clamped that squalling infant on to my engorged boob so that he could guzzle away my misery and then I slopped some cereal into a chipped bowl and ate it with a plastic spoon while pouring a pile of cheerios and raisins onto a paper towel on the floor for my diaper clad toddler to eat …
And that’s when I decided to cancel my subscription to Martha Stewart Living.

But I did buy a LOT of your paint. And I used to buy a bunch of your stuff at K-Mart until well… I am not sure what is going on with K-Mart anymore, but somehow, it just got too depressing to go there. How long can a store have 200% off everything and still keep the doors open?
I do still buy the garden issue of your magazine. Not for myself… I buy it for the Country Doctor. He loves to look at pictures of trees and he does not mind occasionally being sidetracked by pictures of shrubs, flowers, retaining walls, hoity toity patios, Grecian urns, pebbled pathways, and stunning vistas overlooking a pool which overlooks a mountain, which overlooks a dessert, which overlooks the ocean, which overlooks the other ocean.
So yeah, I think it is safe to say that you and I, Martha (can I call you Martha?) that we have a lot in common. Did you know that my mom’s name is Martha? If I had ever had a little girl, I might have named her Martha. I love girl’s names that are kind of stern and frumpy and old fashioned like… Martha. Not that you are stern and old fashioned and… frumpy. It is just that you are kind of… well… okay maybe a little stern. Or at least you are perceived as stern. I am sure that in real life you are as sweet as a baby kitty cat.
Moving on!
This is supposed to be about my dreams. Ah yes, my dreams. My first dream was to be a princess… followed rapidly by ballerina… then by a figure skater… then by an Olympic gymnast… back to princess… to ballerina… to figure skater… to Olympic gymnast…
Then I wanted to be the next Carolyn Keene – you know the lady who writes the Nancy Drew books? I wanted to write Nancy Drew books. Then I decided that I wanted to be Nancy Drew. Then as I grew older and wiser I decided that I just wanted to live in Nancy Drew’s fabulous colonial mansion in Riverside, with her cook Hannah, her rich accommodating lawyer-dad Carson and her cute college boyfriend Ned.
Then I decided to be a folk rock star.
Ah yes, the Folk Rock Star era of my life. That was an interesting time… But I think it would probably be better if we just glazed over it briefly.
Okay… done.
Then I decided to build a house.
The Country Doctor was not very excited about building a house. Not very excited at all. He basically became catatonic whenever I brought up the idea of building a house. I found that the only way to get him out of this catatonic state, was to cry, lament, cover my body in sackcloth and ashes, pull the suitcase out of the closet and start throwing clothes in it, slam doors, rant, rave, refuse to speak to him repeat… repeat… repeat…. After about six consecutive days of this emotional storming around he might slowly blink one eyelid in acknowledgement of my pain.
It was a slow process.
Eventually we did build a house. And that is one dream that really came true. And as much as I love our home, I have discovered that it does not make me a complete, total, full, satisfied, human being. In fact, it makes me feel kind of empty sometimes because I miss having the dream of building a house. I miss the planning and the deciding, and the sketching out of the rooms on paper, and the ability to erase the location of the rooms and move them around with only a bit of india rubber and some pencil lead. It is much harder to move the rooms around now.
So I need a new dream. I have been mulling a few over, but all in all, I think that life is not really about fulfilling your dreams, it is about having dreams. People really need them. You know, it is what keeps us going. Facing one more day. Getting out of bed one more time. Schlepping through the day again. Opening one more box of macaroni and cheese. We do all this because of our dreams.
Lately my dreams are much simpler. I have a dream of keeping my entire house clean for more than thirty seconds at a time. I have a dream of my children actually putting away their own laundry. I have a dream of wallpapering the hall. I have a dream of planting an oak leaf hydrangea. I have a dream of soaking up every last second of my boys’ childhoods as they seem to be skyrocketing through them. I have a dream of someday actually hanging up all the pictures that are leaning against the walls. And I have a dream of finding a truly magical family vacation spot.
So those are my dreams Martha. At least a few of them. I also wanted to let you know that the whole “prison thing” for lying about cheating about stealing is well… I don’t want to say okay with me… but I don’t hold it against you either. We all make mistakes sometimes. Once when I was six, I stole a pack of Chiclets from the grocery store. My sister told on me. My mom drug my petrified carcass back into the store and made me apologize to the store manager. It was very embarrassing. Then a few weeks later I stole a butterscotch disc from the Brach’s display at the grocery store. Once again, my sister told on me and my mom again drug my petrified carcass to the manager to make me apologize. He was not so smiley and kind the second time. That was the end of my career as a thief. We all have to learn that it is wrong to steal. It just took you a little longer that is all.
Thanks again for asking me to enter your contest. I hope I win!
“The Country Doctor’s Wife”

Dreamers into Doers is an annual program honoring women who have turned their favorite hobby into a business or nonprofit organization.

“I was so touched and inspired by the women we honored with last year’s Dreamers into Doers Awards program,” says Martha Stewart. “I’m thrilled to once again be celebrating the accomplishments of women who have worked hard to realize a dream, and I look forward to learning about all the wonderful ways in which this year’s entrants have turned their passion into a reality.”