Secondly, I may need a new set of tires soon if I cannot learn how NOT to ram my car into the curb every time I park on the street thus creating the most gosh awful, loud, embarrassing noise for every onlooker on the street to stop and listen to.

Thirdly, the groom now has more guests coming to the wedding than I have.  The wedding is in my hometown, and apparently no one in town can be bothered to drive a few flippin' blocks to come to it.  But his guests can travel hundreds of miles and pay up the Ying-Yang for a hotel room just to see him get married.  Guess who is more loved?  I am now working on my Reception Line Spiel.  It is as follows: "Hi, I'm Sueanne.  No, not Suzanne.  SUE-ANNE.  No, not Susan.  SUE-ANNE.  No, not Joanne... SUE-ANNE.  Like, two separate words.  Like on the Waltons.  You know what?  Just call me Sue.  It's much easier.  Yes, I do know how handsome he looks.  Yes, I'm sure he's your favorite nephew.  Yes, I do know how lucky I am.  Yes, I know he frickin' rocks.  Can we move the line along now?  You're holding things up.  Thanks.  No, I don't mind if you call me Susan if it's easier for you to remember.  Jerks."

Seriously.  I'm practicing my drop-kick in case that happens to me.

Fourthly, I have no idea what this particular post is about.  I think I just feel like whining.  I don't whine much...mostly I just cry.  Lately, it's become like a hobby to me.  Seriously, you could answer with "crying" to any one of the following questions:

"What's Sue up to these days?"

"What does Sue like to do for fun?"

"What is Sue passionate about?"

"How has Sue been keeping herself busy?"

I think Joel is a bit afraid of me.  And rightly so.  There's nothing wrong with instilling a little bit of fear and reverence into your future husband.

I kid, I kid.

Mostly.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go practice parking now.

[vodpod id=Groupvideo.1401706&w=425&h=350&fv=embedId%3Dc786f936-2ff9-412a-bc4a-3794137b0f7b]

End of rant.

Updated with the complete segment.

you can have a heart of compassion...

even with a mohawk.

you can sing, you can beat-box, you can distract, you can pray

you can write, you can call, you can wipe tears away.

lessons in comfort from a 5-yr.old.

]]> http://pearlsfrompain.wordpress.com/?p=62 Thu, 17 Jul 2008 03:07:49 +0000 pearlsfrompain http://pearlsfrompain.wordpress.com/?p=62

why can’t rain be cotton candy
and thunder be gumdrops
and clouds be licorice
and lightning be lollipops?
i just want to stick out my tongue and be pleased
i just want to eat sweets
but i don’t want the rain,
i don’t want the insane and i don’t want
the mundane i just
want.
there’s a blank following that statement
because the blank represents
that which i do not know.
i wish i could grow
as quickly as my hair
but with each five minutes added to blow-drying
i find myself crying
and upset over the same things.
people talk about life and the joy it brings
but all i can think about is me and the song i want to sing.

am i selfish?
if i am, i can’t help it.
i spent so much of my life neglecting me
that sometimes
i walk past mirrors and ask
“who is she?”
and then i look back
and observe parts of myself i never knew were there.
you know those dreams when you’re naked
or standing in your underwear
while everyone around you is covered?
i feel that bare when i'm awake in front of others,
maybe overexposed to past lovers,
or maybe still hurt by betrayal from past brothers
or sisters or friends
but the innocence in me has gone
and it takes a while before i can play pretend again.

i wish i were five, i wish i were truly alive,
not just on auto-pilot like a drunk pilot
who gives announcements without thinking
or considering the lives he’s risking.
let’s pretend!
let’s play on the monkey bars,
let's even roll in the dirt
and wear down our jeans at the knees.
mama might get mad but she’ll understand
that it's normal for children to play freeze tag.
chase me without the intent of hurting me.

let’s hide and go seek our identities,
our own persons,
find ourselves and tap them on the shoulder
and shout “you’re it!” to make them real.
let's engage with our future selves--
stare them in the face and admire the bumps and bruises,
admire the smoothness
in places that are rough now,
and the sagging
in places that are firm now,
and the wisdom
from things that are learned now.

life is kind of serious sometimes
maybe that’s why it’s hard
to locate my childhood mind
i wish i could press rewind
and reverse and stay
back in time.

So what do you do when you maxed out all of your credit cards and your bank account is near empty and you have multiple bills to pay and only $12 from today's cashier tips? Well... you freak the fuck out. Then, if you're me, you blog. You blog and cry, cry and blog. Honestly, what could be better?

So while Tristan scours the papers for a job in this worthless, stagnant, recession-economy, I make up our budget. I cry, I blog, I "Excel" and I do mean the Microsoft version in which I am so grateful for allowing me to color-coordinate my debts. It really helps to see the ratio of Debt to Income when it's Red (negative) and Green (positive)

So here I am, wallowing in misery wondering if I can start selling YouTube videos of my cat. Do you think that's legal? Kittens all hopped up on Catnip! Only $1.99 a minute! WOOOo!!! Yeah, I didn't think that was legal either. This evening I skipped out on getting Splenda and PB&J at the grocery store. I can swipe Splenda packets from work and eat tomorrow. It's not more important than paying rent!

So while this sounds desperate, and it is, I have to have confidence that things will be fine. Tristan can take his WECA test on Thursday and hopefully get in. (P.S. We abandoned the CHP and went with Electrical Apprentices) I will continue working at the restaurant, because while it is only minimum wage, at least it's a full week's work.  My convention work will hopefully smooth itself out and I'll get work again soon.

Right?

Because honestly, when has a recession ever affected anybody seriously?

Keeping America Safe: Prosecuting Children as Terrorists

Common Dreams
June 21, 2008

President Bush, Vice President Dick Cheney, and the rest of the warmongers and terror-pimps in the White House would have us believe that Omar Khadr is a monster. Khadr is the 21-year-old Canadian who is facing one of the first show-trials at Guantanamo.

We should all be ashamed.

Canadian PM brushes off evidence of Guantanamo abuse
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/..c;_ylt=ApU100eyhTE7E6X04pjztsIWIr0F

Yesterday was boring - I stayed at my Aunt's all day; I did dishes and watched movies and that's about it. 

Oh, and Mr. Spencer is back on VB.  Hmmm....Ya, there's this weird post that I'm kinda worried about, in a not really worried way.  I don't know who he's talking about in that post, but I have a feeling....A strange feeling.  Then again, I do screw things up don't I!  And then my comment that I left on the other place is deleted.....Gosh I really don't want to know, but I really want to know.  How confusing! 

Okay, I'm bored.  =D. 
Gotta go to MYB and see what mail I don't have.  How nice?  Right? 

Oh, and when I get home - SATURDAY!!!! - I have to take new pictures, cuz, well, you'll see, and then I'll post them up everywhere on Sunday.  What's crazier, is that I'll get to be HOME!!!  Yay!  And then, you know, I'll get to sleep in my bed and not have to worry about how much noise I make because everyone is downstairs instead of in the very next room.  No more having no internet - a very lonely thing, for sure.  And then I'll know what's for lunch, and no more missing my momma and daddy.  Yes, I miss my mommy and daddy - hello, I've only lived wtih them since I was like young as far as I can remember, hello!  =P  And then, when I get home, I'll have to vacuum.  Oh well. 

I am so bored.....Oh well.  Such is life. 

You know, actually, this week and almost half hasn't been all that bad, but I don't think I could have any more than two weeks of it at a time.  I'm sorry, but I'm tired of hearing my cousin cry over everything.  It blows my mind on how that works.  I'm sorry, but, um, there is no reason to have to be that upset over going to bed.  Ya, it sucks, I know; torture though?  Ya no!  But then again, it's bed time.....Ummmm....She was told way before hand that it was going to be bed time, and so I don't see how it could be so terrible, after she's had so long to get used to the idea.  Actually, I don't know, she just seems to cry about everything.  And then complains that there's nothing to eat, when there is PLENTY to eat.  Um, at my house, we don't have half of that to eat - it's cereal or a sandwich, pretty much, if you want anything extra to eat, so I don't see what the dealio is.  She just gets worked up over them things, and it's like wow, I don't remember having such problems when I was 5.  Life was good and easy, bed time was something I had to do, and there was no crying over it that I can remember.  Sad thing is, she's got it real easy.....Just wait till she's a bit older, life really sucks...What's she gonna do then?  I don't wanna be around to see.  I really don't.

The key for us was routine and consistency. We eat a snack, go potty, get a bath, brush teeth and read a story and a story out of the Bible then prayers and lights out. Every night except church nights are the same. I think my not jumping every time my children cry when it is time to go to sleep is not lazy parenting. Sarah talks or reads until she can get to sleep and Hannah is now looking at a book until she falls asleep. I have to have time too. My marriage and my sanity depend on it. If I jump every time Hannah cries I would never get anything done and it is not good for her either. She puts herself to sleep because I did let her cry just a bit. Understand once again I am not speaking about newborns or infants. They need their mothers and crying is the only way to share their needs but a two year old is trying to test the waters especially as my friend said they have been fed and watered and dry diapers. They need to learn to put themselves to sleep. You also need to place a night light because fears can start at this age and consistency and routine.

You see I used to think “Mommy” was just a wonderful term of endearment. It meant she thought I was the greatest person ever. I could fix anything (hence the title of this here blog). I could make anything better. I could make the best treats and snacks, play the best games, do the best Dora impersonation and make generally everything bad go away.

Now I know that Mommy is merely the word that flows the easiest off of her little tongue no matter what the occasion. If she is hurt, tired, happy, sad, cranky, grumpy, angry, or just plain bored, “Mommy” is the first word that comes out of her mouth.

I suppose it’s better than some words that could come tumbling out of her mouth. I just wish for once that when she pooped in her pants, puked in her bed, bumped her head or scraped her knee that “Daddy!” would be the first word she said.

Who am I kidding? I would probably cry if {when} it happens. But this morning when she had been awake all of 10 minutes and I had heard varying forms of “Mommy” at least 100 times, I wished that Daddy was home to take the brunt of whatever she was whining/crying/screaming/laughing about.

I cry at the movies.

Set some mawkish scene before me with all the right dramatic elements, insert several well-timed bathetic lines of dialogue, cue the magnanimous, maudlin swell of a Hans Zimmer or James Newton Howard score, and in seconds flat – Reason, be damned! – I'm that blubbering fool Charly McClain sang about all those years ago.

Time and experience can leave us calloused in many ways. We're more cynical. Not as easily swayed by spurious displays of sentiment. But movies invite us to deliberately suspend judgment in exchange for a couple hours of willful emotional exploitation.

When life fails to move us, we turn to the movies.

The evening before I went back to work I pulled The Green Mile off the shelf. For emotional manipulation, Stephen King is my drug of choice. And Frank Darabont's adaptation of this mesmerizing tale of forgiveness and compassion is a personal favorite. I've seen The Green Mile maybe ten times and the subtle way in which the supernatural elements illuminate the grittiness of life never fails to draw me in.

And I always end up crying.

Several times.

Watching John Coffey, "like the drink, only not spelt the same," take back the tumor destroying the warden's wife. Hearing Arlen Bitterbuck pensively contemplate what heaven will be like. As Paul Edgecombe shakes an innocent man's hand before they roll on two. I get these scenes. They resonate with me in ways that are familiar. Like an old friend sharing some pithy anecdote. Nuggets of grace given to shed a smidgen of light and hope upon the rocky road called life.

I am moved. And I cry.

But this time, I didn't cry alone.

My nine year old son Ethan got drawn in as well. When it became obvious that John Coffey wasn't going to escape his date with ol' Sparky, Ethan got off the couch and wandered over to the computer to play a game. He's an astute observer when it comes to movies, has a way of discerning when bad things are about to happen, and like most children will seek to avoid those moments however possible. But he kept glancing over his shoulder. While the game repeated its monotonous soundtrack, he ignored the noise and watched intently as the story revealed Coffey's innocence. It made no sense to him. How could they execute a man who had done nothing wrong? He made his way back to the couch for the final scenes. And as Coffey walked the green mile, I heard him sniff. I watched as he hid his face behind a blanket and wiped his eyes. I reached over and drew him close. Rested his head on my lap. And we cried. Shook with grief as an innocent man, "one of God's perfect creatures," died.

As is our custom, when the movie ended we watched some of the extra features where they show how the movie was made. We talked about how Michael Clarke Duncan is only an actor portraying a part, and he's still very much alive. He knows all this. But none of that mattered when John Coffey died. John had become an amazing friend with a heart as large as his biceps. And we hated to see him suffer.

I'd done this all before, many years ago at the end of Titanic with my oldest son Ty. And I had the same chat with him then as I did with Ethan last Sunday night. We talked about how it's alright to be moved. To feel compassion. To care about others so much that our throats tighten, our breath catches, and we shed a tear.

Maybe movies are more than just an escape from reality. Perhaps they usher us into a place where we can experience empathy safely. And from there we can engage life with a small amount of that most glorious of emotions still intact.

And we won't be afraid to cry . . .

So.  Younger brother.  He is starting to express himself.  Mostly in babble, though one can detect a pattern that sounds roughly like "dog" when the dog appears, and like his older brother's name when older brother appears.  And sometimes "mama."  Also "nonono" when he's doing something and I'm saying no.  Not that he stops doing it.

His personality is charming.  He is one of the happiest babies I've ever met.  If we go for a walk with him strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn, passersby smile a lot, and sometimes I think they're just really friendly and smiling at me until I realize he must be being his cheerful smiley self.

But, he is also one of the unhappiest babies I've ever met.  Mostly when he's mad because he didn't get what he wants.  He has the most horrible high-pitched shrieking cry.  Older son and I cover our ears and cower when it comes out.  My theory is that he learned to scream this way because he had a broken collarbone when he was born, but the doctor didn't notice it during the exam.  So he was in a lot of pain for those first days.  The shriek did begin then.

So, anyway, that's all there is to that story!  Introduction to younger brother's expressions.

So what if your ex has already moved on and isn't miserable all the time?  It was your choice to end the relationship, so guess what?  Deal with it, learn to be happy as your ex has, and quit trying to make the rest of us feel miserable for you.  And for God's sake, please quit positing ambiguously emo bulletins on Myspace because 1. you are clogging up the bulletin with your sad, sad, sad (lame) posts and 2. everyone knows who you're talking about.  It's no big secret!    Get your butt into motion, be happy, and get a hobby that doesn't include whining about something you created.

Most of all, grow up.  Be an adult.  Accept your decisions and move on.  If you're so miserable, go back and try to change the decision you made but please accept that with trying to change a decision, also comes conesquences.  Never again will things be the same because you've already decided upon what  you thought you wanted, which wasn't really what you wanted in the first place. 

I'm out.

taraa !

Oh Yeah ! I went to se Wall-e today. [: Its is really good acutely. Better that what I though it would be like. So romantic. Two robots falling in love ...... *sighs*. But yeah I totally recommend that you go see it [:

Jude and I met yesterday and picked our top 15 photos to submit to the stock agency in order to hopefully get accepted and hopefully start getting paid for all the fun photo shoots we have been having. Here are 5 of our favorites that have not been posted yet... to see some of the other ones (preteen rock-star and skater girl, bed in field, woman on bicycle) click here.

Don't worry we only took one photo of crying baby, after her sister knocked her with the plastic fish and before mom picked her up. So no babies were mistreated in the making of this photo... but even crying she is still so cute.

It was hard to choose only 15, we have so many more that we love... so hopefully we will be admitted to the club and then we can put them all in. Thank you to all of our beautiful and wonderful models!!

Locked. Stammering, I looked towards your window on the second floor to see if you were waiting. Your room was lifeless -a coffin. Where were you?

I shifted my view to the puddles outlining the empty street. I know you're in there. I turned back to the door to try the handle again, except, you had already started opening it from the inside.

You were crying, but instead of falling into my arms, you walked straight through me. Straight down the steps and into the street. You caught your taxi in the rain and left to wherever the roads would take you.

As the story goes we all travel to Ft. Indian Town Gap, PA and process. There were two No-Go's, people that did not pass the medical selection, in our group. Not to worry the Army gave them paperwork were they are to have a further eval to determine if they can go. 

So we get back to our unit and Kim's husband and 7 month old daughter, Emma,  are at the unit waiting for her. I look at this baby and literally see her face light up at the sight of her mom. I mean this kid's eyes became wider and her face was so full of excitement. I felt something inside of me smile for them in that moment and I found myself wishing that Kim would never have to leave her daughter. It sucks when parents leave you. So I was a creeper and I watched the whole family as we waited for our bags. 

On my way home I found myself crying hysterically for Emma who is going to miss her mom so much, I cried for Kim who is going to miss her daughter's 1st birthday. I cried and cried and cried.

Now there are two things you should not mistake this blog for, 1. a turnaround of love for babies; or 2. my stance on war (I am writing another one about that).

I'm sorry that I can't seem to function today.  I'm sorry that I shut down.  There's nothing left for me to do but to pour it out here and hope for a complete healing this time.  Maybe.  I am hopeful.

Actually, that wasn't the last time. The last time was at Hannah's birthday party. We went to King Buffet for dinner. I sat next to Opa. I sat NEXT TO HIM and I barely talked to him. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME???

I know he lived on a farm as a kid, but I don't know where that farm was. I know he wanted to teach me how to drive. I know he was in the air force. I know he worked in the barn on tractors or... something. I remember always loving that typewriter in the office in his barn. I know he used to own ESSEX steel. I remember the cigar smell in his truck. The one-eyed spider named simon hanging from the rearview. I remember the day he came to our Public Presentations and I convinced him to buy donuts. We went to the Dunkin Donuts down the road that he remembered from something and he bought us donuts. He was listening to Atlas Shrugs.

He had a croquet set in his garage that we only played with once. He had a "secret door" in his barn that I loved as a kid. I hardly ever went up to his barn when I got older. He used to grill hamburgers and whatever on his grill out of the back of his barn. One time he took us to the woods on his tractor and the trailer behind so we could dump something. Brush I think. (The we included Maggie and Beth, my cousins, and I think Tante Cindy. Maybe other people.)

Has anyone ever told you that someone was dead? When I was told my Opa was dead, it was like this numb shock. I was on the deck. My mom yelled to come quick. I was griping in my head about how am I supposed to come quick with all these magazines on my lap. I get inside and she says that Opa is dead and she's going up to see Oma. He went to the bathroom and he died. And she's talking and she turns around and I'm staring at her. I'd followed her through the kitchen in the hall in this numb shock, and all of a sudden this wave of feeling crashes through my body and my eyes start to tear up. And Mom says oh honey I'm sorry and gives me a hug and and I start crying. So I have to find pen and paper to write down phone numbers to call my Uncles and tell them, and I'm crying, not heaving sobs, but crying. My Uncle Barry already knew. I couldn't keep my voice from wavering. My Uncle Peter didn't. And I called him and said that Mom told me to call him and he asks if somethings wrong and I say yes, Opa died, and he says someting along the lines of Oh no and he'd have to call me back. He is upset. And then Dad comes home and I tell him and then I call Kathryn. And she seems like she can't hear me. So I've told her that Opa died three times. And she doesn't get it. She goes Open What? And so I yell at her that Opa died. And if she can't understand me to get a different phone. Hannah is bawling, Dad had said that's too bad. Mom surprised me. She wasn't upset at all. Like, she was upset, and a little frantic, but not crying, and altogether relatively calm.  I wonder how Oma's doing. She was always complaing about Opa. What he did and said and stuff. And now he's gone and she found him and she was the one who was married to him.

I told my siblings I want to make a memory box. A box that can be any shape or size and decorated (or not) any way. About a person or event. Obviously, this would be about Opa. You put items inside or pictures or writing or anything that reminds you of him, or something you did together.

He told me what fruit salad (officer's) was and I felt so knowledgable.

If you think that I am sounding very calm for someone whose Opa just died, realize that while writing this I have been almost constantly crying, and have spoken with Kathryn several times on the phone. We deal with things differently. She doesn't cry. She shuts it out, or whatever. It used to bug me. I don't mind right now. I know we deal with stuff differently.

I miss him, and I'm mad at myself for not missing him more, and not spending more time with him. Half of me wants him back, half of me wants to go to my other grandparents and spend time with them so the same thing doesn't happen, half of me wants to go to his barn and walk around remember him, half of me is furious with myself that I didn't spend more time with him. And if you are going to make some comment about my math that would me funny and sarcastic normally, don't, because it's just stupid and insensitive now.

Hah. Like people actually read this blog. Which is good, because it's not like everyone needs to know right now.

He had melanoma and prostrate cancer and he smoked cigars all the time, but he died naturally. Thank you Lord.

I remember once I went up to his barn, the first time in a long time, and I went into his office, and it was just him (maybe the dogs were there). All the lights were out except a small one in the next room. He was sitting in a chair with an attatched (I think) ashtray smoking. In the semi-darkness. And I was going up to tell him it was time to eat or we were leaving or something. And he said he'd be down. And I told myself I should stay.  And I didn't because I couldn't stand the smoke.

Do you know what I was doing when he died? I was looking through my Seventeen magazines. Totally shallow. Stupid me.

You might find a baby sling helpful if any of the following looks familiar: 

• your newborn baby cries every time you put her / him down.
• your baby wont settle unless you are feeding him / her.
• your baby is only happy when you are holding him / her
• your baby is only happy when you are entertaining him / her
• you'd love to spend more time holding the baby - but the washing isn't going to clean it's self
• you love holding your baby close - and like the reassurance that it brings
• you like functional parenting tools but are not willing to sacrifice your fashion sense in the name of motherhood

www.beepbeepslings.com

 no more crying - please!

It seems that perhaps my 17.5 month old daughter is going through "a stage". What a relief!
Do you mean to tell me that my adorable, sweet, sociable, go-to-anybody, friendly, shares-with-others daughter may one day return to me!?

Whining and crying and clinging and complaining aren't traits that will dominate her personality from this point forth?

Phew!