Yes, Dear and Gentle Readers, the Watsons are once again moving house.
We're moving from Fishers to the other side of Indianapolis. We will be much closer to Martin's job. Martin's commute is often an hour and fifteen minutes each way. We share a car, and that means I am mostly without a car. I am okay with that, because I grew up as an only child and can easily amuse myself, but with kids, it's suffocating and impractical.
And yes, I did say "kids" as in plural; my son, Dexter, is living with us now. That's a whole other story that I'm not going into but I am thrilled to have him back with his Mumma. Since Dexter's move was, shall we say, sudden, packing for him will be a breeze; all his stuff is already in Hefty bags.
Our walk-in closet is still stuffed with Totes that I never unpacked when we moved here. Instead of just toting them across town, as we've toted them across town and state lines previously, I may actually go through them and get rid of the stuff.
Mia's room is, as always, a disaster. The genius who invented MoonSand needs their head on a stake. Her room is also littered with Barbies, mostly naked and mangled. Many are multiple amputees with unfortunate haircuts. She needs a sign on her door that says, "Mia's Home For Battered Barbies." I can only assume the Barbies are fighting among themselves since her sole Ken lost his hands and most of one arm long ago.
Martin has several boxes of abandoned computer parts and equipment. We also have two perfectly good LCD monitors we tried to unload on Craig's List, for free, but no takers. Four or five people have claimed they wanted the monitors, but never showed up. The last chance is today, or they are off to Good Will. The rest of the computer crap will get a lid on the Tote and we'll call it good. My first instict was to throw the lot out, and see if Martin notices.
My downfall, besides never purging my closet, is books and health and beauty aids. I already sorted my books, and packed those I am keeping. Today I am tackling the Beauty Products I Bought And Hated But Kept Anyway.
It's not that I am a packrat. It's more than I get lazy about going through things. It's much easier to stick it in a box and deal with it later. I've done that with the past three moves This time, I'm doing it differently. I'm actually getting rid of the stuff this time.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
"You Will Entertain Angels Unaware"
I've done a lot of highly self-destructive, dangerous, and downright stupid things in my life. Most occurred when I was in my twenties, when I thought I was immortal. When I think back on that time, I am sometimes amazed that I am still alive.
One time in particular sticks out to me. I lived in Eastern Pennsylvania and thought nothing of driving the twelve to fourteen hours back to Michigan. Alone. I traveled Interstate 80, which goes through the mountains of central PA. It's not as remote as driving through parts of Canada or the deserts in the American West, but the exits are few and far between.
This particular trip, I left Wednesday morning to arrive home in time for Thanksgiving. I was somewhere in the middle of the state when my car died. I was able to pull onto the shoulder and just sat there for a while. I had no idea how far the next exit was or how far back the last one I passed was. It was the dark ages, when cell phones were called car phones and came in bags and were a luxury for mere mortals like me.
I don't remember how long I sat there, trying to figure out what I should do. There weren't a lot of cars going by and none of them stopped.
Finally, a semi-truck slowed down, and pulled into the breakdown lane in front of me. The driver, a tall, skinny older gentleman, walked back to my car. Even then, I was a Death Hag and wondered if I was meeting my first serial killer.
His name was Floyd, and he offered to drive me to the next exit. I was hesitant, but then my sense of immortality kicked in and I figured I could outrun him after getting in a good punch, if need be. Floyd was no spring chicken.
When I climbed up into the cab of his truck, I saw he had a Bible and a statue of Jesus on the dashboard. That didn't soothe me much; lots of serial killers think they're getting directions from straight from the Big Guy.
Floyd wasn't like that, though. He said he had daughters and he would have worried sick if one of them broke down on Route 80 and no one stopped to help. We chatted while he drove me to the next exit, which was several miles away. He even offered to wait with me while my rescue ride came.
He wouldn't take any money, and refused to give me his address so I could send him a thank you note. Before he climbed back into his rig, he shook my hand and said, "God Bless, Lisa."
One time in particular sticks out to me. I lived in Eastern Pennsylvania and thought nothing of driving the twelve to fourteen hours back to Michigan. Alone. I traveled Interstate 80, which goes through the mountains of central PA. It's not as remote as driving through parts of Canada or the deserts in the American West, but the exits are few and far between.
This particular trip, I left Wednesday morning to arrive home in time for Thanksgiving. I was somewhere in the middle of the state when my car died. I was able to pull onto the shoulder and just sat there for a while. I had no idea how far the next exit was or how far back the last one I passed was. It was the dark ages, when cell phones were called car phones and came in bags and were a luxury for mere mortals like me.
I don't remember how long I sat there, trying to figure out what I should do. There weren't a lot of cars going by and none of them stopped.
Finally, a semi-truck slowed down, and pulled into the breakdown lane in front of me. The driver, a tall, skinny older gentleman, walked back to my car. Even then, I was a Death Hag and wondered if I was meeting my first serial killer.
His name was Floyd, and he offered to drive me to the next exit. I was hesitant, but then my sense of immortality kicked in and I figured I could outrun him after getting in a good punch, if need be. Floyd was no spring chicken.
When I climbed up into the cab of his truck, I saw he had a Bible and a statue of Jesus on the dashboard. That didn't soothe me much; lots of serial killers think they're getting directions from straight from the Big Guy.
Floyd wasn't like that, though. He said he had daughters and he would have worried sick if one of them broke down on Route 80 and no one stopped to help. We chatted while he drove me to the next exit, which was several miles away. He even offered to wait with me while my rescue ride came.
He wouldn't take any money, and refused to give me his address so I could send him a thank you note. Before he climbed back into his rig, he shook my hand and said, "God Bless, Lisa."
Friday, April 10, 2009
Barbie Goes To Riding Camp
Mia recently got a new Wii game, The Barbie Horse Adventure.
One of the characters is Kyle, the stable owner's nephew. It's obvious that Kyle is a sex offender on parole to his aunt's ranch. He's got serious stalker tendencies, as well. Every time he sees Barbie, he says, "Hi Barbie!", or "Hey Barbie!" like he didn't just see her twelve seconds ago. He pops up no matter where she is. He is eager to point out the bunkhouse where she will be sleeping and you know she can expect some midnight visits from Kyle, to make sure she has enough blankets for her cot and that her pillow is fluffly enough. Or at least, that will be the excuse he gives his parole officer later.
Being Barbie, of course she has to shop for riding clothes. Instead of picking out the more practical jeans and boots, or even fancy jodhpurs and a hat, she goes for the hot pants, halter top and flip flops. As you do.
Barbie must be told that her horse needs to be fed and watered, which confirms my belief that it is a good thing that Ken is not anatomically correct and they are not able to reproduce.
The best part is finding out that Barbie is a "natural rider."
One of the characters is Kyle, the stable owner's nephew. It's obvious that Kyle is a sex offender on parole to his aunt's ranch. He's got serious stalker tendencies, as well. Every time he sees Barbie, he says, "Hi Barbie!", or "Hey Barbie!" like he didn't just see her twelve seconds ago. He pops up no matter where she is. He is eager to point out the bunkhouse where she will be sleeping and you know she can expect some midnight visits from Kyle, to make sure she has enough blankets for her cot and that her pillow is fluffly enough. Or at least, that will be the excuse he gives his parole officer later.
Being Barbie, of course she has to shop for riding clothes. Instead of picking out the more practical jeans and boots, or even fancy jodhpurs and a hat, she goes for the hot pants, halter top and flip flops. As you do.
Barbie must be told that her horse needs to be fed and watered, which confirms my belief that it is a good thing that Ken is not anatomically correct and they are not able to reproduce.
The best part is finding out that Barbie is a "natural rider."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
I have a friend here at our apartment complex, let's call her Cee. We met on the playground, where both of us were watching our girls play. Cee has a three year old named Kay. Cee was the first person who actually approached me in Indiana for friendship; I had already known my friend, M, from blogging.
So Cee and I became good friends. We spent a lot of time together during the summer, doing things with the girls. Going to the park, the pool, the State Fair. She even visited Michigan with us.
Cee had a terrible childhood, about everything you can imagine happening to a little girl, she went through. Father unknown, mother an addict, in and out of jail. Cee was abused, neglected, molested, in foster care, back with her mom. She was eventually adopted by a distant relative and made it through high school.
As a result, she has some emotional problems. I've talked to her in depth, but I'm not a professional, only a friend. She is on some fairly heavy medication, but every doctor she has seen has recommended, strongly, that she seek therapy. She never has actually picked up the phone and done it, though, so the problems just get lost in a haze of anti-depressants, they don't actually get confronted and resolved.
She is a very sweet person, but she is very needy. She recently had a second child, and it's as if she never had a first. She calls me with questions about things that are just common sense, and always wants me to come over and just hang out. Which, I can't always do. I have a family and home of my own.
I also am starting to feel like I've been taken advantage of. When Cee decided to change jobs, I watched Kay for over a month, and Cee and I agreed that she would pay me $100 a week, when she could afford it. Kay, I should add, is a handful. I could list the ways, but she is a demon child, and when she bit Mia, I kind of lost it. I've never seen any of the money, needless to say. Not even a mention of it. Like that whole month of hell never happened. Even if she would have said thank you, or taken me out to lunch, I would feel better about it, that she appreciated it and didn't just take me for granted.
She also quit that job, which paid a lot more than her previous fast food career, about two months into it.
When we move next month, we will be on the other end of town. I'm going to quietly break up with Cee and not talk to her six times a day on the phone. I'll still talk to her once in a while, but this is becoming a toxic relationship for me. My life has not been a walk down the red carpet with a bowl of Maraschino cherries waiting at the end. I've finally gotten myself to a place where I am fairly happy. I feel like I can't support someone who does nothing to help themselves. I've always been the type of person that when something is broken, I fix it. I can't fix this one, though, and I can't be the support anymore.
So Cee and I became good friends. We spent a lot of time together during the summer, doing things with the girls. Going to the park, the pool, the State Fair. She even visited Michigan with us.
Cee had a terrible childhood, about everything you can imagine happening to a little girl, she went through. Father unknown, mother an addict, in and out of jail. Cee was abused, neglected, molested, in foster care, back with her mom. She was eventually adopted by a distant relative and made it through high school.
As a result, she has some emotional problems. I've talked to her in depth, but I'm not a professional, only a friend. She is on some fairly heavy medication, but every doctor she has seen has recommended, strongly, that she seek therapy. She never has actually picked up the phone and done it, though, so the problems just get lost in a haze of anti-depressants, they don't actually get confronted and resolved.
She is a very sweet person, but she is very needy. She recently had a second child, and it's as if she never had a first. She calls me with questions about things that are just common sense, and always wants me to come over and just hang out. Which, I can't always do. I have a family and home of my own.
I also am starting to feel like I've been taken advantage of. When Cee decided to change jobs, I watched Kay for over a month, and Cee and I agreed that she would pay me $100 a week, when she could afford it. Kay, I should add, is a handful. I could list the ways, but she is a demon child, and when she bit Mia, I kind of lost it. I've never seen any of the money, needless to say. Not even a mention of it. Like that whole month of hell never happened. Even if she would have said thank you, or taken me out to lunch, I would feel better about it, that she appreciated it and didn't just take me for granted.
She also quit that job, which paid a lot more than her previous fast food career, about two months into it.
When we move next month, we will be on the other end of town. I'm going to quietly break up with Cee and not talk to her six times a day on the phone. I'll still talk to her once in a while, but this is becoming a toxic relationship for me. My life has not been a walk down the red carpet with a bowl of Maraschino cherries waiting at the end. I've finally gotten myself to a place where I am fairly happy. I feel like I can't support someone who does nothing to help themselves. I've always been the type of person that when something is broken, I fix it. I can't fix this one, though, and I can't be the support anymore.
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