How often do you hear someone say that she just “gave it ["it" meaning whatever problems she had] all up to God and God answered the prayers?”

I hear that all the time.

And because I am a bitter, small person, my first thought is, what about all those people who have desperate needs whose prayers are never answered? People boast, almost, about how they were worthy–how God took care of them and if others would just pray, their worries would be lifted from their weary shoulders.

I believe in God.

I pray.

But to those people, I say, BULLSHIT.

Bullshit.

God doesn’t answer all prayers. We have free will and we often help ourselves through difficult situations.

For someone to tell another person, smugly, that God will provide very truly chaps my ass.

Perhaps this is because my friend’s five-year-old son is, for all intents and purposes, dying before his parents’ eyes. He’s been in the intensive care for over two months now and he’s not getting better. These parents may very well lose their son and the sense of loss and grief threatens to overwhelm me when I pause in my workaday life to consider it.

Oh! say the trite, the inane, the clueless. If they’ll just pray.

The parents are Christians. Their families are Christians. They’re surrounded by prayers day and night and night and day.

They are “just praying.”

Don’t give me your smug bullshit. I’m glad God provided for your material needs. May God continue to provide for you and your family.

You can’t always just pray a child into survival. It’s my fondest wish that this boy makes it. When I pray, I tell God that I know I should ask for His will, but then I say, I’m selfish, God. I don’t want a child to die. Please help this boy. I can’t help it.

I should let the Husband write about this for a while. He’s much more eloquent than I am. The “just pray” people really smack the faces of people like this boy’s family, in my opinion. Prayer is all we can do, but it might not work.

I compare it to telling people suffering from infertility to “just relax” or “just adopt.” I’m a big fan of both relaxation and adoption, but those phrases are a huge gut punch to those struggling to have a family, one way or another. If that’s the best you can muster up, keep your fucking mouth shut.

Signed,
Madame Whoremonal.

Pray for me, wouldja?

Some days (or many) when I get up on weekday mornings, I am yanked into a bad mood within five steps of the bed. I wake from a peaceful sleep to find that I am mother to not one, but two people, and one of the two people is an adult. I am the only person in the house who appears to have a clue that everyone in the house needs to get dressed and wash his face (at a minimum) and brush teeth.

I get out of bed and my brain starts hammering out the logistics of the day (because, as I commented when I first started this blog a year ago, we are not the most organized morning people and we tend to run, willy nilly and pell mell, about the house trying to get ready) and I generally find the Husband in a prone (or prone-ish) position on the couch.

In all fairness, the Husband lets me sleep late on one or both weekend days pretty much every weekend, so my rational mind knows that at least part (or sometimes all) of my a.m. resentment is misplaced. The Husband is a masterfully good parent (probably better than me) and a far more patient person (can you tell?) than I am. Also, I should iron my clothes at night before I go to bed. I know this.

But the non-rational, seething demon part of my mind is just mad as hell when I find him on the couch when the following things need to be done:

all pets fresh water

path of HIS things strewn about bathroom floor removed so small child will be able to get herself to the potty

ironing board put out and iron plugged in

McPantses’ hair brushed, face washed and teeth brushed

And the list goes on and on and on and on.

And I am truly the only person who will consider the list.

And it makes me want to kill rodents with my hands.

The list weighs on me the second I fully wake.

Why should I have to tell a grown man to remove his button-down and his shoes from the middle of the rather small bathroom so that our child can get to the potty?

Makes no sense to me.

And the above is why I was iller ‘n 10,000 “go to hells” this a.m. when we headed to our lovely church to have our picture made for our Christmas card. We kept an appointment I made six months ago and I was highly aggravated for the first fifteen minutes of the $85 hour we spent there.

In March, we’ll add another child to the family dynamics.

As it stands now, I have one birthed child and I have one child in utero.

I don’t have two children walking around in the world and I hate feeling like I do in the mornings. Mayhaps I will tattoo the list to the inside of the Husband’s arm so that he can refer to it and begin work when he wakes in the mornings.

I suspect after this rant, my late-sleeping Saturdays are over, too.

1. When you squeeze your pregnant frame into non-pregnant pants and you do the requisite knee-bend to “loosen” up the pants and hear a horrible pop/explosion noise as you bend down, it stands to reason that your child will come rocketing into the room to find out what’s going on. In my case, it turned out that the crotch seam of the pants didn’t want to give quite as much as it needed to, so my pants are now split from stem to stern (and resting in shame on the dresser in my room). With that Monday a.m. bit of humiliation, I scratched the plan for an apple and water for breakfast on Day One of Zofran/Reglan weaning and had a decaf mocha and three small sugar cookies for breakfast. Fortunately, they were not foul coming back up an hour ago. Thus far, Day One? Total farking letdown.

2. My mother, to me, on Saturday night: “Your calves look very big.” Why, thank you. I hadn’t noticed, but you sure are sweet to comment. You’ve filled the void left by the Husband’s failure to comment on this phenomenon after saying it last pregnancy only to be met with torrents of tears.

3. Auction gets, from Friday night and Sunday: a full-sized mahogany bed, with rails, in great shape, for the nursery–$25. A small art deco armoire in faboo shape, for the nursery–$60 or $65. A large, very fine bowfront chest, with maker’s label/tag still inside one of the drawers, mahogany–$180. A pair of short sterling candlesticks–$20. A nice but incredibly dusty Oriental rug for ‘neath the dining room table–$55. All in all, 12 hours well-spent. My mother got 5 rugs (incl the one for me and my sis will choose one), a mission-style lamp for my mission-style-lovin’ sis, a huge bookcase for $30, a piece of rare Roseville pottery for way less than it’s valued and a covered vegetable (my phrase) in flow blue by Touraine that is in absolutely flawless condition for really and truly not much that she might ebay. The Heels women had a swell time (which is why I let my mother get away with the “big calves” comment). The bowfront chest reeks of mothball and is currently full of disposable aluminum pans with baking soda in them. Note to self: buy LOTS more baking soda.

4. McPantses read her first word Saturday and HOOOOO boy, am I proud of what it was. She made the sound for each letter and put the sounds together, bit by bit and came up with Target! She read the big letters over the door as we were parking the car. Big moment for us, I think, even tho’ it was the name of a store. I’ll take it.

Diagonally across the street from me (and next door to the spendy former neighbors’ old house) is a missionary house. The house is owned by a church here and they have their missionaries live in it from time to time.

My state, my city and most particularly, my neighborhood, is still cleaning up from Ivan the Terrible. This means that every house on my street has one or more towering piles of sticks at the curb, waiting for the garbage people to come whisk it away like magic. Many houses in my neighborhood have huge old oaks chainsawed into massive chunks in their twig piles, but no one on my street got pounded that hard.

Something woke me up at midnight last night. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I had a full-body Miss Clavel experience. I woke knowing something was not right and I leapt out of bed (and I didn’t even have to pee!) and headed to the living room and looked out the window.

THERE WAS A FIRE IN THE STREET!

It was a stick pile from the missionary house (so, for those keeping tabs, we have the spendy house, the missionary house and, on the other side of the misisonaries, the weirdly house). I was on my way to grab the phone to ring up the fire department (they’re just around the corner, which gets us a nice break on our home insurance, I am told) when I saw Ma Missionary standing there, watching the fire in a contemplative manner.

I grabbed a robe and headed outside and said, “My goodness,” which is midnight Southern girl speak for “what in the motherfuckingsamhill do yew think yer doin’?”

She said, “I’m experimenting and I’m keeping guard over it.”

I said, “Okay. I’m glad I saw you before I called the fire department.”

Recognition dawns. “Did this wake you up?”

I said, “Yes, I think so.”

No apology, no nothing.

I said goodnight and went inside and forced the Husband to wake up and go check it out. He wasn’t thrilled about being woken up, but he agreed that it’s completely insane to burn a stick pile at midnight.

Can she not wait for the Asplundh* truck like everyone else? Why do people like this move to my street, anyway?

In other news, I drew 11 Christmas designs last night. Now I just have to get them painted, scanned and made into cards and gift tags and stickers. I’ll have plenty of time to get that done tonight while I keep my mother company at the first day of a three-day antique auction thingy. I’m hoping to come out of the weekend with many painted designs ready to go and a piece of hush furniture for the new kid’s room from my mother, who pays nicely for auction company because it’s hard to come by.

* Although we are 32 and almost 29, my little sister and I still poke each other and giggle and say “say that word” whenever we see the big orange Asplundh trucks. It’s a funny word.

My friend reporterbabe, from Sybermoms, has written extensively about our Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk, and she says it all so much better than I can.

And there are lots and lots of pictures of Team Twin Cities, too!

Is there anyone in your life who pumps up your ego whenever you’re around her?

Sometime in 2003, I became acquainted with a girl a few years older than me in my town. She was starting an embroidery business and she had shows and parties with the girl who sells my stationery. The girl asked me to design her business logo and I always make the invitations to their parties and shows.

The two of them are having a showing today and tomorrow and the embroidery business girl is the best ego boost for me. She’s very forthright and open and she’s high energy and possesses a bit of nervous energy (like me) and we get along well. There’s that weird niggling tension of making a new friend: do I want to; do I have time; do I feel like making the effort?

She loves my artwork. She loves it. She likes it so much better than I do and so much more than I believe it’s worthy of being liked and after spending 45 minutes at their joint show, I really want to go home and hole up in the guest bedroom for the evening and draw and paint and whack all my Christmas designs onto paper.

Until right now, I have been wholly uninspired.

But this girl looked through the books of designs put out by an amazing artist and very expensive stationer and said, “I think your designs are just as good as hers and you might be more talented.”

Of course I’m not more talented.

She said, “If you had the time and the money to put into your business, you’d do better than this woman. I want this to be your full time, only job.”

Of course I wouldn’t do better.

But I sure love hearing it.

And I sure love frittering away my afternoon thinking about what I could do if I had a few months to devote solely to The Business.

She is doing shows in three other cities in the next few weeks and wanted to take my book with her and I said no, at first. I don’t want to jeopardize our acquaintanceship.

But she asked again today.

And I’m going to let her. Who better to sell my stuff, even the designs that are two or three years old, than someone who really loves it? I look at the designs that are a couple of years old and cringe. I hate them.

Whipping out the Christmas cards is easy now, so it’d be easy money to roll out another thousand or so, and that would be the money I need to buy the overpriced pieces of equipment that I’m oogling.

Please let this minor elation last until McPantses is tucked away in bed tonight. Please let me not fall asleep immediately after she does.

Next May, I’ll have a kidlet at the teat, but in May of 2006, I sure would love to be here for the weekend. I just got off the phone with someone at the Natl. Stationery Show who seems to be in charge and she told me about a gal who sold her book (that’s one way stationery whores make money–they sell sample books for anywhere up to–gasp–$375), priced at $275, to so many stationery stores that she made almost 6 figures.

**faints**

**picks self up off the floor**

And, their booth price, for the smallest booth, is around $1300. The next size up is just under $1900. The Jr. League Christmas dealie booth at the civic center here in Redneck USA is $600. The Natl. Show booth price is much, much less than I expected.

Now, that’s something to shoot for.

Happy, happy day.

McPantses has named her baby doll (one of many baby dolls, that is) Anna Rue.

In my knocked-up and whoremonal state, I am thinking this is a grand name for a baby girl.

It’s the South, you see, where double names are done for girls, boys and pets, alike.

The Husband just grimaces and shakes his head. I don’t think we’ve gotten an “over my dead body yet,” but I’m sure that’s because he thinks it a non-issue because he knows (really, he just knows) this kidlet is a boy.

Well, he doesn’t claim he knows. He actually claims that the law of averages means it’s a boy, but who’s nitpicking?

As for Anna Rue the First, McP has declared herself the baby’s mother and the baby’s big sister (we’re very into Big Sister play these days). I told the Husband, hey, it’s the South, it’s okay if she’s Anna Rue’s mommy and sissy at the same time.

16-week checkup today. I’m measuring 17 weeks, but not gaining weight, really, which is swell. Heartbeat in the 150s (first time I have heard it on the doppler and it was a lovely sound) and next appointment is the big “bring the videotape” appointment, so I’m counting days until 10/19 because, well, because it’s the big peek at the new kid.

Hurricane Ivan wiped out a historical Gulf Coast haunt. Check out the Flora Bama’s webpage for updates on how they’re doing. Wonder if they’ll be up and running in time for the next Mullet Toss?

Crazy-haired doddering old men who look at the world through mildly confused eyes amuse me.

The same men driving three miles and hour on busyish downtown streets annoy me. Get off the road, Old Goats! At least my grandfather has a hired gun to drive him around. Actually, one of his biggest fears in life is that the hired driver will quit. I told him last time I talked to him that we will get him another driver if that happens and that he doesn’t have to worry about it. I think he just needs something to worry about, though.

Last Tuesday a.m., I was two to three pounds heavier than I was the day I left for the walk.

Last Friday a.m., I was eight pounds down.

EIGHT POUNDS, people. My face looks sharper and it’s weird. That could be the serious haircut, too, tho.

Coworkers commented on how awful I look and one said I probably need a doctor visit (got an appt tomorrow).

I think it’s the post-walk bloat disappearing. After a lot of hard work, I put a few back on over the weekend.

Our power came back Friday night. Cable (and internet) returned last night. The Husband zipped off to a college football game with friends all day Saturday and McPantses and I hit the zoo, a coupla antique stores, a Mexican restaurant for lunch with my mom, TJ Maxx and Fresh Market and a local silver store so I could procure a mint julep cup for a little boy’s first birthday.

The Husband is his godfather and I decided that a julep cup a year would make for a fine set when the boy’s all grown up. I like the idea so very much that McP and sibling are getting them, too.

We settled on a silver pattern for McPantses (Old Maryland Engraved, in case you’re anxious to know) and decided that we (meaning my mother and me) like something plain for a boy, like Fairfax or Pointed Antique. That way, the boy’s future wife (egads) can pick her own frilly silver pattern and marry and have two sets of silver.

Remember, it’s the South. Ain’t no such thing as too much silvah.

After the silver store, I snaked McP into a bike store and winkwinknudgenudged a teendude behind the counter to explain to my very stubborn kid why everyone (EVERYONE!) has to wear a helmet when she rides a bike. McP has remained steadfastly set against helmets (”they squeeze my cheeks, mommy”) for months, but somehow, when the hot pink helmet with flourescent flowers was perched on her head, all the helmet hateration melted away and, I swear, the kid was quite charmed by her own image in the mirror (smart bike shop).

Thus, she’ll be getting a bike for her birthday.

And a julep cup, but that’s neither here nor there, is it?

Hurricane cleanup? The husband proudly proclaimed our stick/twig/branch/sapling pile the highest on the street. He refuses to acknowledge the fact that the missionary neighbors diagonally across from us have two goodly-sized piles. I think it’s a man thing.

My neighborhood is still getting power back. Our church service yesterday a.m. was candlelit and it was cool in the huge, stone church, so I was happy. No power meant no lunch at the neighborhood joint, so we hit the Awful Waffle instead. McPantses had two chocolate milks and this is a big deal for her. I told the Husband that if she can chug a beer in college as well as she can take down a carton of milk now, she’ll be a party star.

He was amused and disturbed at the same time, which made me happy.