Recently I told you about my wacky wedding day. I left you saying that we created a family of nine. I have three children, who are 15, 13 and 9. I also now have four stepchildren, who are 11, 10, 6 and 4. That gives us four boys and three girls altogether.
Now, however, if you've read my bio, you will see that my kids are now 21, 19, 15, and my hubby's kids are 17, 16, 12 and 10.
You might imagine things can be little bit hectic at our house at times. There is jealousy. ("How come HE gets to play the Nintendo, he's had it all day!") Apparently, anything over 10 minutes constitutes all day to a kid. But there are always the fun little things that siblings do-the older girls fixing the youngest one's hair, making pizzas, listening to the youngest scream orders at someone, or driving to Florida and splashing at the beach in the Gulf of Mexico where their grandma lives, despite stinging jellyfish.
It also occurred to us that getting season tickets to Weirds of Fun—I mean Worlds of Fun (that's how the four-year-old pronounces the name of the amusement park), although very hard for us to afford, would be a great way to occupy some weekends last summer with seven oft-bored kids. Not bad, but with ages ranging from four to 15, and us parents, it's difficult to ride some of the rides.
Puzzling to me is the rule that our four-year-old can ride things that fling riders into the air as long as they're accompanied by an adult, but cannot ride a big tire-type water ride down the Fury of the Nile, even with a parent.
So, we take turns staying with the younger ones in Camp Snoopy while the others go ride the roller coasters and water rides. I've been given the privilege of being Sydney's riding partner on the Wacky Worm and the "Mini
Detonator.” (Snoopy's Airmail is its real name, but it is much like the adult ride called the Detonator, just kid-sized.)
When I first saw the adult-sized Detonator years ago, it looked like no big deal. You go up, you come back down. I decided to try it to see what the big draw was.
Riding the Detonator is like sitting in a seat that has a rubber band attaching it to the ground. You hear a rush of air, nothing happens. “OK, this is no big deal,” I thought. Then, when you least expect it, the rubber band breaks and you fly up the 200-foot-tower and fall back down, and back up again, lather, rinse, repeat.
The first time you shoot up in the air, it takes your breath away and your eyeballs retreat to the back of your head. I screamed as the shock hit me. I vowed to never ride it again. (Turns out, I broke the vow, and have come to like the ride.) The pure surprise is worth it. And the view up there is awesome.
It's amazing that Sydney, the youngest, likes the "Mini Detonator,” because she doesn't like the bumper cars. I thought everyone liked the bumper cars. She and her brother, Richard, wanted to drive the kiddy bumper cars, so we headed that way. We sent them to stand in line, and when it was their turn, she ran straight to the purple car. She had never done it before, but she got in her car, and she was a perfect driver. She didn't run into anyone and obeyed all traffic laws, while her brother, (who was 5 at the time), was gleefully bumping into his fellow drivers. I guess she didn’t understand the ‘bumper’ part of bumper cars.
Suddenly, she ran into the curb and it jolted her into the floor of her car. She got upset, but we yelled for her to get back into her seat and keep driving. "And start hitting some cars," I called to her.
She again was driving along, not bothering a soul, when, WHAM! she hit the curb again. This time, she fell out of her seat and hit her little chin extremely hard on the steering wheel and scared us and the poor ride operator to death. We made our way to the exit to get her and hold her and after a little TLC, we were able to proceed back to good ol' Camp Snoopy.
Unfortunately, I don't think she'll ever drive the bumper cars again, and who knows about a real car. But she has asked when we're going to Weirds of Fun again.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Internet Dating
Some people see the new age of computers as moving into the future, while others see it as a step backward. I can see both sides.
On one hand, computers speed up our work by making it more efficient and organized. But when a power outage hits or the kitten knocks the plug out of the wall while I work, I wonder why we just don’t use a pencil and paper. However, as I scribble this down and scratch things out, a computer’s Word document looks awfully good.
I’ve seen both sides.
Allow me to elaborate. Computer privileges can be abused. Pornography can appear on an unsuspecting soul’s screen. I’ve seen people click on a celebrity’s web site only to be shocked by graphic images of nude women. Not only is it there faster than a speeding bullet, it can not easily be shut off. Once, a co-worker of mine had to kill the power to her machine to stop it. Was a request to search for Melissa Joan Hart too much to ask?
Here’s the positive part of my story. Although a computer can sometimes be harmful to human relationships, and some even say Internet chatting causes families to split, there is a flip side. Sometimes people learn by trial and error how to use a computer and end up with a computer job, and also meet their soulmate via cyberspace.
I’m one of those people.
I was home working last year and I checked my e-mail. Two weeks before, I had put a personal profile on a web site which listed my likes and dislikes, hobbies, favorite music and movies, church preference and so on. I got a response from a man and we met at a restaurant for dinner. We were polite, but bored silly. We parted ways and never spoke again.
The following week, I received an e-mail from a curious Kansas City man telling me that he read in my info that I was within 60 miles of him in Omaha, Nebraska. He wrote, “Now, I am originally from that area, and the last time I checked, the distance between Kansas City and Omaha was more than 60 miles…. lol” (Translation: laugh out loud.) I lived in St. Joseph, Missouri, by the way.
I checked his profile, which was included in the e-mail, (not his personal e-mail—the web site is the mediator so one doesn’t use a personal one, for obvious safety reasons). I wrote back as I did one or two others, telling him a date of mine must not smoke or drink, and would go to church with me. Typically, they didn’t write back after that.
This man, however, wrote back. I wrote back. He wrote back. We had many intelligent conversations via e-mail for a few days, then decided to meet. I asked to meet at a restaurant (a girl can’t be too careful meeting a stranger.)
We met at a Mexican place. He arrived and apologized for being late (what, one minute?) because he had to stop and buy me a single red rose. OK, forgiven. I had gone to a tanning bed on the way to the restaurant, and as we talked and ate, I began to itch in all the wrong places. From there, we went to play miniature golf. After a quick round, I thanked him and we agreed to meet online an hour later.
I couldn’t wait -— not only to get home and relieve my itching ‘sunburn’, but also to chat with this man again.
I went home and soaked my itching self in the tub as I waited for the hour it took him to drive home to Kansas City. Finally, we began to chat. He asked me what I liked in a man. Physically, I told him, I liked dark hair and a clean-shaven face; in general, intelligence and wit. This man had blond hair, blue eyes, and a goatee, and the intelligence and wit.
We chatted until after midnight about my love of gardening and lots of other things, agreed to meet in a couple of days, and retired for the night.
We met again a few days later at the same place. This time, he gave me a potted flower (not a cut flower that would wilt in a week) and -— he had a clean-shaven face. I knew right then, he was something. He’s a keeper. We married within six months, and have seven children between us, thanks to a computer.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
On one hand, computers speed up our work by making it more efficient and organized. But when a power outage hits or the kitten knocks the plug out of the wall while I work, I wonder why we just don’t use a pencil and paper. However, as I scribble this down and scratch things out, a computer’s Word document looks awfully good.
I’ve seen both sides.
Allow me to elaborate. Computer privileges can be abused. Pornography can appear on an unsuspecting soul’s screen. I’ve seen people click on a celebrity’s web site only to be shocked by graphic images of nude women. Not only is it there faster than a speeding bullet, it can not easily be shut off. Once, a co-worker of mine had to kill the power to her machine to stop it. Was a request to search for Melissa Joan Hart too much to ask?
Here’s the positive part of my story. Although a computer can sometimes be harmful to human relationships, and some even say Internet chatting causes families to split, there is a flip side. Sometimes people learn by trial and error how to use a computer and end up with a computer job, and also meet their soulmate via cyberspace.
I’m one of those people.
I was home working last year and I checked my e-mail. Two weeks before, I had put a personal profile on a web site which listed my likes and dislikes, hobbies, favorite music and movies, church preference and so on. I got a response from a man and we met at a restaurant for dinner. We were polite, but bored silly. We parted ways and never spoke again.
The following week, I received an e-mail from a curious Kansas City man telling me that he read in my info that I was within 60 miles of him in Omaha, Nebraska. He wrote, “Now, I am originally from that area, and the last time I checked, the distance between Kansas City and Omaha was more than 60 miles…. lol” (Translation: laugh out loud.) I lived in St. Joseph, Missouri, by the way.
I checked his profile, which was included in the e-mail, (not his personal e-mail—the web site is the mediator so one doesn’t use a personal one, for obvious safety reasons). I wrote back as I did one or two others, telling him a date of mine must not smoke or drink, and would go to church with me. Typically, they didn’t write back after that.
This man, however, wrote back. I wrote back. He wrote back. We had many intelligent conversations via e-mail for a few days, then decided to meet. I asked to meet at a restaurant (a girl can’t be too careful meeting a stranger.)
We met at a Mexican place. He arrived and apologized for being late (what, one minute?) because he had to stop and buy me a single red rose. OK, forgiven. I had gone to a tanning bed on the way to the restaurant, and as we talked and ate, I began to itch in all the wrong places. From there, we went to play miniature golf. After a quick round, I thanked him and we agreed to meet online an hour later.
I couldn’t wait -— not only to get home and relieve my itching ‘sunburn’, but also to chat with this man again.
I went home and soaked my itching self in the tub as I waited for the hour it took him to drive home to Kansas City. Finally, we began to chat. He asked me what I liked in a man. Physically, I told him, I liked dark hair and a clean-shaven face; in general, intelligence and wit. This man had blond hair, blue eyes, and a goatee, and the intelligence and wit.
We chatted until after midnight about my love of gardening and lots of other things, agreed to meet in a couple of days, and retired for the night.
We met again a few days later at the same place. This time, he gave me a potted flower (not a cut flower that would wilt in a week) and -— he had a clean-shaven face. I knew right then, he was something. He’s a keeper. We married within six months, and have seven children between us, thanks to a computer.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
Friday, January 25, 2008
A Wedding Day to Remember
Keep in mind, these stories were written back in 2001-2004, so they're not current time-wise, but I wanted to start with the oldest and work forward.
Brides, I tell you, your big day will not go off without a hitch. Why do I say this? I got married just over a year ago. The love of my life, the most beautiful gown ever made, a beautiful historic mansion in which to have the wedding, but nevermind all that. Here’s how my fairytale went. That gray first day of December, I picked up a rental car, (it wasn’t perfect, but better than the ones we owned). I drove the little red compact to the hair salon and the updo turned out lovely, barring all the hairspray she applied and I hate.
I then drove to pick up the lovely all-ivory cake on my way home. As soon as I walked in my front door, I went straight to my desk and e-mailed my soon-to-be husband letting him know everything was going well, and how I couldn’t wait three more hours to be his.
I have three children, one of which doesn’t like to do anything with her beautiful curly hair (like comb it). My son informed me that he’d left his dress shoes at his dad’s and would just wear whatever he could find. That just wouldn’t do, because he was to be my escort down the aisle. I said “That’s fine, we have time to stop there and get them.”
It was time to make last minute checks on my suitcase for the weekend away. Check. My son started loading the car while I grabbed the ingredients for the punch. “Oh yes,” I told myself, “get the CD of wedding music off the desk.” Check.
“Does everyone have everything now? We need to go.”
“Yes,” my three offspring declared.
It was lightly snowing and misting on this December afternoon as we got into the car to get my son’s shoes and pick up his friend. Halfway to our destination, I realized I had failed to grab the soda for the punch.
“That’s okay,” I thought, “we’ll just run back home, we’re doing fine.”
We picked up the shoes, drove back home (within the speed limit, of course) and got the soda. We picked up my son’s friend; she was to help my two daughters get ready and do their hair. Finally, we were on our way to the large house on historic Hall Street in St. Joseph and finish getting ready. We were shown to one of the big bedroom suites where we spread our belongings on the bed. We took our makeup and accessories to the bathroom, where I began to put on my foundation. My daughter told me she’d forgotten her slip. I told her, “Do without it, no one will know.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then I heard someone call my name from the hallway. It was the lady of the house, asking where the CD was. I told her it was with the other things I had given her. She held out the case, opened it, and there was no CD inside. “Oh no! It’s still in the computer at home where I was previewing it! No problem, I’ll go get it. If I take the highway, I’ll be there in 5-7 minutes.” (Doing the speed limit, of course).
Halfway there, I realized I had grabbed only the keyring with the rental car keys—no house key. “Sheesh, now what am I going to do?” I decided I would try and get into the house by alternate means. I managed to get a window open. Remember, my hair was in that lovely updo.
Of course, I picked a window with mini-blinds and our old console TV in front of it. I
climbed in through a 12-inch opening, fought the blinds, and danced with the swivel TV.
“Oh, there goes my hair,” I thought. I got in, grabbed both girls’ slips, the CD, and maneuvered myself back out the window. (The door only locks with a key, so you exit the way you enter.) My hair and I escaped unscathed. Thank goodness for all that hairspray that I hated.
“Alright, now I’m rolling.” I jumped back in the car, and drove (within the speed limit, of course) back to the house.
Back inside, I gave the CD to the hostess and went upstairs to finish putting on my face and gown. One daughter was happy to have her slip; however, the youngest was offended by the idea.
Now, I had to put on a sticky bra, and didn’t know the adhesive had to dry for 15 minutes prior to putting everything in place. So, I applied the adhesive, fanning it in hopes it would dry faster, and was ready to put the gown on in five, much more convenient, minutes.
Next, I applied lipstick and had a Kodak moment with my baby girl.
After determining that my grandmother wasn’t coming because of the snowy weather, we went downstairs. I unwittingly rushed the processional, forgetting to take my son’s arm at first. Finally, I was at my groom’s side. He stood there by the Christmas tree in the glow of the fireplace, flanked by two of his sons, handsome as ever.
As he said his vows to me, he looked at me with the most adoring eyes and all I knew was this had been the perfect night.
Now there are seven children in this new family of ours, but that’s another story…
Brides, I tell you, your big day will not go off without a hitch. Why do I say this? I got married just over a year ago. The love of my life, the most beautiful gown ever made, a beautiful historic mansion in which to have the wedding, but nevermind all that. Here’s how my fairytale went. That gray first day of December, I picked up a rental car, (it wasn’t perfect, but better than the ones we owned). I drove the little red compact to the hair salon and the updo turned out lovely, barring all the hairspray she applied and I hate.
I then drove to pick up the lovely all-ivory cake on my way home. As soon as I walked in my front door, I went straight to my desk and e-mailed my soon-to-be husband letting him know everything was going well, and how I couldn’t wait three more hours to be his.
I have three children, one of which doesn’t like to do anything with her beautiful curly hair (like comb it). My son informed me that he’d left his dress shoes at his dad’s and would just wear whatever he could find. That just wouldn’t do, because he was to be my escort down the aisle. I said “That’s fine, we have time to stop there and get them.”
It was time to make last minute checks on my suitcase for the weekend away. Check. My son started loading the car while I grabbed the ingredients for the punch. “Oh yes,” I told myself, “get the CD of wedding music off the desk.” Check.
“Does everyone have everything now? We need to go.”
“Yes,” my three offspring declared.
It was lightly snowing and misting on this December afternoon as we got into the car to get my son’s shoes and pick up his friend. Halfway to our destination, I realized I had failed to grab the soda for the punch.
“That’s okay,” I thought, “we’ll just run back home, we’re doing fine.”
We picked up the shoes, drove back home (within the speed limit, of course) and got the soda. We picked up my son’s friend; she was to help my two daughters get ready and do their hair. Finally, we were on our way to the large house on historic Hall Street in St. Joseph and finish getting ready. We were shown to one of the big bedroom suites where we spread our belongings on the bed. We took our makeup and accessories to the bathroom, where I began to put on my foundation. My daughter told me she’d forgotten her slip. I told her, “Do without it, no one will know.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then I heard someone call my name from the hallway. It was the lady of the house, asking where the CD was. I told her it was with the other things I had given her. She held out the case, opened it, and there was no CD inside. “Oh no! It’s still in the computer at home where I was previewing it! No problem, I’ll go get it. If I take the highway, I’ll be there in 5-7 minutes.” (Doing the speed limit, of course).
Halfway there, I realized I had grabbed only the keyring with the rental car keys—no house key. “Sheesh, now what am I going to do?” I decided I would try and get into the house by alternate means. I managed to get a window open. Remember, my hair was in that lovely updo.
Of course, I picked a window with mini-blinds and our old console TV in front of it. I
climbed in through a 12-inch opening, fought the blinds, and danced with the swivel TV.
“Oh, there goes my hair,” I thought. I got in, grabbed both girls’ slips, the CD, and maneuvered myself back out the window. (The door only locks with a key, so you exit the way you enter.) My hair and I escaped unscathed. Thank goodness for all that hairspray that I hated.
“Alright, now I’m rolling.” I jumped back in the car, and drove (within the speed limit, of course) back to the house.
Back inside, I gave the CD to the hostess and went upstairs to finish putting on my face and gown. One daughter was happy to have her slip; however, the youngest was offended by the idea.
Now, I had to put on a sticky bra, and didn’t know the adhesive had to dry for 15 minutes prior to putting everything in place. So, I applied the adhesive, fanning it in hopes it would dry faster, and was ready to put the gown on in five, much more convenient, minutes.
Next, I applied lipstick and had a Kodak moment with my baby girl.
After determining that my grandmother wasn’t coming because of the snowy weather, we went downstairs. I unwittingly rushed the processional, forgetting to take my son’s arm at first. Finally, I was at my groom’s side. He stood there by the Christmas tree in the glow of the fireplace, flanked by two of his sons, handsome as ever.
As he said his vows to me, he looked at me with the most adoring eyes and all I knew was this had been the perfect night.
Now there are seven children in this new family of ours, but that’s another story…
Thursday, January 24, 2008
At last, I'm a blogger!
That has a certain naughty ring to it, "I'm a blogger." Anyway, I'm going to try my hand at entertaining you with my life experiences. I've been through quite a lot, getting married the first time very young (18), living for 14 years with an abusive man and our 3 children. Finally, I got out and later on found a great hubby, who has 4 children.
I used to write for a couple of newspapers, and I didn't like working for a newspaper, but I LOVE to write, so here I go. I will publish here my previously written articles/stories, and I think this blog is just what the dr. ordered to get me writing new stuff.
I don’t know when it all started, but somewhere, sometime, I became a stickler about spelling and pronunciation. Maybe the spelling thing began at the county spelling bee in Lathrop, Mo. It was yours truly (a sixth grader), against two eighth graders, left to spell our hearts out to determine the champion. This is where I became petrified. Of what, beating eighth graders, or winning?
They gave me my word—lingerie. I quickly thought of a way to misspell it to relieve the pressure and get the heck off that stage. I spelled slowly, l-o-n-g-e-r-i-e, knowing full well the real spelling. (I think I finally ‘fessed up to my mom, but if I didn’t, the cat’s out of the bag now, 24 years later.)
I left that stage and went back to sit with Mom. Everyone was so proud. (How much more so would they have been had I spelled it right?) My two oldest kids have been in spelling bees, and I’ve told them to never do what I did; they would regret it later, as I do. They are excellent spellers, but don’t care as much about participating in the bees as I would like them to.
I really don’t know how I became so worried about how people pronounce things, but when someone spells something wrong, or says something wrong, I get my bloomers in a bunch. When I got married the first time, I started having to spell my name to everyone, or tell them how to pronounce it correctly. It was Boller. A simple name, pronounced bowler. It became automatic for me to just say and spell it all at once, with barely a breath between. People said baller, boiler, beller, just to name a few.
My maiden name, Taylor, sure looked good at those times. No one needed to ask any questions about that one. (Well, almost no one.) For a year and a half, I had my maiden name back, and there was no spelling T-a-y-l-o-r to everyone who needed to know my name. But soon enough, I remarried, and I’m now back to spelling, and pronouncing, my name to everyone. I asked my husband, “Can’t we just use my name?” He said no. (He did say I could keep using my maiden name though.) The second ‘t’ is silent, (say Tee-junz) but my kids have come up with a pronunciation that is quite amusing. Hello, my name is Tracy Tightjeans.
I get bugged when people mix up words, as in. “I’m getting a prescription (subscription) to a magazine.” Or using words that sound alike in the wrong way, such as, “There (their) dog got it’s (its) nails polished and a hair bow to.” (too) “There (they’re) nice people.” “Your (you’re) not going to wear that, are you?” These are some of my pet peeves. I feel so much better having gotten them off my chest. Just call me Tracy Tightjeans.
I used to write for a couple of newspapers, and I didn't like working for a newspaper, but I LOVE to write, so here I go. I will publish here my previously written articles/stories, and I think this blog is just what the dr. ordered to get me writing new stuff.
I don’t know when it all started, but somewhere, sometime, I became a stickler about spelling and pronunciation. Maybe the spelling thing began at the county spelling bee in Lathrop, Mo. It was yours truly (a sixth grader), against two eighth graders, left to spell our hearts out to determine the champion. This is where I became petrified. Of what, beating eighth graders, or winning?
They gave me my word—lingerie. I quickly thought of a way to misspell it to relieve the pressure and get the heck off that stage. I spelled slowly, l-o-n-g-e-r-i-e, knowing full well the real spelling. (I think I finally ‘fessed up to my mom, but if I didn’t, the cat’s out of the bag now, 24 years later.)
I left that stage and went back to sit with Mom. Everyone was so proud. (How much more so would they have been had I spelled it right?) My two oldest kids have been in spelling bees, and I’ve told them to never do what I did; they would regret it later, as I do. They are excellent spellers, but don’t care as much about participating in the bees as I would like them to.
I really don’t know how I became so worried about how people pronounce things, but when someone spells something wrong, or says something wrong, I get my bloomers in a bunch. When I got married the first time, I started having to spell my name to everyone, or tell them how to pronounce it correctly. It was Boller. A simple name, pronounced bowler. It became automatic for me to just say and spell it all at once, with barely a breath between. People said baller, boiler, beller, just to name a few.
My maiden name, Taylor, sure looked good at those times. No one needed to ask any questions about that one. (Well, almost no one.) For a year and a half, I had my maiden name back, and there was no spelling T-a-y-l-o-r to everyone who needed to know my name. But soon enough, I remarried, and I’m now back to spelling, and pronouncing, my name to everyone. I asked my husband, “Can’t we just use my name?” He said no. (He did say I could keep using my maiden name though.) The second ‘t’ is silent, (say Tee-junz) but my kids have come up with a pronunciation that is quite amusing. Hello, my name is Tracy Tightjeans.
I get bugged when people mix up words, as in. “I’m getting a prescription (subscription) to a magazine.” Or using words that sound alike in the wrong way, such as, “There (their) dog got it’s (its) nails polished and a hair bow to.” (too) “There (they’re) nice people.” “Your (you’re) not going to wear that, are you?” These are some of my pet peeves. I feel so much better having gotten them off my chest. Just call me Tracy Tightjeans.
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