Sitting on go

I am unacquainted with standing by.


Since I have finished school, I've found myself at kind of a loss. For…well, anything.

I sit at home and listen to the alternate fighting and love of my children. I think of all the things I should be doing – laundry, writing, reading, cleaning. Making things to hang on the walls since they are all presently blank. Also, there is a strange conglomeration of 8-9 nails on the wall above my couch and I spend more time than I care to admit sitting and wondering what could have possibly ever hung there.


I've thought about grad school. But…what? What could I do? I'm thirty four damn years old and really I have no more idea of what I want to be when I grow up than I did when I was nine.

I thought about teaching. Praxis testing is expensive. And what happens if I do all that work and find myself in front of however many kids…and then I hate it?

Problem is, I got used to school. I got used to being occupied. I also have the fortune/misfortune of being married to a man who is always on the go, so many nights the kids and I find ourselves at home, existing through the night. I don't mind it, though. I have time to watch King of the Hill, talk about movies and games with Max, play 4,000 games of various substance with Lucy, or decipher Pretty Little Liars with Ava.

Then I think about what I'd want to do, given the chance.

I'd be creative, I'd have a different outlook on every day. I'd solve and make and do and be.

Or I'd be Beyoncé.


Enough. Enough with the thoughts.



Basically, people, I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through the past month.




Even yesterday, when I had plenty of work to do at, you know, actual work – I stayed home with a whiny toddler and firepee thanks to being female and having, apparently, a short urethra. *bows to the TMI audience*

So I could have done schoolwork, right? The geneaology paper that is due today. Or the research paper that is due tomorrow. Both are still barebones and need work.

Instead, though, I spent the day watching Big Love on demand, flushing out my system with echinacea and vitamin C, thinking about the past and the future and how to best go about making pumpkin muffins.

So what did I accomplish? I lessened my infection, I think. I pondered what my hair would look like a la Ginnifer Goodwin in Season Three. I made the muffins. I vacuumed the floor. I did work a bit on the papers.


I can’t say I made much eternal progress in anything yesterday. Except the muffins. They were amazing.



Sex Ed with the Hills

(make sure and watch all the way to the end. Awesome.)

Ok, so here’s the thing.
My parents are pretty much Hank and Peggy Hill. As closely as flesh and blood people can resemble animations, that’s the level of resemblance.

I love my parents. I could not have asked for better.

But here’s the thing.

My parents never acknowledged that sex exists. Not to me, at least. My sister told me the facts of life one afternoon while we were standing in the bathroom of our childhood home. I don’t even know what we were talking about or why, but I remember telling her that babies were made by kissing and she got all business and spilled the beans.

I don’t know why my parents chose never to broach this subject – well, I mean, I do, I guess. My parents and their utter Baptist stiff neck prudery were never more uncomfortable than when something a bit off color was mentioned. To be fair, mostly this refers to my mother – whenever the conversation seemed like it might perhaps be in danger of going anywhere near nakedness or kissing or getting naked, my dad would just go shoot or build something.

I remember once I asked my mom what a condom was.

I grew up in the eighties, man. AIDS was the hairy ugly unknown sexmonster and Whoopi Goldberg was on TV almost every night taking about condoms and safe sex.

I had no clue what a condom was. I was what, eight? So I asked, and for some reason I’ve always remembered my mother’s answer.

“It’s….it’s like a rubber glove.”

To be totally fair, this is not inaccurate. After all, it IS like a rubber glove. For man parts. But Mom left that part out, and for quite some time I pictured a condom like a magical Michael Jackson glove that for some reason protected sexers magically through their hand pores.

Anyway, my kids know all about sex. I decided long ago to take the completely opposite approach with them than my parents took with me, because once I started having sex, it was not only a huge dirty secret (let’s face it, my parents didn’t even know I knew what sex was, much less how to do it – and I might as well say it here…Mom, that time you read in my journal about my angsty teenage sexual escapades, and I told you it was a creative writing experiment? Yeah….it wasn’t. I feel much better now), but they’d have shackled me down if they thought I was even thinking about it.

So, after watching the Sex Ed episode of King of the Hill the other night with my kids, I think I’ve made the right decision. after all, if they can laugh with me about grownups who are scared to say “penis” and “vagina,” surely when the time comes, they’ll know that I can be trusted to confide in.