Friday, February 25, 2011

Dream of a Dying Planet

Even though Michael assured me it was cold, I felt like the bed was sautee-ing me all night. It was sweltering heat, roasting and suffocating. I slept with a water bottle on the pillow, not even the sheets touching me. 
That heat must have translated into the dreamscape that filled the night.
A planet suffering from drought, full of dust and discomfort. 
The beginning of a sci-fi post-apocalyptic story...which, you may be amazed to know, is all just my dream.
I somehow remember it this well: 

In a Soviet-flavored atmosphere, I wandered around with the people, uninvolved but observing as though reading a novel by Ray Bradbury or even George Orwell. We were herded by the authorities like Holocaust prisoners to dirty, undecorated rooms of metal and dust. The authorities said various things to assure us they cared only about our survival, and that the following experiments were to ensure that survival.
The planet had been deemed unfit for life. So we were leaving.
I meandered through hallways, the next looking the same as the last, winding through a re-purposed factory that stretched miles across the land. Through one particular section, I entered a room tanked off to enclose water. The "room" was palatial in size--an entire arena filled with blue water. Under the surface, a toughened bubble was being constructed to experiment on the possibilities of living underwater. This was the only water I ever saw, and we couldn't have any of it.
I looked up to see a metal balcony rigged around one end of the room, an unfinished construction. And there were acrobats training for yet more experiments for living in water or space. Finally, I became a character in the dream. I became an acrobat.

Michael held my hand while we climbed construction towers and swung from wobbly ropes. I thought to myself, I can't do this anymore--I'm pregnant, this is dangerous. I wanted to scream as the ropes dipped and yanked. Finally, our act was over. Michael held my hand again as we bowed--our final show of superiority, the bow took place on the edge of the sliver of balcony. We bent far at the waist, looking straight down at the expanse of metal and water below us...and I almost fell, but Michael pulled me back with his quick arm. We knew then that the authorities could tell I was pregnant, imbalanced. And because decisions were made quickly in that world, we took our escape the instant we left the barren stage.

My dream was filled with backstory, everywhere. I knew without seeing it that the people were desperate and depressed. The authorities were manipulative and sadistically selfish. All the nations had been gathered in this planetary emergency, and in a time where everything was becoming scarcer, the government had dwindled to only a few thousand of the most power-hungry people. The authorities and their soldiers. And they had total dictatorship. With the surplus of citizens (or prisoners, since that's what we really were), they tossed us from project to project, dispensing of anyone who taxed either their rations or their patience. No one smiled, no one had anything of value. The families that were lucky enough to still be together clung to each other's arms at all times. Everyone's clothes were dusty, torn, old. There was no life in their eyes, no life except for a piercing fear that shone in the faces of people suddenly pronounced "expendable."  
 The people had been pulled from their homes, promised better safety in the expansive factory taken over by the soldiers. The people would work in exchange for this "generous" protection. The soldiers were gathering everyone, constantly packing the spaces of the factory (just as they constantly "removed" people).
A long time ago, though still not before the disaster of our planet's state had ripped our existence to shreds, a plan was set in motion. As an incentive...or more as a bribery for loyalty, the "government" gave gifts to families. For every family of three or more, they provided a scruffy little dog. They produced these dogs all at once, claiming that they had been trained for months to signal danger and lead the families to safety. The families were grateful. They named their dogs, loved them, held on to them for comfort.... 
Those dogs had been trained to obey the government's signals for obedience--to come when called. They knew where to take their families, and innocently, that meant wherever the government wanted them. Even if that place was the danger they should have instinctively avoided.

No one had seen Michael and me take the wrong exit from the hallway behind the stage, and we walked as casually as we could with our urgent pace. I couldn't be an acrobat anymore, and they would have killed me since I'd therefore become "useless." Michael tugged me through crowds of dusty, tired people. Finally, we found a boy with his government-issued dog. The dog was barking, alerting the boy and his parents to take an exit. But as we joined the growing crowd of barking dogs and loyal families, I heard a dirty-faced pair of people whispering "You know, sometimes it doesn't work. Sometimes it's a mistake." And I understood immediately.

I whispered to Michael, and we broke off from the group after the people were filtered out of the massive building. The dogs and their families were being hauled into an enormous spacecraft that promised escape from our dusty world. Once the last of that batch had been boarded, the spacecraft exploded. The soldiers needed more space in the factory, and the people had been taking it up. They'd become useless. We were far enough away by then...and though I would have ached and cried for the innocent people believing in a final rescue, we had to go on.

Michael led me to a dilapidated house, re-purposed for government use like everything else left standing. It was a sort of gas furnace, a supplier of heat for one of the factory buildings. Michael turned a dial by the door to adjust the gas, I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn't breathe poison to the baby in my womb. We went inside. But we weren't as invisible as we thought; soldiers in the dry, brown desert saw us enter the house and came running, shouting. We turned and ducked quickly through rooms, crouching into a corner before they came inside. Someone besides the soldiers had seen us as well and came into the house before them. An old, ruggedly independent-looking man. His hair was amazingly white, undulled by the dirt caked everywhere in the world. Two white-blond young men stood at his sides.  My flow of backstory told me he had a deal with the government; he was a valuable hunter, and if they'd let him live on his own in what was left of the wild, he'd hunt for them. He thrust a sprig of fur in our faces, tufts of soiled skin still attached.
"Is it a bear?" he asked. I realized he and some of his men had found a dead animal and wanted help identifying it. I looked at the fur. The man shoved it at Michael's face, and since I didn't want Michael to smell it, I tried to innocently breathe out of my nose to blow it off the man's palm. Just as it lifted away, the soldiers burst into the house. They saw the man standing in front of us, and while they would have left us alone to deal with him, the man became angry that I'd ruined his sample of fur. The danger doubled suddenly as the soldiers resumed their determination to catch us.
Somehow, in the chaos of the angry man backing up and the soldiers closing in, we bolted out of the corner. We turned another corner and fled through a couple rooms before encountering what must have once been a bathroom for its small, glassless window high in the wall. With the soldiers racing close behind us, Michael pressed me through the window, my little pregnant bulge barely passing the frame. I tumbled to the ground as Michael leaped down next to me. He pulled me up and around the side of the house, silent in the panic, and briskly tucked me into a huddle of old air conditioning units. With room only for me, he ran toward a distant forest, a struggling wasteland of dying trees, probably the last of any wildlife. The soldiers saw him, taking the bait of his intended distraction from me. I watched, biting my tongue and feeling a pounding pulse in my neck. Michael had acrobatically pulled high up into the trees, swiftly and just in time that the soldiers never saw him. They chose running over shooting, a lucky thing for us that they were not skilled enough to do both at the same time. The soldiers were reluctant to enter the woods. Their search became halfhearted, and they soon returned to their stations scattered in the suffocating desert.

I felt the dream dwindle, felt my mind waking, as yet another backstory filled in the long wait of crouching between the metal boxes, unable to pull myself out if anyone had found me. I knew I was as safe as I could be, and I knew Michael watched me from his hidden perch as I watched him from my crowded hole. We would wait the night out. No one would come for Michael in the woods at night. That was when the few straggling animals would venture out, their feeble energy stored up for a hunt. Every animal was dangerous. Every animal was carnivorous in the world-encompassing starvation. And by dawn, the soldiers would come back for a quick look around. Sometimes they'd find half-dead animals, their starving predators too weak even in their desperation to consume the entire animal they'd succeeded in bringing down. They expected to find Michael that way. And if they didn't, they'd assume he was dead...because it was a sure thing for anyone left in the woods at night.
Before it would get too bright with the unforgiving sun, Michael would return for me, pull me out of my huddle, and we would continue our escape...

Unlike other dreams, this one stayed vivid as I opened my eyes. As if I could have kept on dreaming while awake. It burned in my mind, a hot, sad, tangible thing.
I wanted to hug Michael and not let go.

Thursday, February 24, 2011


Ender brought me his yellow plastic box and told me "Mommy, it's a present for you! It's closed."
He set it down in front of me, and when I asked if I could open it, he said "Of course you do."
As I opened it, he gasped and said "It's a CAR!" I thanked him, and while he left to his room for more, I cried.
I cried hard, actually. It was just so sweet of him, and even as a game that lots of kids meant more.
He brought back another toy. This time he was so excited for me to open it that he said "It's a donut!" before I even touched it. But when I took the plastic donut out, he said "It's a toilet! Poop in it!"
That really made me laugh--a lot!
He's been bringing me lots of toys; I have a big pile by the keyboard. He even brought me "lunch" in his toy lunchbox.

It was very yummy. :)
I love him.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Saint Husband

I'm like a cuddly soft bunny now.

And that's not just a mantra! It's a blessing...phewf! Thank heaven for husbands who come home and play with the kid(s) and make you feel beautiful and sweet (and don't reprimand you for being Woman even if that means being less than Angel).

:) I love Michael. He is a Saint.

No more warthog! It's safe now! I promise I won't bite your head off if you come to my house now.

...but thanks for not risking your life while I was warthogging or else I'd feel really, really terribly guilty...

Beware of Warthog

Boy am I fun today.
About as fun as a warthog with an attitude.

My meager attempt at a warthog.

I woke up cheerful. I felt very happy, actually.
I thought I was as wonderfully upbeat as I've been the last week or more.
But then I started feeling annoyed (won't say at what), and then I cried about something stupid (who cares what), and then I realized that my emotions are pretty spanked up today. Darn.
I shoved on some makeup and yanked on cute clothes.
I have a couple baskets of laundry next to me...but they're second in the line of attention to some semi-junk food.
I'm having a pity party, and you're not invited. It's Qait Only. I've had the whiny, mocking song stuck in my head that goes "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms..."
And I'm cranky enough to think "Oh, sure people like me. Just nobody wants to be around me right now."
That's right. Don't come to my house right now.
I don't want to HAVE company or BE company.

Some women have mentioned off-handedly or even laughingly that they were mean when they were pregnant. And I've always thought sincerely "I'm so sorry! That must be miserable."
Yeah, Qait, YEAH!

(Don't be afraid of's just like this today. With no deadline in view.)

Friday, February 18, 2011

Yezhov is "Purged"

In the original version of this photo (top), Yezhov is clearly visible on the right of the photograph. The later version (bottom) was altered by censors, removing all trace of his presence.

This process is called "purging." Doesn't that sound nasty? To "purge" a real person from records?!

Did this image come through? If not, you'll find it here
This is one of the examples of the lying Russia's government has done and continues to do. 
I feel enraged--because it's ridiculous! What are they thinking? 
What's the point in lying if everyone knows it's a lie?
Is there a point?
This is one thing Michael and I discussed in depth at our Valentine's dinner. 
And we think the simple point in Russia's lies is their pride:
They are unwilling to admit their wrongs.

Have you ever talked with someone about something they've done, and you BOTH know it happened, and they just refuse to admit that it's true? They lie straight to your face? As if it really will "save face" for them?

Oh, Russia.

Chewing on ME

Maybe the right word for what I've been doing is "stewing." Or perhaps even better, I've been "chewing" on some thoughts from Valentine's Day.

Our Valentine's Day turned out to be the best I've ever had because it was everything I needed. After an emotional week that was trying for me in many ways, I really needed undivided attention from Michael. I needed to talk without talking over children. I needed to hear without straining over children (somehow it still surprises me once in a while how much noise a toddler and a baby can make). And I needed to dress up for something outside of home duties.
Michael took me to Tucanos. While we waited until our reservation time, we browsed Borders across the parking lot and talked about what we like and expect in a good book. And we laughed about ridiculous books (have you ever read through the Harlequin titles? They make us laugh every time-- The Greek Billionaire and His Virgin Captive or The Italian Trillionaire's Baby). One book in particular caught my eye--oh, and this is not a Harlequin--because of  beautiful calligraphy. Look at this number four:

I love that four. It is gorgeous. It's like a little torch and flame. Things like that stand out to me--I appreciate the detail. It made the rest of the book immediately intriguing somehow, so I read the blurb on the back, and guess what? I think it sounds fascinating! Charles C. Mann has written this book, 1491, about the surprisingly advanced technology of the Native Americans at the time Christopher Columbus "discovered" them. Guess what!!! They had running water! They had immaculately clean streets. They were big into landscaping! Their skills in architecture were so advanced that certain enormous buildings have stood for over 400 years looking pretty much the same (and isn't Europe full of ruins?). Their technology, actually, was even more advanced than their contemporary European friends'. Very sad that the Europeans then came to visit with all their germs and diseases and pretty much killed everyone off. Now that's a book I want to read. I really like history, and I'm especially enchanted by ancient history.

There was another book that intrigued me, but it's lost in the shadow of 1491. I simply can't remember a thing about whatever it was.

At our lovely and completely satisfying dinner, Michael and I talked forever. Talked and talked and talked. Such a good feeling. We covered topics from blogging (which made me fall in love with him all the more that he would be so interested in something that's important to me) to Mockingjay to communism to the pathological liar that is Russia. And all sorts of things inbetween. It was intelligent, stimulating conversation that felt so immensely rewarding. Better even than the food!

Most specifically, I've chewed on our blogging thoughts. Michael and I can honestly talk about anything, everything. And it's always with love. So when he said "I think there's a lot you don't say on your blog. You're a really interesting person, and your blog doesn't really talk about what's unique about you, or even very much about what you do--like with your drawings and everything," I didn't feel defensive. I agreed with him. My blog's not a lost cause, but it's not as open as it could be.

I've done a lot of thinking about ME.

Now, before you laugh, let me explain. Well if you laughed so what, but I must explain. It has been brought to my attention--which is a good thing when I say it--that I am a very private person. Duh, right? But no, it hasn't been quite so obvious to me. I already knew I'm pretty much an introvert, but I feel like a practiced extrovert. Not hypocritical, just that I do indeed love company and can be extroverted. Just not as much as I thought.

My sister Rae said "I have always loved and been intrigued by how private you can be (is that weird? That I love that?), because I know when you share something with me it's because you've chosen to and you trust me. Whether that's tears or something else. And I love that feeling."
That's just some of the fuel for my thinking lately--my stewing and chewing. :)

I'm like Deep Thought. You know, the super computer from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? They go through all this trouble to build Deep Thought, and after centuries or something, all they get from it is:


Gee, thanks, Deep Thought...what about all those deep thoughts you've been having to arrive at this 42?
Wouldn't you think Deep Thought would share a little more? Is that REALLY all we get?

When I need to think or calm down, I love being alone. Sometimes routine fulfills this, like when I wash my face. That provides some soothing time for thinking (or not thinking). It doesn't so much matter what I'm doing as the fact that I'm alone (or quiet, not engaged in conversation). In the end, it means I don't divulge my feelings and thoughts to friends or even family. I've done my thinking on my own, and when I'm finished, I'm finished. It's like it would be too exhausting to try and get the same result by talking to someone. Even Michael has seen this; I talk with him all the time, but when I'm really into some deep thoughts, all I can usually share is a snippet at a time. My processing just works better in my head.

And then when it comes to blogging? No way! What if I say something about myself, and my words don't paint it right, and then it's wrong, and I've said something "incorrect" about ME? Or what if I change my mind and decide that I feel differently than I said before... it's not so much a fear of being misunderstood as a desire to say nothing wrong. If I really wanted to share my insides, I'd plug my mind into yours so you can see every prism and tangent of each thought.

Then there's the fact that it has a lot to do with trust. I'm a trusting person, but only at a certain level. When I meet someone, it's like there's a default setting for benefit-of-the-doubt Trust. As I get to know them, maybe the trust shrinks, maybe it grows, but it's a very one-sided deal. I trust them to be who they are, but I hardly ever want to trust them with who I am.
Now that was a very honest thing for me to say, and I really want to erase it. Part of me doesn't like it. I'd rather say...something else, and I can't even think of what else, which is why I'd typically remain silent.

It largely comes down to the fact that I am so comfortable with myself that I don't feel a need to make others comfortable with me. Trust me, I can see the good side of that! But can't you see how that has the potential to leave me selfish and my friends less able to be my friends?

I know it's pretty much impossible to open up everything about myself (or I wouldn't be myself), and you can be sure that's okay with me. Still, I want to try harder to share. I've had the idea of making something of an exposé out of my blog with ME as the subject.

Without invading my sense of self, I want to be more inviting.


Ender's Bad Dream

Last night, Ender woke up several hours after we had put him to bed. We heard his door creak open and a mumbly, worried little voice called out "Mommy?" He came to us and climbed into my lap. After some quiet moments of divine cuddling, he started talking about a spider on a white floor. At first I thought he meant a music video we had just watched with the band's music equipment chords tangled around their studio floor, but as I listened, I realized he was telling me his dream! There was a spider on the white floor, and it was trying to get him, and he was scared.
Poor, sweet little Ender! This is the first time he has ever told us his dream (understanding that's what it was). So Michael and I comforted him, talking about how to pray when you're scared, how spiders don't usually hurt you, and how he can squish them with his feet. Michael carried him back to bed, and we did another miniature version of the bedtime routine; Ender asked specifically for three songs.
Michael and I beamed at each other over Ender's head. It just felt so special, comforting him from a bad dream he'd told us about.

Bad dreams can be so vivid and full of real, raw fear or panic. Sometimes, even when I know I've woken up, I feel trapped in a cocoon of dream logic, which is a rare brand of logic if it's logic at all. I know the dream is only a dream, but the nightmare of it is still in full force. I've had to pray many times to get out of those nightmare cocoons!

I'm so glad we were awake when Ender needed us. It took me a while to fall asleep when I imagined him waking up again to a dark, quiet house, having to figure out that we were by then in bed, having to stumble through the house alone with a nightmare still fresh in his mind. Sweet Ender. I hope he remembers that is a time he can pray for help and comfort.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

My Belly!

This was probably a couple weeks ago...
But I probably look about the same. 
18 weeks currently!

February Creations

So this diagram is little, but I think that with this photo, you'll get it...
2011-02-16 14.42.58.jpg
I had big ideas, but it turned out very close to what I'd envisioned! This is the beginning, the bottom level.

From the Styrofoam of a food processor.
Ender's spaceship controls. I know it's hard to see, which is just too bad because it's very cute. :) Maybe click on it for a larger view? It includes a thermometer for the spaceship (or I don't know, maybe the atmosphere of the planet he's visiting), a fuel gauge and speedometer, various buttons for ejecting an astronaut, radioing the crew, switching on the lights, ordering food, or landing/taking off. And the computer screen features a fuel station landing option, an alien encounter that could be good or bad (it has buttons for "friend" or "foe" since I just love to leave room for imagination...), a monitor on an astronaut currently offship, and a message calling for help! It was very fun to color, and Ender loved watching me.

On an upper level of shelves: This is Ender's colorful view from some "windows." I suppose he's on an alien planet, I don't know and it doesn't matter. That's his kitty-keyboard in the foreground.

Ender at a window and counter (which by now has been decorated to look more like a counter--I think this spaceship will continue to evolve, so there may be no hope in keeping up with photos!). Above him is a bed for one of his teddy bears (his idea).

Badly taken, I admit. Just trying to show the layout of was very hard to do, actually, because I was balancing a huge flashlight and trying to keep the camera steady and trying to get Ender in the shot...all while crouching pregnant inside his fort. :|

From the outside! Ender at his counter with a mini flashlight and bowl of goldfish crackers.
I wanted this to be something I did with Ender as well as for him, but boy, that was difficult. He was rolling around and kicking and being crazy while I tried to hold it all together between taping and cutting. Silly boy. But it worked, it happened eventually! My guess is that I spent about three or four hours on it. And I am not at all ashamed at that usage of time! It was invigorating! Wonderfully fulfilling in the creative vein. Plus, I was trying to make up for all the times I kept knocking down Ender's tunnels; Michael brought these boxes home from work for just that purpose, and it was their special play thing. 

I just felt SO full of energy today! Major nesting day: I organized and decluttered both Ender's closet and the 2nd bedroom closet (yes, again...). They are both finally very accessible and lovely to look upon. Hallelujiah!
I spell that word differently every time...

Next: A hair flower clip thing made at Anne's during the SuperBowl...

I just plugged this into my bedtime hair, so there's nothing fancy going on in my style. Here's the thing, though: I don't think I like the black lace around it. I feel kind of stupid with it like that. BUT, everyone else making their flowers assured me they liked it better that way. Here's what it would look like otherwise...

For the middle, besides the sequins I mean, I singed the edges of three strips of the fabric (some shiny green stuff, I don't know what type) and braided them before twisting them into a rosette. A rosette is basically when you make a normal knot, "right over left, loose end through the hole," and then tuck the straggling ends around the loop and into the hole as well. That's probably not very clear... And uh, I don't remember exactly what I did for the ring of black lace around it, but I think I singed the edges of a circle of the lace to make it curl like a cup. And the outer edge? That was one very long, fairly wide strip of fabric folded paper-caterpillar-style from the middle. 
And if that frustrates you because I'm talking in how-to talk without the how-to, I'm so sorry. I can sympathize. I just have to tell you, I didn't follow a pattern when I made this, so there's not much "how-to" I can think of to share. :| Heh...Sorry...

OH YEAH! And I made two darling, teensy cherry-things that are not really designated for much besides something cute for my baby girl someday! 
Okay, I took pictures.
2011-02-16 22.07.40.jpg
At first I felt stumped that the stitches showed, but Aunt Amy said she liked them. And I realized I do too! 
2011-02-16 22.07.59.jpg
They might go on the brim of a soft beanie hat, they might end up as hair things, I don't know. 
I like them. They make me smile.

Friday, February 11, 2011

I Vant to Be Alone!

I feel just a teensy bit guilty. It's okay--it's okay. But I do.
I read this, and it's very true and well-said. But sometimes it's hard to read about things when you need it most. Because it's hard to want to change.
Specifically? Lately, I do tend to live for the naptime moments, the late night hours, the sliver of time that's my own in the mornings...I'm so tired, so tired that even saying "I'm so tired" makes me cry. I'm SO PREGNANT!
And watching someone else's baby for 9 hours a day and caring for my own son as well is definitely something I'm happy to do, but it's taxing in its own ways. I wouldn't expect it to have zero effect on me. Still, at the same time, I've not been good at enjoying very much of the day. Not this week.
So I probably needed to read that reminder from Mommy J (whose blog I don't yet follow--just happened upon it and took the liberty of linking for the sake of giving proper credit--is that taboo in the blogworld?).
I feel like Eliza Doolittle: I'm a good girl, I am.
I TRY. (Oh, there we go, that made me cry, too). I'm so glad to find moments of joy, and I do find them. It's just that lately those moments are especially short, and I have to try especially hard to find them.

You know, maybe? Maybe: this is just a pity moment, a pregnant moment, an emotional moment, and I'm even more okay than I thought, and I should just avoid blogging while I'm so...
yep, more tears:


But I wanted to write, because I want to be better. I want to try harder. I want to be affected by the wonderful things I read, especially when it seems that I really needed to read them. I want to learn, I want to grow.

It is simply exhausting, which on this pregnant body is expressed with a nuclear hormone explosion.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


It's a strange necessity...sometimes all I need is two seconds, and sometimes I need a good hour of all-out bawling. But even though it's often painful for me to cry (I just hate the sensation, I do), it's an undeniable relief. My body and mind feel washed out, even numb, when it's all over.

Usually, I'm good for a long time after crying. I can expect a nice, healthy drought for something like a month.
I consider myself very much on the sensitive side as far as characteristics would define me, but crying is such a personal act for me that I will avoid any public displays even if it tortures my will power to meet the challenge. The only exception is when I bear my testimony in church.

So, the last month has been a little off-setting for me. When I was pregnant with Ender, I only got emotionally tipsy at the end. This time, I'm a roller coaster. Anything will do it. I feel kind of helpless.
Michael called from school to chat, and after noticing the choppy hello I gave him and the halted answers following, he asked if I had been crying and what was the matter. I choked and said I couldn't answer--I just couldn't talk about it or I'd cry again, more. He asked why? About what? And I said "No!!! No, I'll tell you when you're home, but don't ask me or I'll cry! Let's talk about you!"

If I haven't cried every day the last week or two, I've at least come very close to crying every day.

It's exhausting.

I want a break. I want to be, like...well, numb. For just maybe an hour? Or maybe a whole day? Just so I can finally think clearly...

Then again I know being numb is boring, so I'm not complaining. Only a little, anyway.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The Elusive Daily Shower

So I was reading through my blog, and I realized that it's SO true that I'm pretty much always naked when I encounter a huge spider.
Naked also means wearing a robe/underwear, so don't get all awkward, guys.
But you know what? Either that means I need to check for sealing leaks on the bathtub (why do spiders like the shower? Don't they know it's a death trap for them?) or um...stop going around in my robe so much?

It all reminds me of a story my mom told me once about her mom, my grandma Bev. She had to pick up grandpa from work and hadn't gotten dressed yet that day (hallelujah, I'm not that weird). So she figured no one would notice her in a robe in the car.
I think I imagined her in curlers, too, but that's probably just my overactive (wonderfully so) imagination adding flavor.
Well, on the way, the car ran out of gas.
Completely out.
Grandma had to gas up the car! And boy was she embarrassed to stand around a gas station in her robe! She committed to never again make the same mistake, and she held to that promise.

A similar story? My mom didn't even remember where this came from, but it goes like this:

A woman wrote a book about her adventures as a housekeeper (before blogs came around otherwise I'm sure she'd be a blogger with the stories she told). One such story involved a big day of cleaning house while the kids were at school, and she just began collecting things from rooms as she made the rounds. She ran loads of laundry, too, and since she was home alone, she figured she'd just wash EVERYTHING. Including the clothes off her back.
As she went from room to room gathering things, she ended up with her son's football helmet on her head as well as a few other paraphernalia I'd have to make up since I don't remember. But all that and NAKED.
And then the meter man came to the door...and the worst part? She forgot she was NAKED.
And she answered the door.

But where do I fit in? I don't actually like to be naked, not completely. Not, purpose (Gee, aren't we getting personal on blogger tonight?). Still, if I haven't showered yet, I feel very unmotivated to get dressed, because doing that seems to crush all my chances of showering ever in the day. You know the feeling? And sadly, showering is not always a guarantee. Especially if Michael uses all the hot water--no way am I taking a cold shower, I'd rather suffer the grease of my hair and the stench of my pits for something like a week! I think.

Another story! One time--and this was in college, when I was single and unmommified and therefore had gobs of time that are now just a dream which all adds up to the fact that I had no excuse for this story to exist--I was in my art class eavesdropping while I worked on a project, and a girl said to her boy admirers, "Oh my gosh! I haven't showered in, like, THREE DAYS!" and I just about laughed and said "Hey, me too!" before I realized she might be kidding. And me? I wasn't kidding. So I sat quietly and pretended I was only paying attention to my project.

I've tried lately to get dressed early in the day...even if it means getting dressed in ugly pajamas. At least before I had the decency to wear a ROBE, right? That wasn't always the case. I can't help but be mystified, though, by all those women who look the same every day! It's like showering is a necessity for them or something! (Hhahahha, I secretly make me laugh with my jokes). There could be an earthquake and hurricane and...tornado and tsunami and...uh, volcanic eruption in the woman's neighborhood that day and she's forced to use only food storage items and there's no running water and still somehow, her makeup and hair look the same.
Not that I'm jealous. I like to have variety. It's the grungey days that make the glamorous days so exciting, right? And I'd go crazy if I wore the same colors of makeup every day, that's just me. But like I said, I'm mystified! How does life work like that for them? What weird spell has been cast over their home to actually make every day include a shower and a continuous repeat of hair and face? Whoa....a little too much for my brain!

Whatever. I don't know that I'll ever discover the secret, but I'll work on that shower thing. Like actually taking one every morning, not just the spider solution.
And I'm a pretty well-rounded reader of blogs, so I KNOW I'm not an alien for taking less-than-daily showers. You can't make me feel ashamed. Besides, I don't miss quite as many showers as I make it seem. ;)