My ever-eroding sanity

BJ is at church camp this week. I begged him not to go, but apparently, it's his job. So this is what happens when BJ leaves for a week:

• My Twitter feed becomes dribble about the loss of sanity.

• I miss church. I got caught up in a painting Sunday evening, and time passed without my noticing. I looked at the clock fifteen minutes after church had started. BJ is usually at a meeting before Sunday evening worship, but he always calls me at ten till to remind me to come.

• The dogs bark twice as much as usually. Without the head of the pack at home, they feel they have to be extra protective. If the tiniest noise is made outside, they start barking like we're being invaded. See, all of us are losing our sanity.

• I become paranoid about having my phone near me. The camp sight where BJ is has awful cell phone reception, so when he calls it means he made an effort to go find a spot with a bar or two of reception and he might not get a chance to call again for a while. Hence, my obsession with proximity to both my cell phone and house phone. I even take them to the bathroom with me.

• Unsuspecting items in our home become renovation projects. I was fidgety last night, so I painted the bar in our kitchen lime green.

• BJ's voice-mail box starts filling up with sappy confessions of loneliness and love from me. I haven't listened to classic country music all these years for nothing.
  

Needless to say, BJ needs to come home. We are a pathetic lot without him. All except for Tony. Tony is pretty happy with the current situation. But three outnumber one, so I think I'll just go leave one more voice-mail. Really, just one more.

three years

It's been three years since I tacked "Gensic" onto my name, and that means it has been three years of posts about ridiculous things BJ has said, Sienna's disgusting bodily functions, Tony's evilness, and Gus's sweet but stupid nature. It's been a good three years.

It has also been a tough three years. Being an adult can just really, thoroughly suck. I used to look at my father and wander what the world looked like from way up there. I wandered if the ground seemed far away. Of course, I figured it was pretty awesome.

One night, when we were sitting in the car waiting for Mom to come out of the grocery store, I naively mused to my father about how much fun it must be to be grown up. Dad said something to this affect: "Being an adult is hard and scary, and you should enjoy everyday you get to be a child." He's a cheery guy, isn't he? At least he was always honest with me, and I guess he tried to warn me.

This morning, I woke BJ up, whispered "happy anniversary," and set a card on his chest. It's a card made from recycled paper, which makes me happy. BJ's first words were, "Oh! I'm a terrible husband. I forgot to pick you up a card." He then proceeded to tell me "Happy anniversary" with morning breath. It was one of those moments that could only be endearing if you love each other despite it all. Despite having moved so many times you're still exhausted, or having fought the world, or having occasionally fought each other, or even knowing that you've seen the crazy in each other displayed in broad daylight.

So I guess here's another mushy blog post to add to the plethora of mushy blog posts in my archives. And here's hoping the Lord blesses us with another year of chaos sprinkled with mushy moments. I'll be sure to keep you posted.

One for my homies down in Texas

(Take note: I am in fact cool enough to use the word homies.)

I have heard many jokes cracked by Yankees about how Texans are fat. Since I'm not a confrontational person, my general response to these jokes is to think to myself, "Have you seen the rest of the country?"

Today, I was reading an article about obesity in America, and I came across this eye-opening sentence: "A number of impoverished states — including Montana, Texas and New Mexico — have relatively low levels of obesity." That's right. We have a "relatively low" level of fatness. We may be fat, but we're not that fat when you start looking around the rest of the country.

I've decided that most of the insults thrown at Texas (and believe me, insulting Texas is a favorite pass time of people outside of the Lone Star State) are due to the inferiority complexes of other states. These kicks below the belt really have nothing to do with Texas, and they have everything to do with those who like to throw the insults. So people, don't hate us because we are relatively skinny. It's all the jalapenos burning calories within us.

(As a side note, my Mom is contributing to making Texas skinnier. She has officially lost 25 pounds this year! Go Mom!)

Because the paint was goopy and pretty

Last night, I shelled some fresh beans from my CSA and put them on to boil. I seasoned them perfectly with jalapenos, onions, and a little bacon. I then went to the living room and practiced the piano. I almost got distracted and let them burn, but I caught it just in time to add more water. After playing the piano, I went to the art room to finish my bird painting (the afore-mentioned bird painting that distracted me from cleaning house when I was preparing for company). In that room, I got really, deeply absorbed in a specific shade of orangy-sienna. It was beautiful. About 45 minutes later I noticed a funny smell coming into the art room. The beans were burnt, and I mean burnt. It smelled disgusting.

I proceeded to yell "CRAP" as I ran to the kitchen. When I came back to the art room, BJ was sitting at his computer smiling at me. I said, "I forgot about the beans and burned them. They're ruined." BJ replied, "You're an artist. That's what you do. You burn beans." And as usual, he was right.

The crucial difference between me and my mother

My mom and dad live in a beautiful, two-story house built in the twenties. Through almost twenty years of constant renovation, they have made it a charming and warm refuge for family and friends. When BJ and I started house hunting, I purposely sought a house to reflect my childhood home, and I found it: two-stories, old, and quaint.

When my parents have visitors coming, my mother frets about her house. It has to be perfectly clean and perfectly charming. Like her, I fret, also. I want to create an atmosphere of peace and welcome for my visitors, so I come up with a long to-do list the week before we have company.

Tonight, I have four of BJ's family members coming in, and on Friday, we will welcome another 8 people. Those eight won't be sleeping at our house, but they will be spending the days this weekend in our home. So if you are counting, we will have twelve visitors for the Fourth.

So, in "I'm becoming my mother" fashion, I have made a long list for cleaning, and I've spent mental energy fretting over my house. But I have also discovered one crucial difference between me and my mother. When Mom has a cleaning agenda prior to company, she does it. When I have one, I go to my art room and paint a bird. This is problematic.

So I've spent the past few days playing with the mat board cutter my brother got me for Christmas and contemplating the best composition for a bird painting I've been prepping for over the past couple of weeks. Neither of these things contribute to a clean house. In fact, they both make a mess.

Thankfully, due to my new thyroid medication (that is a whole other blog post for another day) I have energy abounding, so I've managed to fit in cleaning here and there, and BJ's never-ending obbsession with clean floors hasn't hurt. So bring on the company. We're ready even if we're not ready quite to my mother's standard.