After a year of family therapy

Well, my family and I haven't really been in therapy, but we have been talking through things for about a year now.

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Ring, Ring

Hello Gobsmack's residence.

Hey Mom.

Hi hon, what's up with the kids?

Nothing new.

Do you have their costumes ready for Halloween? You know your Dad and I are coming up next Friday.

Yessss Mom, I know you are coming. I'm calling to make sure you are bringing the truck, we should move me down that weekend.

Yeah, we're bringing the truck. What are you going to dress the kids as?

(this is where I am starting to get pissed off)

Mom! You understand that I am involuntarily leaving this city, selling my house and moving my entire family up there. And I've called you five times this week and each time all you seem to talk about is the kid's Halloween.

Well, you're going to let them go trick or treating right?

MOM! I never NOT let them go trick or treating. What the hell?

Well, your father and I just want to make sure they get to go.

Ok. Mom. Look. I am very scared about all of this. I am kind of having a mini-meltdown about it. I need you to say it'll be ok, I need you to be there for me and support me.

We are letting you move in aren't we? What more support do you need?

Mom. Look. Jeff and I are very very thankful that you are letting us stay in your basement until we can sell the house and buy a new one. But I need emotional support.

If moving bothers you so much then don't move.

MOM!!! look. You know how hard I have tried to find a job here. It just isn't going to happen. I have to move Mom you know this. I just need you to say it is going to be alright.

Sweetheart, you know your Dad and I aren't that way. We've talked about this. We are just more task-orientated than you. You deal with things by thinking about them. And going on about it. We are task people.

(silence for a while, I let it sink in for the fortieth time)

Yah, I know. I just have to give you lists. You can help me pack and move a bunch of stuff when you come up. Are you bringing the truck?

Are the kids going to be ready for trick or treating?

Yes.

Well, yes, we've cleared out the back for your dresser. And we are bringing up our Rubbermaid's to help you pack.

Ok Mom.

Ok Holly.

Love you.

Give those kids a big kiss and we love you.

See you Friday sweetheart.

True to their word, they had brought the truck and had no less than 6 big Rubbermaid packed when I got home from work on Friday.

And I know she will never read this blog, but,

Thanks Mom. Thanks for doing what you can.

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Now go, get some candy!!

I blog cause I love

My week thus far:

Leave house at 6.20 am, watch sunrise as I drive, arrive in thick rush hour traffic, arrive 10 minutes late for training that begins at 8 am. Sit through training for 8 hours. Drive home 15 lbs heavier because of the paperwork.

Long effing days people. Two more to go. Wee-hee!!

But I blog 'cause I love.

I am training in the same city this story occurred in. I haven't been back since really. This journey I take each morning, into this crowded city, is stirring all sorts of things in my belly and head.

But no, not now. No laying it bare right now. My dogs is barking.

Instead you get photos of the wee studio apartment that housed the pig's head. The walk in closet of the studio, housed my army cot. The main area served as living quarters for my artist friend. He of the pig instillation art piece.

Really, this city took my innocence. I was a babe in these woods. I was nineteen, decided to take a year off of school, had never seen an African American, was a radical feminist. I was very aggressive, yet kind and loving in so many ways.

I was easy pickin' for psychopaths and confidence men. I am lucky I made it out alive really. I use to smoke American Spirits and walk around at three am, all buzzy. I was without rules or obligations. It was a long, punk and naked year.

And then there was getting hit by a car. Seven fractures of the skull...Coma for a week . . Ya'll don't need to hear this. Not now anyway.

Ok back to the studio apartment. Again, the one with the pig's head that had a patch sewn into it.

PHOTOS!!

This is outside the wee studio apartment, through a window. The yellow bike was mine. It was on the first floor (duh). Take note of the back of the photo. You can make out a fridge and a stove. This will be important later. You can click the photos to make them bigger BTW.






Walking straight back from the first photo, you will find the kitchen. Note the sink. You could lean against the wall while you were doing dishes. The fridge was facing the stove. So you couldn't open the fridge and the oven door at the same time, lest the clang together.




BEHOLD: My first writing instrument, my beloved Brother word processor. The front folded down and was the key board (click here to see a picture of a Brother word processor.) The paper's taped to the front are from a journal I was published in (it was a local college journal).



It had it's own floppy disks. Mr. Hall lovingly transferred all my writing onto this very computer I am blogging from. Maybe I will find my older stuff someday. Alas, the Brother is no more. You can wikipedia the brother word processor if you would like. It makes me too sad to find it.


And, in the spirit of realizing all about the dark side and becoming quite coated in it.

The Toadies "Possum Kingdom"



I could write about any number of things from that time. Let's do some word association. Ya'll throw out random words and I will match a story to it from my year abroad. Limit three.

ROCK ON READERS and FELLOW BLOGGERS!!!

Here's to letting paying heed to the muse, even when you're tired and crabby.

The next Mr. Hall

Now is the time on Mrs. Hall when I type out stories I have spoken many times before.

When I was 13, all awkward insecurity, body of a woman, mind of a kid, we would take these long car trips to see relatives. Ten hours in the K car each way. Me, my Mom, my Dad and my brother.

During these trips, as was the fashion of the day, I listened to rap music. It was really popular back then. Yo MTV raps was one of my favorite shows.

And there was one man, one rap artist who I listened to more than most. And he spoke of himself like a God. I didn't know it was possible to talk about yourself like that. To think of yourself like that.

My first cassette of his did not have an "A or B" side, rather "Bigger and Deffer".

If he ever shows up at my door and says, "Hey, baby, come on now", I'll say, "Give me five minutes to pack", and if he says, "No baby, I gotta go now" Then I will be gone.

;)

Either way, his music gave a voice to use. A way of being comfortable.

Ladies and Gentleman, put your hands together for James Todd Smith,

Also known as LL Cool J.

This is "I'm Bad" and it's still my personal anthem.




Favorite Lyric "Forget oreo's eat Cool J cookies"

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If you will have none of this--try this on.

And remember, her bikini was small, heels tall, she said, she likes the ocean . .



Extra potter's ground points if you can name the porn star and music producer in this video.

Salad days of yore

First day of my new job went well. Well, it was 8 hours a sitting through orientation. Power point, power point, power point . . . . two more days like this. Man o man!

Can't complain though, no longer will I have drive, drive, drive. No more home health. No more flicking roaches off my red back pack.

This looks to be a thin week in terms of blogging. In fact, I may have to slow the train a bit overall. At my new job, I will be responsible for all sorts of things. No more blogging on company time. After all, I don't have the company laptop anymore.

People come to me now. They come to see me and I will charge them. I am thusly responsible for 'production numbers' aka seeing a certain amount of patients in my office each day. They and their insurance company will get their monies worth!

I can't wait to see my office. (squeek!)

But, what I will lack in quantity of posts, I hope to make up for in quality (I hope anyway). The salad days of slacking at will are over. ;)

So for, let's entertain ourselves with this little ditty. And remember the salad days of Miss Holly Madison.

:)



RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVEERRRRR!!!!!!!

White people with dreadlocks

When I started posting videos like this, I know it is time to go back to yoga. I went and had a couple of epipha-trees.

Wherever I am, geographically, work wise, what have you, I bristle. I actively engage in rebellion. Of course, being a productive and stand up citizen, it is subversive rebellion. Subterfuge sabotage.

For instance, at work, when I am handed tasks that I don't want to do, or I disagree with, I don't do them. I never say this out loud or complain about it. This is an advantage I have being a nurse. There is a LARGE shortage of nurses out there people. They need all the help they can get.

Sometimes, I work with nurses that are of questionable quality. This does not apply to me. I am a fantastic nurse.

I do what is important and do it really well. I spend my energy wisely like that. After, I play dumb about the stuff I don't want to do. And because they need me, and because both the nurses and the nurses in management are overloaded, I get away with it.

Mhwah haa haa! (That's an evil genius laugh right there)

Rage against the machine, old school style

Also, I never, ever raise a fuss. I don't bring emotional drama, rage against the machine energy, or active substance abuse issues to the office. (This is what I mean by questionable quality). Overall, I am a very, very low maintenance worker. My former employers love me. My former coworkers love me. LOVE ME.

Even if I never learned how to do those TPS reports.

This subterfuge sabotage happens outside the work. I live in a very liberal town right now. There is a large percentage of white people with dreadlocks.

Ok, let me say that again....

and please click on the word for visual proof...

WHITE PEOPLE WITH DREADLOCKS.

Thus, I subtlely poke fun of the hippies.This is very very easy. Their inherent rage against the machine is always churning, always ripe for the picking. Very easy to get someone all riled up. Just compliment Sarah Palin.

And why can't people just lighten the fuck up about politics and religion? Ya know, we all have a choice here.

IT CAN BE FUN OR SUCK, YOUR CHOICE!

In the core of me, deep down, is a glowing orb of happy and positive. I see the absurdity of it all. And really, I know what can and cannot be done. The universe is filled with ugly and good. I do good, very good. However, there will be no conquering all the evil. And no, this does not make me mad or make me want to rage against the machine. It is what it is. The truth.That truth was another epipha-tree during yoga.

My glowing orb of happy makes me smile and make jokes. People seem to like me. If I let them. Positive confidence, friendliness and charity--this attracts people. People are attracted to me.

Yet, there is this subversiveness. This urchin quality to me. I don't accept the invitations from others, usually. And when I practiced the Bikram Yoga I asked myself why. And as always, I had the answer in the end.

Nothing, and I mean nothing except the tribe called Hall, is permanent for me. Even this move, this new job. It will be for two or three years tops. I will aways be a nurse turned nurse practitioner. Just not in the same place. Honestly though, I want to settle into permanent outside the tribe, it just won't happen until I can set down roots.

Thus the poking fun of the white people with dreadlocks.

WHITE PEOPLE WITH DREADLOCKS PEOPLE!


Making fun or playing dumb allows me to keep a small and sturdy wall up. Yet there is a change coming. I feel it. After all, I try not to write posts just to state the obvious status or me and mine. Well, at least not anymore.

Time will tell if I can stop being a brat. I will however, never ever stop making fun of

WHITE PEOPLE WITH DREADLOCKS!



I mean, what the hell! Dude, that is sooooooooooooo nasty. ug.

I heart the talking back

Not much to say today.

I do like hearing what ya'll say. I really like the comments. It meets my unmet social needs. That's right, I said it. This blog community provides some social interaction. I have kids. They are all consuming. It is hard enough to socialize with the guy I actually sleep with.

I will say that I like to comment. I try to add something to the conversation when a thought is sparked or if the post is plain awesome. But, I will hold back if i've nothing to say.

So, enjoy the past posts. Comment at will. I enjoy hearing from you. And I certainly hope you enjoy your stay, however brief, at La Blog de Senora Hall.

Free beer on the forth

Steph tagged me with a meme.

Pic the fourth meme in your cache and describe it. Sounds like a interesting meme.

Which is good. I feel kind of quiet today. It will be my last day at my job. Last day as a registered nurse. I can't help but feel a little weepy. Who am I kiding? I'm a mess.

A good mess though.

But, on to the meme.

I couldn't pick my fourth picture in my file. My kids are 99% of my photos. I don't want to expose them too much.

So this is my and my daughter. At my graduation ceremony this May.

She tackled me after I left the stage.

I am the luckiest Mom in the world.

Hands down.

I think the photo really speaks for itself.

But.

If you want more info on this photo. Click here.

If you want to see the other meme's, click on the labe, Free Beer.

Ya'll have a good weekend.

Got any good plans?

A swift smack

This is twice now.

Twice in eight years.

For the past four days, I have been bemoaning the current status of a Tribe Called Hall. The toddler boy Mac and his Mommy will move up to my parent's in two weeks. A few weeks after later, the little girl Pancake will follow. After about two month's time, Mr. Hall will join us.

Long ago we had made a pact that I wouldn't spend weekends alone with my parents. It was too stressful for me. He should always be there. As a buffer and sanity saver. But he can't come up right away. How am I going to live with them without him?

He stays behind to ready the house for sale. We will see each other on weekends and the drive will be brutal. Four hours. But, my job has to start because the loans are roaring back.


sigh.


And that song up there, in two paragraphs, is what I have been singing for four days. He has listened and stepped it up husband wise. Taking extra care by rubbing the feet, doing the dishes and letting me take the second shower of the night. More hot water that way. I still don't quite understand how that works.

Then, as I started the song tonight, I turned to hang up my jacket. And it happened for the second time in eight years. A swift smack on the bottom.

He spanked me.

And he is really strong. It really, really hurt. It was as singular surgical strike. I buckled.

Then he calmly said, "Look, this is wonderful. All this change is bringing us, the kids, to a better life. You know that you are good at this job and yes it will be hard at first as we move and you learn the ropes but really, suck it up. This is only temporary, all that matters is that we are moving forward. There is nowhere but up."

I believe that is technically called knocking some sense into someone. Mr. Hall has a very husbandly way of handling me. Of helping me get over my crazy whiny energy. Very strong, very deft. All alpha and all love.

And he is right. This is awesome. I love what I will be doing and dammit if I haven't worked so hard to get here. My kids get all sorts of GranmaGranpa love. My parent's and I have actually discussed ways to not kill each other. They have promised to let me cook the 'healthy stinky' food. They are actually being tender about the whole deal.

And it is nothing but awesome. I have the hand print to prove it!

This is my life, right here

These are the items in my trunk. Note the stroller. The yoga mat. And the big, red, Swiss army backpack with the Litmann Stethoscope. Next time you watch ER look for the big L on the stethoscope. That would be Litmann. They are the best stethoscopes on the market for the money.

For those of you just tuning in, I currently work as a home health nurse. That back pack has a TON of nursing supplies from blood pressure cuffs (click on the words for illustrations of the following items) to sharps containers to otoscopes to wound and debridement kits. (For more on wound debridement, and you know you want to, go here ;) It fits everything a nurse needs while tending on the go. It is a great back pack. Steller even.

And not the brown jacket, better picture here. I wore it into a patient's house who was a heavy smoker. She funked up my jacket! And then, I put it in the trunk and my entire trunk got funked up.

The smell got better after airing things out, but jeez!

This is why I am not dressing like a grown up at this job!

O-and the box, a booster seat for Mac because his too darn big for the high chair anymore. Which is a shame because you can strap kids into the high chair and make dinner. No so with the wee booster seat.

Crazy old people stories as viewed by a nurse

As I transition from registered nurse to psychiatric nurse pracitioner, my stories will also change. So far, I've spoken mostly about my current home health job. This is pretty easy to disguise as most patients have the same diagnoses and live in two dimensional houses. Not so easy with the mental health population.

As a psychiatric-np I will, for the most part, listen to people's stories. Everyone has a different way of talking. And while you can line up ten people with sinus infections and pretty much get the same symptoms, the same is not true of ten people with depression. Or schizophrenia, or OCD. Everyone is different and reports their symptoms accordingly.

What my patients give me, are tiny broken Robin's eggs. They have been sitting on them for so long, trying to take care of them all by themselves, they have actually squished them. Make no mistake, no one comes to my office voluntarily. Their families have given them ultimatums, their work is requiring it or the legal system says see me and cooperate or it's jail. Sometimes they are resigned to their fate. Sometimes they spit nails they're so mad.

All in all, that is the art of nursing. How to open those that are closed. It begins with meeting them where they are, what they hold dear. And putting them firmly in charge of the game. I am just a tool to help them self-actualize. To become who they want to be.

It is a skill I learned during my first health care job, a 'personal care worker (PCW)' with the mentally retarded or developmentally disabled as they are now known. I have never had such job satisfaction as when I taught someone, at age 56, how to dial a phone. Or helped a 34 year old have less outbursts in public so she could go to her beloved taco bell. It lit a fire in me that has been burning since age 19.

I moved up from PCW to certified nursing assistant (CNA) in a nursing home. This is truly God's work. Tending to dementia patients and their fragile bodies. Although, some of them were a good 300 lbs. The CNA's job is to help feed, dress and keep clean those that cannot for themselves. Nothing will influence my prescribing behavior more than this. To this day I cannot wrap my mind around 90 year olds needing 14 pills a day. Big horse pills too. Crushing them up in applesauce because they can no longer swallow properly. Wait, that is when I was a registered nurse in the nursing home. I helped people on their way out when I worked there. I watched life slip out of those I cared for. Death, like birth, is a miracle.

Either way, my first exposure to wild stories from the elderly was in the nursing homes. Those that have 90 years and a brain full of dementia can wind some interesting yarns. They also interpret things differently. I will always remember opening the door at six pm so Mable could feed the chickens. And while she hadn't lived on a farm for 30 years, I still delighted in hearing how it went. How the big ones always bullied the little ones. She even had names for them.

I was kind about these types of stories. Half the people would just ignore their stories or roll their eyes. "Crazy old people stories", they'd say.

And I suppose, someday it will be my turn to tell stories. I plan on outliving each and everyone. Well, not my kids, but . . . I have lots and lots of crazy stories. No one will believe them I'm sure.

Like the story of how, when I was 19, I left for the big city. I moved into a studio apartment with an artist. I had an army cot in the walk in closet that I slept on. He slept in the main room and had padlocks on all his stuff. The artist was a creepy guy. He went to a very expensive art school in the city. He liked to do 'art installations' with dead animals. One such project involved a pig's head he got from the local butcher. It was kept in our fridge for a week. He sewed an anarchy patch on it's forehead.

Pfft. Artists.

See, now who is going to believe that story from an old crazy lady?

The odd never ends

Random bits of dialogue heard at the House of Hall:

Mrs. Hall on cell to Mr. Hall: "Ok, babe, see ya soon." Hangs up.

Pancake: "Mommy, you didn't say kisses smooches!"

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Mr. Hall on why he won't try veggie burgers:

"I don't support food that is trying to be other food. I mean, you don't see carrots pretending to be bread or beets trying to be strawberries. I love vegetables, I love eating them, but not when they are trying to fake me out as a burger."

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Mac: "MAMMA OPEN DOOR!"

(It would be his first sentence I believe, man o man how cool is that? My son can now connect words to make sentences!)

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While Mrs. Hall is backing up the car and putting on her seat belt at the same time:

Pancake: "MOMMY! I didn't know the could start when you aren't holding the steering wheel!"

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As Mr. Hall explains why he needs to go to the battery store because his truck battery died after work.

Mrs. Hall (interupting the story): "Ok, um, how hard do I have to listen to this story? I mean, you got home right? You didn't call me so I am assuming that it worked out somehow, I mean, um, do I have to help you at the end of the story or what?"

Mr. Hall: "No babe, all you had do to is listen to the story, but I see you don't really wanna. Love ya anyway though."

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OK OK. I realize just how rude my statement was. But come on, I had just spent 48 alone with the kids and they were in bed for the night. I was settling in to watch 30 rock on hulu (thanks Mr. Ajooja for making it's existence known to me!)

So no, I didn't listen to his story in the end. Dead batteries firmly fall under the MR. section of the marriage. Ok, moving on then .....
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And last but not least and I swear to God this is true.

Pancake:

She actually came into the room, all scared for me.

She actually said, "MOMMY, MOMMY, are you ok?!!"

We had to explain that everything was ehem, just fine.

;)

hee hee hee

Pancake picks a song, Mr. Hall provides subtext

The song:



The very weird subtext that I have no idea how Mr. Hall knows these things but he knows a lot of things that I had no idea about:

CLICK HERE

So far so Good

When I arrive in the office, people ask "How's it going?"

My stock reply is, "So far .. So Good."

I find it more pleasing to say than "Ok" or "Good!". It will often elicit a chuckle.

"The day is young!" They say back, with a wee gaffaw.

har har har.

It is rather pleasing for both parties.

But let me get a little personal here and tell you my day. So far.

And I write this, because I love every minute of it. :)

Woke up at 5.30 am. Mr. Hall works some weekends. This means he rises at the butt crack of dawn and keeses me. Buh-bye babe, see ya Sunday night.

These weekends, as a De facto single Mom, use to give me the galloping terrors. "How am I going to do this alone with two kids?", I'd say. Now it is like breathing.

I begin to cough and hack, spasm style. I pop some sugar free Halls and dive head long into a Sopranos dream. If I wake near the morning hours and fall back asleep, my dreams are guaranteed to be ultra vivid, 3-d and disturbing. This is no different.

Photo by Annie Leibowitz

I hear Pancake's pitter patter and hear her gently calling me. She is next to my bed asking me where Daddy is. "He's at work sweetie. Now, you can come into bed or go down stairs and watch PBS kids." She is almost six, she can work the remote all by herself.

She leaves and I hear her scooping dog food. I feel proud of her because I didn't have to tell her to "let the dog out and feed him two scoops." She is actually doing it, by her ownself. I slip into flashes of my Sopranos dream.
She begins to talk to Mac. Grrrr. "Paaaanncaaake, waking up your brother was not one of the options, either come here and cuddle or go downstairs for PBS kids.", I call. Mac is almost two, he needs his sleep. So does Mommy.

At this point, if you are a parent, you surely must realize the futility of this statement. The war is lost people. The kids are up. It is eight am. Actually, not too bad!

"Moommmy, Charlie is feeding the dog... I thought it was Daddy."

At this point a lot of things go through my mind. First, "CRAP!" The food dish we have is pictured below. Last time Mac was messing around the the dog food, he got water in the storage section and I spent a week cleaning it and drying it out. Apparently, the food will grow mold if you don't clean it properly the first time.

Our dog is much, much bigger.

Well, turns out I should have just listened to Mr. Hall on how to clean it properly, but what does he know?

Next thought, "CRAP!" Mac can now open his door. He also went down two sets of stair cases into the basement to get at the food. I am impressed with his motor skills.

I rise, cough a lot, and peek down stairs. Mac is scooping and unscooping a handful of food in and out of the dish. The dog, looking so pitiful, dutifully waits behind Mac. Being teased with this ritual.

Dog gets let out. THERE WAS NO WATER IN HIS DISH!! Wee hee!

Mac is brought up stairs, changed (not to bad for a morning diaper), baby gate firmly put back up.

"EEEEAT, EAT!", says Mac. He is learning about five new words a week.

Fruit and cream oatmeal made, kids plopped on table. I go upstairs to search for a Kleenex box in earnest. I hear Pancake saying, "Mac, can you say Mama? Can you say Daddie?" He does and they delight in their morning conversation.

I tie my hair up, bra on, hot washcloth across my face.

Oh my gaaaaawwddd, that is heavenly.

Bangs wetted, smile across face.

Mac doesn't do that bad, got most of the oatmeal in his mouth. He wants more, and whines. I remind him that whining get him upstairs for a time out. He stops, ponders, and says, "Peeasee". Good boy Mac! So proud, so proud!


Pancake asks again, as she will about forty more times each day, "How many more days till Halloween?"

We reaffirm out costume choice for trick-or-treating. The tribe called Hall goes in unified costumes. Last year we were all red devils. This year:

Zombies!!!

Click on the word 'Zombies' to find out why we are so stoked!

Then we chill for a while, I am determined to drink coffee before we head to the park. DETERMINED!!!

I hope there are other kids at the park for Pancake. There is such an age difference between the two I can't properly play with her because I am chasing Mac.

And she will show me, all proud of herself, that she can climb on the monkey bars. First skill learned at kindergarten.

Now, if she can only learn how to use the swings by herself.

So, How's it going with you?

Dressing like a grownup

Those boots people. Look at them. Love them.

Often, a woman is not satisfied with how she looks unless she is calm within herself. This will be my challenge as I go about growing up.

My look, right now, is best described as stylish, thrift-store chic Mom. That is only on weekends and at night. During my day, as I go about tending to those living in the ghetto, well, I wear a lot of Goodwill clothes. My patients are often heavy, heavy smokers. My clothes get all funked up. So, I wear clothes that are clean and such. But they are Goodwill quality.

I am about to transition from the home health care to a real clinic. I will have my own office (squeak with delight!) And while those that walk through my office door may be disheveled, I feel it is my duty to look put together and attractive. Wearing just a touch of make-up.

After all, if you are in my office, you are most likely not feeling well. Not feeling well in the head. That carries it's own special kind of scary. Like being on a plane that is experiencing turbulence. You look to the stewardess to see if she is freaking out. But she is not, she is there, all put together, hair untosselled.

This is also why I am going to be starting a boot camp. I have lost 35 lbs but I am a weakling. I plan to building girly guns to help lift my patients up. And as I advise them about their self care, I want them to see I walk the walk.

There are a few barriers here. I don't shop well. Especially for pants. No woman likes shopping for pants. If you are a man, you only have to know two numbers for this task. Even if you land on Mars, you can still walk into a store blindfolded, and tell the salesgirl those two numbers and viola! Pants that fit.

For women it goes like this (to the salesgirl on Mars): Ahem, I am Mrs. Hall and in the Juniors section I am a size 9-11, Missess section, 4-6.

Go ahead, ask any woman what her jean size is. If she doesn't give you two sets of ranges then she is lying. Wait, don't ever ask a woman what her jeans size is. Bad idea.

OK THEN, MOVING ON.

Another barrier is that I am profoundly cheap. Hence the mountains of crappy, dollar store clothes that don't fit right. This is not the grown up way of shopping.

Thus, tonight I shopped for an hour and half. Tried on 50 some pairs of pants to find 2 that fit correctly. But that is not all. For the last year or so I have been slowly acquiring dresses.

O MY DEAR LORD IN HEAVEN!

At my new job, I get to wear dresses every day. That fact alone has made the student loans more palpable.

And I must say. I was kind of shocked while trying on those pants. I don't actually have full length mirrors at my house. So, I am still very surprised at my new, fit body. And I must say, I do look smoking in my new pants. But, in a very grown up way.

The odd never ends

A few odds and ends today.

1. Potter's ground will return all shiny and new Nov 3rd.

2. I have debuted a new name, Holly Hall. In part for the Holly post, in part because it is a bouncy name. A lite name. I am striving to be light. And it sounds good with Hall. And Gypsy clinched the decision with her comments in the Holly post.

I have done the requisite "Holly Hall" google vanity search for this name. Here are a few gems.

Holly Hall is the owner of this fine bull. She is selling the semen at a fantastic price.

These fine kids go to Holly Hall school. Note the enthusiasm for their award. Note the goalie who is having none of it.

Holly Hall the historical building.

and

The Holly Hall Band
http://myspace.com/thehollyhallband

Their music is earnest.

3. I will be starting two new threads on this blog. I will be starting a new exercise program, one of those 90 day boot camps. I shall write about it with all that I can. Should be fun.

The other thread will be about my parents. I will begin to cohabitate with them as I build a new life for the Tribe Called Hall four hours away from here. That's right, I will be moving back in with my parents. At age 32 no less. Moving into their basement no less. Well, it will only be a few months.

I think I will have to purchase a bong or somesuch.

Actually, that maybe a good idea what with the tension that is sure to ensue. I could use some chilling out.

Wait, I am randomly drug tested now for my new job.

Alas, the my opportunity for a love affair with Mary Jane has passed.

See ya'll later,

Holly

Artist of high quality: NotKeith

Illustration by NotKeith (c) 2008


In my meanderings around the bloggerhood, I noticed Not Keith's blog. Being one that enjoys art, I followed it for a while.



It keeps getting better and better.


Click on the sentence above for his personal site.



And now, he is done a drawing for me. That is what you see above this text. Click to make it bigger. Go ahead, I'll wait.



He drew it in response to this post I wrote.



And at the end of this exchange I am truly humbled to be part of a process much greater than NotKeith or Mrs. Hall. There is an exchange of artistic energies that happens each day, when bloggers spur each other on. I will be forever thankful for this gift.



Thank you NotKeith, a thousand thank yous.

What love is eight years later

Today is our wedding anniversary.

Eight years ago, I married the best man walking.

I could thank him for a thousand things, but I'll pick the top five.


To my Husband, Mr. Hall

1. Thank you for leaning in whenever I talk.

2. Thank you for helping calm my crazy woman, ADD, nervous Wife and Mom energies.

3. Thank you for what you know what. And let me thank you again for that ;)

4. Thank you for supporting me without question and helping make my dreams come true.

5. And above all, thank you for loving me like you do, for making me your Wife and knocking me up and giving me these beautiful babies.

I love you so much. Happy Anniversary Love!

Here's our song...I can't help but cry when I listen to it. Gets me every time.

Job update!

Remember this post (click here)

Well, on the way home, they called and offered me the job.

And yes, oh yes, I said yes.

NOW, my task this weekend:

Driving The Tribe Called Hall four hours away, looking at apartments, day cares and schools. We are moving for my new job within the month. This weekend is all about getting the lay of the land before we move.

And we will be staying with my parents.

Lord help us all.

Have a good weekend.

What are ya'll up to this weekend?

NOO! SAY IT AIN'T SO HOLLY!!!

Holly and Hugh Hefner have broken up.

So it has come to this. This woman over there, Miss Holly Madison, is not getting her man. Not getting the Princess Wedding at the Disney Castle. And not birthin' no baby bunnies.

It is upsetting. I was so rooting for this doll of a woman. Read this post for why.

It is very, very upsetting. I liked Holly. Girl's Next Door was the last cable show I watched before my cable disappeared. I watched it and discussed the girls at some length with Mr. Hall, started to think about buying their booble head dolls and their perfume . . . . maybe that is why Mr. Hall took the cable away.

This is what this is really about, this fascination with Miss Holly. It all comes down to Mr. Hall.

Ya see, when I was in nursing school, the man who would be my husband moved to the tiny, oh so tiny town I lived in. It consisted of one, highly ranked college and a redneck bar on every corner. He said to me then, and says to me now, "Babe, if you ever wonder if I love you, remember where I moved for you."

He was passive aggressive against the town. He wouldn't learn his way around the town. Although, that was a ruse, I mean, it only had like three main streets. He wouldn't get a job. He basically just studied his microsoft manuals and took care of me. Another thing he wouldn't do is ask me to marry him.

We had discussed marriage. We decided to marry. We wanted three kids. I had gone to http://www.adiamondisforever.com/ , designed a ring and emailed it to him. But he wanted to make sure it was right. "Babe, I will only do this once."

So there he was, no job, no asking him to marry me. The family was really great about it. Well, not really. But if it was my daughter I don't think I could have held my tongue. I don't think I ever told them he paid for the rent and for groceries. He was technically supporting me. But, even though he was this and crazy monkey love, there was no ring.

And the day before the day before I graduated I sort of had a meltdown. It was in the month of May, about two years into the relationship. It had become unbearable to me, just living with him. We loved each other so much. I wanted to be Mrs. Hall. Our future was stalled. Unable to start. I remember weeping and sobbing. Choking out the words, "You have to decide, either ask me by the end of the summer or that's it. I want to start our life."

The next night, the night before I graduated, we went out to dinner. He asked, "Where is a nice resturant around here?" (Again, he refused to learn the town.) I drove to the Olive Garden but he kind of freaked out when we got there. "Babe, no, no, this is not a nice resturant!" We drove about an hour out of town. This place was so fancy, I had never been there.

During the dinner he handed me a letter. It was my proposal in three typed paragraphs. The last line was, "Will you be my wife?"

You could have picked my up off the floor. Here is the ring.

He designed it himself. In fact, for the previous four months, he had been designing the ring, choosing the diamonds and working with the jeweler on every detail. Did I tell you he was an engineer? He was crafty, that man of mine. Four months of going to a jewelery store, working every detail to his satisfaction. I had no idea. Clueless was I. And then I found out I was actually with him when he bought the ring. He is lucky he has a such a distractable wife.

In the end, I feel for Holly. Even though I really believe she loved Hef, it would have been a bad idea to marry him and have babies. In this crazy mess, I belief Hef was the voice of reason.

Hef says, "She'd like to be married and have children, but it's not in the cards here for me. There has to be some reality there."





Le sigh





At least she'll have the photos...




WAIT A MINUTE... She is blonde, has a very nice boobin' and my GOD! She is only four years younger than me. And isn't Hef like 82?

Ok, that's it!

Go forth Dear Holly, you'll be just fine.

Holly, hmm, that's a good name no?

Picking out a name for Mrs. Hall: part one

Mrs. Hall (that's me) is picking out a first name in the next week or so.

As usual, I am taking some time and considerable thought over the matter.

So far, suggestions have included Xena, Delphi and a whole list of Johnny Cash related names from my twin blogger Gypsy girl. O-if anyone has any other suggestions, please put them in the comments.

Anywho-Gypsy girl is a separate girl from me, but we share a lot of same sensibilities. Her blog is pretty awesome. Check it out.

As I examine the names she brought forth, one stuck out: Delia.

It is from the song posted below.

Be forewarned, this is not a gentle song by any means. But, this song is represents a sliver inside the giant Sequoya tree of Mr. Cash's music. I do like the song. It is not a personal anthem by any means. But, I think of it now and again.

Let's listen and watch. And if it says anything to you, good, bad or ugly, speak up.

Potter's Ground Extra: Tell the meaning of this DREAM

This post is about finding the meaning of my dream, not the picture. Please click here for the dream.




If you can tell me the meaning of this dream, you get 10 points.

(just click on that sentence to go to the real post.)

O- I am choosing a first name, feel free to suggest one in the comments :)



Good Luck!

Eventually, all women talk about this

Eventually, all women talk about this.

I will only discuss the movie briefly. So bear with me. :)

Because my husband loves me, he acquired a copy of the movie "Sex and the City." Now, I was not a huge fan of the series. More of a fan of what the series said. That being the back and emotional stories of the women. And while it got into some depth, it was never quite that deep.

Either way, because my husband loves me, we drank wine and watched the series and he listened as I rehashed several previous relationships and how I had been hurt. Good times.

The movie was a fuck all disappointment. And I can tell you why.

Somewhere along the line, the writers become obsessed with interjecting things like post-feminism, meaningless consumerism, and Sarah Jessica Parker started to write her 'ideas' into the script. And while I have no problem with any of these story lines or abject influences, when you interject what you want to say with what your write, the story dies on the page.

Again, the movie was a fuck all disappointment.

My God, there was a fashion show right in the middle of it. Poor Mr. Hall, he powered through the entire thing. Didn't even nod off. Whined a bit, but simmered down when I asked him to. All because he loves me.

But let's pause to consider the proverb:

What you don't like about others, you don't like about yourself.

And let's expand it out the writing in this movie, and it's sophomoric meanderings and stupidness that got to me so bad. Why did it irritate me so? Because I see part of my writing in it. Part of my writing here, in this blog.

As I expose my self here I find myself getting defensive. I am a minority. I am happily married, not into bondage or wife swapping of any kind, have two great kids, and truly am blessed. I am normal. Complicated and a bit odd sure, but in a very normal way.

And my defensiveness gets into my writing. I set things up to justify what I want to write and THUS IT BEGINS TO STINK AROUND HERE LIKE THE GOD AWFUL SEX AND THE CITY MOVIE.

So let me declare NO MORE!

Ya'll get who I am by now. But let me change directions from explaining and or justifying it. Let me really start to write here. Let me go in a direction that doesn't begin with fear or righteousness.

And let's be better for it. You and me.

Let's begin with a little name change.

How about I start using a first name.

How about Emily?

Or Sadie?

Any suggestions?

And while we are at it, any suggestions for the muse? Wax, palm trees, or mountain goats?

And then, let's truly begin what we are all here for.

:)

Mrs. Hall

Potter's Ground: Round One

Time again has come for Potter's Ground.
This month's theme is America and the Democratic Process:


To goal is to guess the musical reference. The first person who guesses correctly gets ten points. If you aren't that person, you can still gather points (up to five) by telling me about a personal connection to the music.

For a complete description of the game click here.

Let's begin with a continuation of Johnny Cash shall we?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Name all the animals in this song and tell me your favorite:

Dear White Trash Mom:

Photo by: Lotus07, Models: unknown

Hypocrisy, (Lotus07 Blog)

Dear White Trash Mom:

I enjoyed our little chit- chat at the grocery store today. And thank you for letting my daughter tickle your baby girl's toes and coo over her. How old is she now, four months? Already getting her little baby teeth, so cute!! Most Mothers never let strange kids touch their babies. After all, kids are vectors.

And I do appreciate the discussion about clothes. I did mean what I said, your baby girl's dress was quite lovely. And yes, garage sales are so much fun!

But, can I speak to you for second? Mother to Mother? One white trash mom to another? And yes, I qualify for the moniker white trash, after all, you can take the girl out of the trailer park . . . .

First, let's talk about what you are wearing. I understand the issue here. I know what happens to a Mom's body after kids. Our bodies are like deflated balloons. However, there is no need to wear skin tight tank tops and too small jeans. It makes you look bigger than you are. Muffin tops are never attractive. And while you are very young, you can still look trendy and stylish.

I find dressing like this projects an image of you that is more slutty and less intelligent than I found you to be.

Also, if your boyfriend would not dress like a gangster, what with his waist band hanging around the mid thigh region and his boxers displayed prominently . . . . He's a Dad now, he should dress the part. Please have him reconsider the wife beaters.

But, forgot I said any of this. It is no matter. We live in a state where this type of clothing is the norm. It is part of the milieu.

What makes me the most sad is what's in your cart. Your daughter is beginning to eat what you eat now, so for her sake, can you reconsider your food? Beefaroni, pop tarts, horrible 89 cent "wheat bread", full strength soda, snacky cakes, and count chocula will do her more harm than good. And yes, my cart has spegghettios, but it is a small can, perfect for one bowl each for the kids.

I have some very yummy food here. I have delicious Kashi cereal with yogurt nuggets. And speaking of yogurt, the kids get to pick out three yogurts each. Little Pancake prefers vanilla, strawberry and banana. Little Mac, well, he is almost 35 lbs, he prefers everything! Please, try the tasty varieties of veggie burgers, real cheese (not the Kraft oily singles 'cheese') and meats from the deli.

I aways buy chicken tenders that I use to make chicken nuggets. We use the Rachael Ray recipe. Easy peasy lemon squeezey. No need for a trip to McDonald's this way! The applesauce is always a hit, I mix raisins in it to help sweeten the pot. After all, it is applesauce without corn syrup.

Oh, and no, eating this way is not more expensive. In fact, it might be less so. Our totals were about the same. See?

Basically, I don't strive to eat healthy. Just tastily. And you can too. Obviously you love your little girl. So give it a try eh?

Your friend in line,

Mrs. Hall

This is my life, right here

This is my life, all wrapped up in a Thomas the Train bed.

If you click on the photo the cutness gets even bigger.

;)

Questions and answers

1. First off, why the hell can't I move the items at the bottom of the main page. My profile, my recent visitor and such are all suppose to be next to my posts NOT UNDER IT. But, no matter how many times I go to 'layout' and try to fix it, it never gets back to the way it was.

Anyone have any ideas?


1. My posts over at the Bonez site have prompted some questions. Questions from readers in real life and blog life. Questions best answered.

The posts: Mrs. Hall loses it: Part one, Mrs. Hall loses it: Part two

As I explained to Lotus07: Truth be told, it is my 'homework' from my counselor I saw while losing the weight. Also, I hadn't written anything for 10 years prior to this journal. And after I wrote this journal, I started this blog.

I don't believe the journals belong on this blog. They don't feel right being here. But, I believe they needed light. And if they inspire others (my hope) that would be awesome. Either way, they do no good just sitting here on my hard drive.

But, the story goes back a few weeks before the first journal entry. It involves Mr. Hall. Here is us a few months ago. I am the one in the brown jacket.

 

Here is me doing the yoga pose "Standing Bow". The goal is to pull your arm with your leg, like pulling a bow. And I do love that brown jacket. I am just tickled that I get to wear it again. It is such a stylish number. And I loove the jeans. In fact just wore those today!

 

Back to the back story to those journals.

One day I had decided to begin eating chocolate chips out of the bag. Now, I have a low tolerance for such rich food. And I am hypersensitive to caffeine. Yet, I pounded a two pound bag over 14 hours or so. Fist full after fistful. I was very covert about it. Mr. Hall didn't know anything. And I knew it would make me very sick and very wired. But I did it anyway.

This was the last act in an increasingly self-destructive pattern with me. I had begun to hide food from Mr. Hall and binge. My weight was getting out of control. I think I just came to a breaking point with that bag of chips. I threw my hands up and sought out a counselor.

As I started to lose the weight, I started to get angry. I was reconnecting with a body I long forgotten to care for. And the body was pissed!

It was ugly and very hard to deal with. Mr. Hall was at my side, as always, holding me. Turns out, he had known about the chips all along. He just didn't know how to help. But, just being there is all the help I needed. The real help was listening to my counselor, writing the journals and going to weight watchers. Yoga helped the most.

Overall, what I learned the most is this:

If women are to choose a battlefield to war with the world, they will first choose their bodies.

That's a Mrs. Hall original statement up there.

And as I lost the weight and went through all that came with reconnecting my heart body and mind, I got stronger than I ever imagined.

So take heart.

It gets worse before it gets better with those journals.

But, no pain, no gain.

(That's not an original saying ;)

If you want to get all up close with this issue, click here.

Second interview: Reserved edition

I drove there a few nights ago. Slept in a little and went to the interview place. Met with the receptionist and she lead me to the interview room.

There sat about forty staff. It was the largest group interview I had ever had. After that group listened to my story, my professional exploits and adventures, they all left and four doctors remained.

Me and the four doctors chatted. Spoke clinical speak. I was very intimidated.

And tired. This driving four hours to new interview places is wearing me out.

And telling my story over and over again is wearing me out. The weight of my decisions are wearing me out.

I hope it went well. I mean, I was sitting in a room with four doctors. Doctors and nurses have different training, different language. We do the same things though. Treat patients. And while everyone practices differently, we all have the same goals. Hopefully.

It was very weird. I mean, who walks into an interview and finds forty people waiting there? And then gets a second go round of questions and answers with four people. But, they kept having me go to more rooms and find out more things. And they were having a pot luck and wanted me to join.

Have some cheesecake! Have some of that ambrosia salad! Well worth the time to try the sloppy joes!

Or Spanish hamburgers as it is called around these parts.

It was about three hours into the interview at this part. I literally had to excuse myself at this point. I have to drive back I said.

It was nice and weird at all the same time. I hope I rose to the occasion.

I wasn't on my full game though. I was . . . . reserved. Normally I am bouncy and confident. But this is me as a nurse. I am a now a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. Still getting my feet on the ground.

What helped was my wardrobe. I had my black, knee high leather boots on. The ones with the four inch heal. I had a pretty dress and my hair all cute. Wore make up. Smiled and spoke.

But speaking in these types of interviews is very different. There are no stock questions like 'What is your greatest weakness or Where do you see yourself in 10 years?'

It is, "How comfortable are you with prescribing these types of drugs?" or "What is your experience with this type of patient population with x or y diagnosis?" And honestly there are pockets of certain populations and diagnosis I have never seen. And some I understand like the back of my hand.

And I try my best to stay concrete and in the here and now. I try not to lapse into waxing poetic or getting all philosophical. And I remember that the majority of people in the science fields (i.e. MEDICINE) are not artsy like me. So I let my right brain show more.

Which is not something I am use to. Speaking from the right brain. And again, there was a language barrier to content with. Doctors are trained one way and nurses another. Each with its on shorthand and vernacular. I wonder if I made sense. I actually ask them this. They assure me that I do indeed make sense. God I hope I did.

And I was so very honest. I say things that I haven't rehearsed. I say things I haven't said out loud before.

All in all it was hard to read them. The interviewers. There was no head nodding or agreeing with me. Just listening and reservedness. And there was some warmth at the end. But, I am not sure if they got me, or perhaps they saw me as I am.

A brand new Psych-NP. I am barely a fetus at this point. My heart is strong and I am starting to wiggle. And given the right place I will grow ten feet tall.

I hope, I think, this is the right place. I hope they think so too. After all, they have cheesecake.