I say to the universe--I am a Packer fan!

I say to the universe--I am a Packer fan!

The universe answers--Here are some tickets to the Packer-Titan game!

An so, (not And so, but AN SO), last Thursday, we went to a Packer Game. At Lambeau Field. My first football game ever. To appreciate this, read this.

Or don't. It's all free and all good.

Also, it must be said, obtaining Packer tickets is a true gift. All Packer tickets are held by season ticket holders. To own season tickets, you must have inherited them. Or killed someone. Or both. Seriously, the waiting list to become a season ticket holder is 70 years long. No joke!

 

Witness the Packer Pope. Note the Super Bowl ring.

Now, I am sure one can purchase them over the interweb. But that's no fun. And so, if you do not own season tickets you must know someone. Someone nice enough, who likes you enough, to give you tickets.

The Family Hall is now one of the few and proud who know someone. It was an awesome and sudden gift. When we asked for the day off of work for the game, it was immediately granted without discussion. It is known what a rare and awesome gift this is. To be on the receiving end of Packer tickets.

We decided, against our better judgement, to bring the Pancake. This was an opportunity after all. She fared as well as can be expected. There were threats and tears. I was chomping at the bit during the first quarter as she whined about how loud it was. There was little to threaten her with. Leaving and going home to GrandmaGrandpa's was not an option. She wanted to leave. Threatening to take away toys was useless. In order for a threat to be viable to a five year old, it must be immediately implemented. But, she was driving me nuts. NUTZZZ I SAY!!

An so, I decided the only thing I could do was seek libation intervention.

I can truly say I did not enjoy this beverage. This stuff is two steps above rubbing alcohol. It was like drinking one of those solid gel soaps, with artificial menthol permeating the core. I could only stomach the one. It got the job done though. WOO-HOO! As I forced it down I became much, much calmer. And Pancake got much much happier. And the whining stopped. And she started to chant and clap with the rest of us.

GO PACK GO!

They say that the children inherit the earth. Well, that might be true. But they definitely inherit their parents' personalities. Thus, it was a wise move to relax. Game got more fun too!

The stadium was smaller than I thought. I grew up a half an hour away from Green Bay. I even went to college in Green Bay for a year. But this was the first time I had been. This is as it should be. I am a fan now. And as a fan, I understood more of the game than I ever had. Cheering was awesome. Yelling was awesome. Doing the butt wiggle dance with Pancake and Mr. Hall after each touchdown was awesome.

And they played polka music! There is no better common denominator than polka. It celebrates dance and beer and women.The dance is soo easy, so fun! I was in my own patch of Heaven. The only thing missing was Mac. But, we know people now, he'll get his chance.

One thing that was not awesome was watching the other team score. I found myself getting all pissy.

An so, when Pancake said, "The guys in blue, they're ugly right?"

I answered, "Yes, sweet cheeks, very very ugly." We booed together.

One of the best parts about it, was being with other Packer Fans. We are all from this cheese state. We all look Midwestern. We all are, in part, white trash. Even the lesbians are white trash. Mullets, people! Mullet lesbians. In flannel! No chic short hair cuts, no lipstick. Just mullets and marlboros. OH! The Midwestern love of baggy t-shirts, tube socks, flannel and uggs. The local accent, the YAH DER HEYS! an so!

an so indeed.

In the end, it felt awesome to be part of the culture from which I sprang. Growing up I was so serious, so rage against the machine. My freak flag flew proudly and I shunned the cheeseheads. But, it turns out there was no need for such foolishness.

My freak flag still flies, right next to the big G.

Shoring up the blog

When I started this blog, I really had no theme in mind. There were many routes to take like Mommy Blog, Wife Blog, Self-help blog. There are plenty of those out there. I didn't want a theme.

Each day my thoughts buzz around me like insistent little hunny bees. They munch on the essays being rattled off in my head. This flood of thoughts began to flow at around age nine. I am always think, think, thinking. Write, write, writing in my head. It use to be tortuous, this constant chatter. But then I found Yoga. I found that I could actually calm the tides. And then I got my sleep pattern back. Wee-hee!

The essays I have running in my head, are varied. They are the seeds of my posts. I could poop out four a day if I wanted. But, like Willie Nelson says, "Writing a song is easy, it's writing a good one, that's the hard part." It feels grand though, finally having a place to pound out the thoughts. Some place besides Mr. Hall.

My intention in posting is to have an emotional arc. A passionate arc if you will. I have lots of passion. It varies though. It is dependant on my motivation. For example, my passion for helping others, for being of service to others, leads to posts under the label of 'nurse'.

Kids are endless fodder for passionate posts. They are labeled Pancake, Mac (formerly Mac-n-Cheese). As is the marriage between Mr. Hall and I. See labels marriage, Mr. Hall.

I am unsure what is driving me to write all this. Part of it is unmet social needs. Everyday, I have twenty dollars worth of energy to spend. Everyday, fifteen dollars is automatically deducted because I am a wife, mom and nurse. And those last five? Those are spent carefully.

It is difficult forming relations with others when you are a mom. You can make instant friend with other moms. But it is instant soup. Making friends outside the Mommy set is difficult. Chicks are complex and intricate. Delicate negotiations are needed. And the problem is, I am one.

Overall, I am attached to my lovely offspring 24/7. To get away is to be separated. And this requires a babysitter. Money. Babysitters are very nice. But they are young and not the Mommy or Daddy. Our baby sitter, Josephine, is young. And has a young life. We do love her so. She called me twice when I was at yoga one time. Couldn't find the top to the sippy cup . . . .

Unmet social needs are not the only reason. When I started to compose essays in my head, at the wee age of nine, I started writing out loud. This didn't really end until I started to become a nurse. Becoming a nurse and a nurse practitioner requires fortitude. And copious amount of time and energy. It ain't easy. It shouldn't be. And this learning I hold so dear, will never stop. I will never stop learning for my job. Wee-hee!

However, there is still this writer inside me. Using words like they are lollipops. Tasting them, turning them around in my head. Finding ways to use them in everyday life. In everyday posts. I love them so.

And now I am downshifted. I have a balance and some time and here I am. In blog form.

Welcome one and all.

:)

Mrs. Hall

P.S. If any of you see misspellings, please let me know. I don't want to look stoopid.

Pancake picks a song

Mommy: Hey sweetcheeks, what song should I put on my blog today?

Pancake: What's a blog?

(Mommy opens up her blog and shows Pancake)

Mommy: Mommy writes to people on this. Sometimes people read it.Sometimes nobody but Mommy reads it.

(Pancake has a blank expression. Obviously a. not impressed b. doesn't get it.)

Mommy: So what song should we put on the blog?

Pancake: OLD MAN on the back porch!

And thus it was.

Viva la revolucion!

My kids show up here, from time to time, in blog from. Today is one of those days. The painting above is from the impressionist Mary Cassatt. It's called "After the Bath". Her paintings are mostly women, mothers and children. They might have been the only subjects she was allowed to paint, because she was a woman. I could be wrong. Either way, her paintings mean a lot to me.

This is what my family looks like. My girl Pancake, is blonde and five. My son Mac is 19 months now, all blonde and pudgy. I have darker hair as do their father, Mr. Hall.

She will start kindergarten next week. Somehow, my tiny blue eyed blonde baby girl got big and started to toddle around. Then she got taller and thinner. Her hair reached to her butt and she got her first hair cut. Then she began to run and do things on the playground without me holding her by the shorts for balance. She was three or four. Now she is limber and getting taller. She reasons things out and cracks very funny jokes.

About a month ago, we went out to dinner with her little friend. They both ordered chocolate milks. The waitress came and handed Pancake the first chocolate milk. She said "Thank you" and passed it to her friend. Once her friend was settled, Pancake took hers. She did this, as she use to say, "by my own self. "

My heart broke in the most wonderful way when this happened. The weight of this moment is almost too much to bear. I still can't talk about it without crying.

She has been in day care/pre-school since she was a year old. She loves it there. They love her. I love them for loving her. It is a love fest of epic proportions. Hee hee.

But now she is going to real school. She wrote her name on all of the items that we purchased for school. She has her little backpack. Her little gymshoes. And my heart is breaking in the most wonderful ways. And yes, I am crying.

Here comes the revolution.

The school supply list said Pancake needed "Two plain, solid color folders." I didn't like this suggestion. We bought one folder with horses and one with puppies. And thus I start a tiny revolution in my tiny girl.

hee hee.

GIVE ME A BREAK HERE

My next job, as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner, is waiting for me. Just over yonder hills, past the river and around the bend.

The hills being a SIXTY page application I completed,
the river being THAT BIG ASS CERTIFICATION EXAM I took and passed BUT WON'T GET MY OFFICIAL CERTIFICATE PROVING I PASSED,

the bend being my state license. Which I can't apply for UNTIL I GET THAT GODDAMN CERTIFICATE.

So I call, and explain to the certificate granters. I SAID, "I cannot start my new job until I have the certificate. I took the exam, which I passed, which enables me to recieve the certificate, on 8-14-2008. How long till I get the cute certificate?"

could be up to 90 days says the woman in the deep deeeep, almost un-understandable jamaican accent.

FUCK!!!!!

And now, to explain my emotional state in more better terms. Put your hands together for Cake everybody, make some noise!



ULLLLRRRRRGGGG$%%J&%####@#@@#$%%^^^^!!!!!!!!!!

Something Sweet on the Sabbath

On the Sabbath

On the Sabbath try and make no noise that
goes beyond your
house.

Cries of passion between lovers
are exempt.



By: St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274)
Found in: Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West

Crackhouses as viewed by a nurse

My job will change soon. Right now I am a home health nurse. Again, this means I drive to peoples' houses and be a nurse. My patients range in age and location. Of concern today, in this post, are my patients who are not white and not rich.

There is a pocket in town that is poorest. The next step is homeless. These enclaves are often called ghettos, section 8 housing, the projects, or crack house lane. All accurate names. And so there I go, before ten am, in my car. Me, the white nurse.

The man I saw was not appreciative of my visit. For better or worse, he has expectations of the agency that I work for. They are not being met. He is angry and short with me. I feel the angry and agressive energies. I breathe deep and stay centered.

I remark on his TV. “You have a see through TV.” I say, rather chirpely. This is my natural and genuine tone. He says flatly, “It’s a prison TV”. It would function as such, the outer casing is clear platic and you can see all the parts. No hiding shivs there. “Oooh, I seee.” I say slowly. “That is exactly the point.” He smirks. I smile. “That’s a funny joke!” says me. Chipper monkey, thy name is Mrs. Hall.

So we get down to it. My task at this appointment is four fold. He refuses all but two. I take his vitals, listen to his lungs, his heart. Then the diabetic foot care. His feet are a goddam mess. Toenails all thick with green fungus, nail beds splitting apart at the seems, feet all dry and flakey. A mess indeed.

There I am, in front of his recliner. It is the kind that moves up and down with a remote. His carpet has foodstuff ground into it. I kneel there, move aside a bottle of Jameson, empties of Hamm’s beer, and the cockroach spray. My tools are taken from my backpack. And for the next 30 minutes I work through this mess. I notice that as I lean forward, my top dips down, revealing cleavage. My shirt is quickly adjusted and I look up to see if he had noticed. He is bent completely to his left, leaning over the arm of the chair. A mere six inches from the TV. Glued to The Price is Right. He takes no notice of my labor.

I do an excellent job. He feet respond well. When I am done I repeat my offer to complete my other tasks. He says no. But this time, he smiles. He is no longer short and angry.

In a way, I find my job selfish. On this visit I had an opportunity to give dignity to a man who has very little. This is the priviledge of service.