*Scene: Driving in the car and having a perfectly normal conversation about transvestites (don't judge).
Jacob: Speaking of transvestites, is Lady Gaga one?
Me: i don't think so...
Jacob: Are you sure? Because in her song she says "Don't be a drag, just be a queen" and sometimes she looks...different.
Me: Now that i think about it, she was on the cover of a Cosmo and they wouldn't make a transvestite a cover girl. So she must really be a she.
Jacob: Oh good. If she was a drag queen I would feel so...deceived.
**Side note: "To dress" in spanish is "vestir." Trans=cross. Ite=person/group of people. Cross-dresser. Huh.**
09 March 2011
08 March 2011
i think we're funny
Sometimes after a conversation between me and Jacob, I stop and think to myself, “It’s either a shame or very lucky that no one else was party to that exchange.” Mostly we just laugh at ourselves. Jacob can make me laugh until I can’t breathe, my eyes stream, and I have to pee. These quotes ring true to me, especially these past couple of weeks:
“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.” W. H. Auden
“Laughter is the closest distance between two people.” Victor Borg
“We cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh.” Agnes Repplier
Enjoy a peak into a few moments that I found hilarious. I hope that they make you laugh too!
*Scene: Discussing budgeting for next month and cutting down miscellaneous expenses
Me: “We need to make sure to set aside something to buy you a new pair of pants.”
Hubby: “Oh. Shoot.”
Me: “What?”
Hubby: “I was hoping to get some new accounting software instead.”
Me: “Pants are a necessity. Computer software isn’t.”
Hubby: “Not necessarily!”
Me: “Going to go pantless, are you?”
*Scene: Shopping for above mentioned pair of pants for Jacob. He has just exited the dressing room trying a new pair of jeans. I’m hoping to get him to wear his jeans more fitted.
Me: “Would you be comfortable wearing a pair that is a little tighter?”
Hubby (with panicked look on his face): “Tighter where!?!”
*Scene: An exchange via text when I’m on the shuttle on the way home from work.
Me: “We are leaving Blackfoot now.”
Hubby: “K”
Me: “Shoot! Just realized we forgot to change our address with Netflix.”
Hubby: “Oh. Right.”
Me: “Someone on the bus just said they cut off commissioning officers at 31 years old.”
Hubby: “No.”
Me: “Wow! We’re late today! You there?”
Hubby: “Yes”
Me: “Shuttle is almost there. Just jumped onto I86.”
Hubby: “K”
Me: “Do you know your responses to my texts are never more than 3 words? :)”
Hubby: “I never have”
Hubby: “claimed to be”
Hubby: “a good texter”
*Scene: I honestly don’t remember because the following conversation made me forget everything that had happened before.
Me: “Are you sure?”
Hubby: “Sure as shit.”
VERY awkward pause
Me: “I’m glad you are so regular.”
Hubby: “I don’t know WHERE that came from and I don’t want to talk about it.”
*Scene: Making sure Jacob was ok if I posted these convos.
Me: “Are you alright if I put that on my blog?”
Hubby: “Ok, as long as I am anonymous.”
Me: “So I should just say, ‘My husband, who wishes to remain anonymous, said…’”
My husband, who wishes to remain anonymous: “Sure!”
“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.” W. H. Auden
“Laughter is the closest distance between two people.” Victor Borg
“We cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh.” Agnes Repplier
Enjoy a peak into a few moments that I found hilarious. I hope that they make you laugh too!
*Scene: Discussing budgeting for next month and cutting down miscellaneous expenses
Me: “We need to make sure to set aside something to buy you a new pair of pants.”
Hubby: “Oh. Shoot.”
Me: “What?”
Hubby: “I was hoping to get some new accounting software instead.”
Me: “Pants are a necessity. Computer software isn’t.”
Hubby: “Not necessarily!”
Me: “Going to go pantless, are you?”
*Scene: Shopping for above mentioned pair of pants for Jacob. He has just exited the dressing room trying a new pair of jeans. I’m hoping to get him to wear his jeans more fitted.
Me: “Would you be comfortable wearing a pair that is a little tighter?”
Hubby (with panicked look on his face): “Tighter where!?!”
*Scene: An exchange via text when I’m on the shuttle on the way home from work.
Me: “We are leaving Blackfoot now.”
Hubby: “K”
Me: “Shoot! Just realized we forgot to change our address with Netflix.”
Hubby: “Oh. Right.”
Me: “Someone on the bus just said they cut off commissioning officers at 31 years old.”
Hubby: “No.”
Me: “Wow! We’re late today! You there?”
Hubby: “Yes”
Me: “Shuttle is almost there. Just jumped onto I86.”
Hubby: “K”
Me: “Do you know your responses to my texts are never more than 3 words? :)”
Hubby: “I never have”
Hubby: “claimed to be”
Hubby: “a good texter”
*Scene: I honestly don’t remember because the following conversation made me forget everything that had happened before.
Me: “Are you sure?”
Hubby: “Sure as shit.”
VERY awkward pause
Me: “I’m glad you are so regular.”
Hubby: “I don’t know WHERE that came from and I don’t want to talk about it.”
*Scene: Making sure Jacob was ok if I posted these convos.
Me: “Are you alright if I put that on my blog?”
Hubby: “Ok, as long as I am anonymous.”
Me: “So I should just say, ‘My husband, who wishes to remain anonymous, said…’”
My husband, who wishes to remain anonymous: “Sure!”
08 February 2011
::melancholy::
i just had to go through a series of very hard "goodbyes." I hate how people that have become so important to me sometimes move out of my life so quickly. In the spirit of my melancholy mood, here is a list of other things i hate:
*that blast of cold water that always comes shooting out when i first turn on the shower.
*feeling envious.
*having chipped toenail polish and no time to change it.
*cliches that are unfortunately accurate. For example: When it rains it pours; What goes around comes around; Champagne tastes and a beer budget.
*reading about other people's "perfect lives" on their blogs.
*the smell of sour towels.
*being so worried about getting to sleep that i can't sleep at all.
*holes in the heels of my socks.
*trying to find the right shade of foundation.
*how much i relate to the word "bittersweet" at the moment.
Goodnight. Hopefully the cliche "after the rain comes the rainbow" becomes applicable in the next few days.
*that blast of cold water that always comes shooting out when i first turn on the shower.
*feeling envious.
*having chipped toenail polish and no time to change it.
*cliches that are unfortunately accurate. For example: When it rains it pours; What goes around comes around; Champagne tastes and a beer budget.
*reading about other people's "perfect lives" on their blogs.
*the smell of sour towels.
*being so worried about getting to sleep that i can't sleep at all.
*holes in the heels of my socks.
*trying to find the right shade of foundation.
*how much i relate to the word "bittersweet" at the moment.
Goodnight. Hopefully the cliche "after the rain comes the rainbow" becomes applicable in the next few days.
14 January 2011
Jacob Story #1
Every year I forget how much I despise winters in Rexburg. The snow, the wet, the ice, the wind and the cold, man the cold. I step outside, breathe in the air and feel my nose-hairs, nasal passages, lungs and my very brain freeze. Bitter cold came early this year and I am only surviving thanks to heated car seats, fuzzy socks and my tea kettle which is constantly whistling for me to make yet another mug of hot cocoa. Someone told me once that the best way to forget the cold is to think of warm things and places. Therefore, in order to fight off the frost, here is a story from a place slightly warmer than Rexburg.
On his first tour for Operation Iraqi Freedom, Jacob was stationed in the middle of the “sandbox” that NO kid would want to play in. Heats easily reach 130 degrees Fahrenheit through July and August at his base in Northern Iraq. When the occasional breeze stirred through, it felt like a blow-dryer—not a hint of cool relief. The soldiers didn’t have usual water heaters for their showers. The water sat in tanks in the sun to heat up; it would get so hot that it scalded their skin.
Brutally, in this heat, all soldiers are required to wear their issued uniforms, including tall boots, long pants and jackets; when they are on the road, they add 60 pounds of body armor and equipment over their uniform. Then, they were all shoved into a heavy, metal, armored oven (also known as either a humvee or 5-ton) and sent out into the heat on convoys. The so called “air conditioning” did little to nothing to cool the air in the vehicles—in order to cool off at all, the soldiers attached hoses to the air vents and stuck the hoses right up under their body armor.
Jacob’s deployment was “hot” in more than just the temperature. Almost every convoy encountered problems, especially IEDs that constantly damaged equipment. Most of the time overseas, Jacob labored in the “motor pool,” putting back together the vehicles that blew up on the convoys. Every so often his turn to leave base on a convoy would roll around and he would head out into the heat of the action.
One particular mission kept Jacob and all the soldiers tense—not only had one of the vehicles in their convoy already hit an IED, but they also had a pickup full of hostiles drive by and shoot at the vehicles along the road, focusing on their convoy. These threats had Jacob especially on edge. As the driver of the truck, he had to keep his eyes peeled and make sure not to lead the other two soldiers (the gunner and the truck commander) into unnecessary danger.
In the midst of all of this pressure, Jacob heard an explosion and instantly felt warm, sticky liquid splatter across his face, neck and hands. Filled with horror and not knowing if the liquid covering him was fluid spouting from the vehicle or blood, he barely dared to look around. He felt terror that he would discover his gunner shot to bits, the truck commander dead next to him, or even his own legs blown off. After this moment of panic, Jacob realized that not only was everyone in the truck alive, but the vehicle hadn’t even been hit! In fact, the inside of the 5-ton truck grew so scalding hot that a soda can, sitting in between the driver and passenger seat, blew up, showering the soldiers with Cola. Apparently, if the hodgies don’t succeed in killing you, then the heat will try.
**Please note: This is a true story. Jacob has never seen the movie Memphis Belle—a problem that we will have to remedy shortly. Any similarities to certain scenes in that movie are purely coincidental**
**Please also note: i am aware that i may be killed by a suicide bomber for using the offensive term of “hodgie” on my blog. However, i am willing to take the risk for two reasons: 1- that is what the soldiers called them and i am trying to stay true to the feel of the situation. 2- it would be an extremely cool way to die and would make the news for certain!**
On his first tour for Operation Iraqi Freedom, Jacob was stationed in the middle of the “sandbox” that NO kid would want to play in. Heats easily reach 130 degrees Fahrenheit through July and August at his base in Northern Iraq. When the occasional breeze stirred through, it felt like a blow-dryer—not a hint of cool relief. The soldiers didn’t have usual water heaters for their showers. The water sat in tanks in the sun to heat up; it would get so hot that it scalded their skin.
Brutally, in this heat, all soldiers are required to wear their issued uniforms, including tall boots, long pants and jackets; when they are on the road, they add 60 pounds of body armor and equipment over their uniform. Then, they were all shoved into a heavy, metal, armored oven (also known as either a humvee or 5-ton) and sent out into the heat on convoys. The so called “air conditioning” did little to nothing to cool the air in the vehicles—in order to cool off at all, the soldiers attached hoses to the air vents and stuck the hoses right up under their body armor.
Jacob’s deployment was “hot” in more than just the temperature. Almost every convoy encountered problems, especially IEDs that constantly damaged equipment. Most of the time overseas, Jacob labored in the “motor pool,” putting back together the vehicles that blew up on the convoys. Every so often his turn to leave base on a convoy would roll around and he would head out into the heat of the action.
One particular mission kept Jacob and all the soldiers tense—not only had one of the vehicles in their convoy already hit an IED, but they also had a pickup full of hostiles drive by and shoot at the vehicles along the road, focusing on their convoy. These threats had Jacob especially on edge. As the driver of the truck, he had to keep his eyes peeled and make sure not to lead the other two soldiers (the gunner and the truck commander) into unnecessary danger.
In the midst of all of this pressure, Jacob heard an explosion and instantly felt warm, sticky liquid splatter across his face, neck and hands. Filled with horror and not knowing if the liquid covering him was fluid spouting from the vehicle or blood, he barely dared to look around. He felt terror that he would discover his gunner shot to bits, the truck commander dead next to him, or even his own legs blown off. After this moment of panic, Jacob realized that not only was everyone in the truck alive, but the vehicle hadn’t even been hit! In fact, the inside of the 5-ton truck grew so scalding hot that a soda can, sitting in between the driver and passenger seat, blew up, showering the soldiers with Cola. Apparently, if the hodgies don’t succeed in killing you, then the heat will try.
**Please note: This is a true story. Jacob has never seen the movie Memphis Belle—a problem that we will have to remedy shortly. Any similarities to certain scenes in that movie are purely coincidental**
**Please also note: i am aware that i may be killed by a suicide bomber for using the offensive term of “hodgie” on my blog. However, i am willing to take the risk for two reasons: 1- that is what the soldiers called them and i am trying to stay true to the feel of the situation. 2- it would be an extremely cool way to die and would make the news for certain!**
31 December 2010
Resolved
i used to set New Year's resolutions in the past, but the last few years i haven't. i realized that it was always a disappointment when i didn't hold to them and i ended up even more discouraged. But this year is going to be different. i am resolved...and besides, i've set up resolutions that i am SURE i will be able to keep.
In 2011 jo will:
1-Spend many hours a week lost in literature
2-Eat at least one piece of chocolate a day
3-Stress about a clean house
4-Get a good dose of whining in once a day
5-Memorize everything on the Taco Bell menu
6-Procrastinate just a little more
7-Have a nervous breakdown once a month
8-Double the amount of shoes in my closet
Hey, when your expectations are not met, then you've probably set them too high :)
On a more serious note, i am quite determined to be a little more grateful this year. After all, i live a relatively charmed life. Happy New Year!
In 2011 jo will:
1-Spend many hours a week lost in literature
2-Eat at least one piece of chocolate a day
3-Stress about a clean house
4-Get a good dose of whining in once a day
5-Memorize everything on the Taco Bell menu
6-Procrastinate just a little more
7-Have a nervous breakdown once a month
8-Double the amount of shoes in my closet
Hey, when your expectations are not met, then you've probably set them too high :)
On a more serious note, i am quite determined to be a little more grateful this year. After all, i live a relatively charmed life. Happy New Year!
21 December 2010
The Smell of Citrus
It seems there are so many Christmas stories about oranges. Oranges, clementines, tangerines stuffed in stockings. Children who had nothing for Christmas but this fruit, which became their treasure. Stories about sacrificing parents who worked hard to provide oranges for their families on this special day, or selfless friends and neighbors who brought the spirit of Christmas to others by means of orangey treats. Even my father remembers his socks stuffed with tangerines on each 25th of December. Because of his childhood tradition and memories, each of his kids finds a citrus surprise in the form of a tangerine of our own on Christmas morning. In spite of all these Christmas connections, oranges and their tangy smell don’t bring me memories of the birth of Christ or the joy of Christmases past. As I sit here in my house in Idaho, typing with fingers that smell of my freshly peeled clementine, I feel drawn back to a cold and grey February in Paris, France—far from my family, far from my home and far away from Christmas memories.
On that dreary afternoon I was doing my homework—to learn the streets of Paris, notice the architecture, and communicate with the people in their native tongue. Winter in Paris is drizzly and damp, a kind of cold that I had never experienced before. Knowing I would be outside walking all day, I left my apartment bundled in the warmest of coats, my new European scarf and gloves to protect my fingers from the chill. In my wanderings, I found myself on a narrow cobblestone road bordered with old, stone, and ivy-covered apartments. On the corners sat booths with vendors selling their wares. Knit hats, scarves and mittens, painted canvases, plates and vases, and fresh cheese, bread and produce all lay out across tables, tempting the passerby.
A younger merchant stopped me as I strolled past his tray of fresh fruit. In an attempt to keep my attention focused on his stand, he engaged me in conversation and was quick to notice that I was a foreigner (not at all hard to recognize when I practiced speaking French to him). After exchanging a few brief facts about where I was from and what I was doing in France, I attempted to excuse myself. However, the gentleman came around the other side of the table, told me that he was “enchanted” to have met me, that my French was coming along nicely, and that I was beautiful—for an American. As a parting gift, he pressed a beautiful, enormous orange into my gloved fingers and I continued on my way. Not wanting to expose my fingers to the icy air, I peeled and ate my juicy treasure without removing my gloves. For the rest of the day (and even a few days afterwards) every time I brought my hands close to my face, I could smell the citrusy smell on my gloves. Each time, I smiled and thought of my perfect orange.
Even now, four years later, the scent of citrus reminds me of that stunning European street, a friendly stranger, brief words exchanged in a foreign tongue that I once spoke so often, and a lingering aroma on my gloved fingers from a sweet and tangy treat.
On that dreary afternoon I was doing my homework—to learn the streets of Paris, notice the architecture, and communicate with the people in their native tongue. Winter in Paris is drizzly and damp, a kind of cold that I had never experienced before. Knowing I would be outside walking all day, I left my apartment bundled in the warmest of coats, my new European scarf and gloves to protect my fingers from the chill. In my wanderings, I found myself on a narrow cobblestone road bordered with old, stone, and ivy-covered apartments. On the corners sat booths with vendors selling their wares. Knit hats, scarves and mittens, painted canvases, plates and vases, and fresh cheese, bread and produce all lay out across tables, tempting the passerby.
A younger merchant stopped me as I strolled past his tray of fresh fruit. In an attempt to keep my attention focused on his stand, he engaged me in conversation and was quick to notice that I was a foreigner (not at all hard to recognize when I practiced speaking French to him). After exchanging a few brief facts about where I was from and what I was doing in France, I attempted to excuse myself. However, the gentleman came around the other side of the table, told me that he was “enchanted” to have met me, that my French was coming along nicely, and that I was beautiful—for an American. As a parting gift, he pressed a beautiful, enormous orange into my gloved fingers and I continued on my way. Not wanting to expose my fingers to the icy air, I peeled and ate my juicy treasure without removing my gloves. For the rest of the day (and even a few days afterwards) every time I brought my hands close to my face, I could smell the citrusy smell on my gloves. Each time, I smiled and thought of my perfect orange.
Even now, four years later, the scent of citrus reminds me of that stunning European street, a friendly stranger, brief words exchanged in a foreign tongue that I once spoke so often, and a lingering aroma on my gloved fingers from a sweet and tangy treat.
17 November 2010
Nothing Good Happens at 3am
When I was living with my parents, I had to be home by midnight and there was no exception to my curfew. Dad lived by several mantras, one of them being, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” These days, my question is as follows—at what point in the morning does it stop being “after midnight” of the night before and become “the next morning?” If this question doesn’t make sense to you, let me explain a little of what is going in our lives right now.
Jacob goes to school in Pocatello. We live 80 miles to the north. Luckily, I work for a transportation company that can shuttle him south to Pocatello. At the bus stop, he keeps his car parked so that he can drive himself from there to school. Unfortunately, his first class begins at 6am. In other words, Jacob has to leave our house at 3:15 in the bloody morning in order to catch his shuttle to get him to his car, to get him to his class on time. Thus, you can understand my question better. Does this 3am morning still count as “after midnight” since we have technically gone to bed and woken up again? Can anything good happen at this hour?
After a couple months of 3 o’clock mornings, I admit wholeheartedly that events are always more dramatic at that obscene time of the “day.” Emotions are high and rational thinking is low. Today I am grouchy—ridiculously yet justifiably so. Major lack of sleep. Here’s the story. Cue scene:
2:45am Jacob’s alarm clock goes off. I stayed up late reading after he went to bed, so I am very groggy. I somehow manage to slink off the bed long enough to use the restroom, gave him a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Unfortunately, I always have had a hard time falling asleep (even when I am exhausted) so after I make it back to the bed, it still takes some time before I finally get back to sleep.
3:10am I have just drifted away and the bedroom door opens. Jacob is digging through his dresser. He informs me that he can’t locate his keys for his vehicle that is sitting in Pocatello. Without them, he can’t get from the bus stop to the school. This has happened many mornings before and he always manages to find them, so I am unalarmed. After minor rummaging, Jacob leaves the room and I roll over to once again to try to fall back asleep.
3:15am Jacob reenters the bedroom and continues his search through the bedroom. At this point I realize he must need help if he still hasn’t found the keys. So I give up on sleeping for the moment and get up to help in the search.
3:25am After 10 minutes of desperate searching, I opened the front door to see if perhaps Jacob had left the keys in the door when he unlocked it yesterday (which he hadn’t) and I see his shuttle sitting in front of the house. Shortly thereafter we get a call from the driver, who can no longer wait for him and keep to his schedule. Driver leaves.
3:45am Still no keys. Up to now we have been (mostly) tiptoeing around the living room and using hallway lights only to avoid waking up the bird, Belle. She has the habit of making a high pitched squeal or a loud squawk if we are awake and she is still locked in her cage and covered up. (Side-note: until this morning I didn’t realize where she learned the squeal. Now, after having opened and closed the front and back door a million times this morning while trying desperately to be quite so as not to wake up the upstairs and downstairs neighbors, I am quite aware and embarrassed at the awful squeak both doors make—which I am sure my bird has learned to imitate). At this point we can no longer search without the main lights off. We turn lights on. The following conversation ensues:
Belle: “SQUAWK!!!”
Jacob, in a furious whisper: “Belle! Knock it off!”
Jennifer, directed at Jacob: “It’s not her fault! She is confused at what’s going on. Let her be!”
Belle: “SQUAWK. SQUEAL. WHISTLE. SQUAWK!!!”
Jennifer shouting at the top of her lungs: “SHUT THE HELL UP, BELLE!!!!”
Unjust on my part? Obviously. Like I said, high emotions and low rationale.
4:00am My house is completely turned upside down. The original keys are still AWOL and spare keys haven’t been located. Jacob has dumped out everyone of his who-knows-how-many junk drawers and boxes, as well as some of my very well organized storage boxes. We have looked on every shelf, in every drawer, under the beds and couches, emptied his backpack and gone through the whole laundry basket. The bird is dancing around on my shoulder and pecking at my ear, begging to be scratched. I am sitting on the bed trying my hardest not to make snide comments about Jacob’s “organizational” skills (by the way, my hardest wasn’t good enough and I failed miserably at being nice).
Jacob: “Why don’t you just go back to bed?”
Jennifer: “Oh sure! I’m positive I will sleep through all the ruckus and lights. Especially since I’ll be wondering what you are going to do now. Why don’t you just take my Mini and drive yourself there? You are going to miss your class if you don’t leave soon.”
Jacob: “How are you going to get to work, then?”
Jennifer: “I’ll ride my bike.”
Jacob: “In the ice and snow?”
Jennifer: “I will figure it out later. Can you please just go so I can go to bed?”
4:10am Jacob is outside scraping the ice off of the car. I feel guilty for being so rude, so I run outside to give him a hug and kiss goodbye and ask one more question about the last time he saw his keys. He tells me that he swears they were on the table. I go back inside and back to bed. As I lie there thinking about the missing keys, I realize that the last time we saw them on the table was before we left for dinner—and we left the house unlocked when we left. Now my imagination goes wild and I am picturing someone that has come into my house, stolen only the keys and is planning a mass break-in and theft later. I can imagine the guy watching the house and seeing Jacob driving away. Now I am never going to sleep.
4:15am In an attempt to stop thinking about the man who has stolen my keys and is now planning to rob all my possessions, rape and kill me, I run through the events of the evening (while praying vigorously) to try and remember any pertinent information surrounding the keys. All of the sudden, I remember Jacob taking out the trash and making a joke about going outside in his bathrobe. Leaping out of bed, I went straight to the keys. It would be a much better story if I could say the keys were in the trash, but they weren’t. They were, however, in the pocket of his bathrobe which was hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I call Jacob and he turns around to head back to the house.
4:20am Jacob no longer has a shuttle that will get him to his class on time. He sets up a shuttle which will leave at 6:15ish and get him to his next class at 9:00. Being such a loving husband, he volunteers to sleep the rest of the “night” in the guest room so that I don’t have to wake up to his alarm in an hour and a half. Great! Sacrifice accepted.
5:20am I am lying in bed, still awake. My body is pumped with adrenaline, along with traces of frustration, anxiety, and anger from the previous saga and impatience at not being able to sleep. On top of that garbage, I can feel bile bubbling in my stomach. Every night before bed I take a medication that has the tendency to make me nauseous. Normally I would sleep right through this wave of nausea. Not so this morning! In fact, I think the mad-dashing increased the symptoms and I now find sleep impossible.
6:10am Sleep had finally found me. Then my bedroom door opens and the light of a cell phone falls directly across my face. I snap awake. Jacob is standing in the doorway.
Jennifer: “Why did you come in here?!”
Jacob: “I just wanted to tell you I loved you before I left for the day.”
Oops. There I go again. Bye, sweetie! Have a good day and I love you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Now I will lie in bed stewing over losing my temper (once again) when he was just trying to leave on a good note.
6:30am My alarm clock goes off. Good morning!!! And I think it’s gonna be a long, long day.
The conclusion is this: Nothing good happens after midnight and before the sun rises the next morning.
Jacob goes to school in Pocatello. We live 80 miles to the north. Luckily, I work for a transportation company that can shuttle him south to Pocatello. At the bus stop, he keeps his car parked so that he can drive himself from there to school. Unfortunately, his first class begins at 6am. In other words, Jacob has to leave our house at 3:15 in the bloody morning in order to catch his shuttle to get him to his car, to get him to his class on time. Thus, you can understand my question better. Does this 3am morning still count as “after midnight” since we have technically gone to bed and woken up again? Can anything good happen at this hour?
After a couple months of 3 o’clock mornings, I admit wholeheartedly that events are always more dramatic at that obscene time of the “day.” Emotions are high and rational thinking is low. Today I am grouchy—ridiculously yet justifiably so. Major lack of sleep. Here’s the story. Cue scene:
2:45am Jacob’s alarm clock goes off. I stayed up late reading after he went to bed, so I am very groggy. I somehow manage to slink off the bed long enough to use the restroom, gave him a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Unfortunately, I always have had a hard time falling asleep (even when I am exhausted) so after I make it back to the bed, it still takes some time before I finally get back to sleep.
3:10am I have just drifted away and the bedroom door opens. Jacob is digging through his dresser. He informs me that he can’t locate his keys for his vehicle that is sitting in Pocatello. Without them, he can’t get from the bus stop to the school. This has happened many mornings before and he always manages to find them, so I am unalarmed. After minor rummaging, Jacob leaves the room and I roll over to once again to try to fall back asleep.
3:15am Jacob reenters the bedroom and continues his search through the bedroom. At this point I realize he must need help if he still hasn’t found the keys. So I give up on sleeping for the moment and get up to help in the search.
3:25am After 10 minutes of desperate searching, I opened the front door to see if perhaps Jacob had left the keys in the door when he unlocked it yesterday (which he hadn’t) and I see his shuttle sitting in front of the house. Shortly thereafter we get a call from the driver, who can no longer wait for him and keep to his schedule. Driver leaves.
3:45am Still no keys. Up to now we have been (mostly) tiptoeing around the living room and using hallway lights only to avoid waking up the bird, Belle. She has the habit of making a high pitched squeal or a loud squawk if we are awake and she is still locked in her cage and covered up. (Side-note: until this morning I didn’t realize where she learned the squeal. Now, after having opened and closed the front and back door a million times this morning while trying desperately to be quite so as not to wake up the upstairs and downstairs neighbors, I am quite aware and embarrassed at the awful squeak both doors make—which I am sure my bird has learned to imitate). At this point we can no longer search without the main lights off. We turn lights on. The following conversation ensues:
Belle: “SQUAWK!!!”
Jacob, in a furious whisper: “Belle! Knock it off!”
Jennifer, directed at Jacob: “It’s not her fault! She is confused at what’s going on. Let her be!”
Belle: “SQUAWK. SQUEAL. WHISTLE. SQUAWK!!!”
Jennifer shouting at the top of her lungs: “SHUT THE HELL UP, BELLE!!!!”
Unjust on my part? Obviously. Like I said, high emotions and low rationale.
4:00am My house is completely turned upside down. The original keys are still AWOL and spare keys haven’t been located. Jacob has dumped out everyone of his who-knows-how-many junk drawers and boxes, as well as some of my very well organized storage boxes. We have looked on every shelf, in every drawer, under the beds and couches, emptied his backpack and gone through the whole laundry basket. The bird is dancing around on my shoulder and pecking at my ear, begging to be scratched. I am sitting on the bed trying my hardest not to make snide comments about Jacob’s “organizational” skills (by the way, my hardest wasn’t good enough and I failed miserably at being nice).
Jacob: “Why don’t you just go back to bed?”
Jennifer: “Oh sure! I’m positive I will sleep through all the ruckus and lights. Especially since I’ll be wondering what you are going to do now. Why don’t you just take my Mini and drive yourself there? You are going to miss your class if you don’t leave soon.”
Jacob: “How are you going to get to work, then?”
Jennifer: “I’ll ride my bike.”
Jacob: “In the ice and snow?”
Jennifer: “I will figure it out later. Can you please just go so I can go to bed?”
4:10am Jacob is outside scraping the ice off of the car. I feel guilty for being so rude, so I run outside to give him a hug and kiss goodbye and ask one more question about the last time he saw his keys. He tells me that he swears they were on the table. I go back inside and back to bed. As I lie there thinking about the missing keys, I realize that the last time we saw them on the table was before we left for dinner—and we left the house unlocked when we left. Now my imagination goes wild and I am picturing someone that has come into my house, stolen only the keys and is planning a mass break-in and theft later. I can imagine the guy watching the house and seeing Jacob driving away. Now I am never going to sleep.
4:15am In an attempt to stop thinking about the man who has stolen my keys and is now planning to rob all my possessions, rape and kill me, I run through the events of the evening (while praying vigorously) to try and remember any pertinent information surrounding the keys. All of the sudden, I remember Jacob taking out the trash and making a joke about going outside in his bathrobe. Leaping out of bed, I went straight to the keys. It would be a much better story if I could say the keys were in the trash, but they weren’t. They were, however, in the pocket of his bathrobe which was hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I call Jacob and he turns around to head back to the house.
4:20am Jacob no longer has a shuttle that will get him to his class on time. He sets up a shuttle which will leave at 6:15ish and get him to his next class at 9:00. Being such a loving husband, he volunteers to sleep the rest of the “night” in the guest room so that I don’t have to wake up to his alarm in an hour and a half. Great! Sacrifice accepted.
5:20am I am lying in bed, still awake. My body is pumped with adrenaline, along with traces of frustration, anxiety, and anger from the previous saga and impatience at not being able to sleep. On top of that garbage, I can feel bile bubbling in my stomach. Every night before bed I take a medication that has the tendency to make me nauseous. Normally I would sleep right through this wave of nausea. Not so this morning! In fact, I think the mad-dashing increased the symptoms and I now find sleep impossible.
6:10am Sleep had finally found me. Then my bedroom door opens and the light of a cell phone falls directly across my face. I snap awake. Jacob is standing in the doorway.
Jennifer: “Why did you come in here?!”
Jacob: “I just wanted to tell you I loved you before I left for the day.”
Oops. There I go again. Bye, sweetie! Have a good day and I love you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Now I will lie in bed stewing over losing my temper (once again) when he was just trying to leave on a good note.
6:30am My alarm clock goes off. Good morning!!! And I think it’s gonna be a long, long day.
The conclusion is this: Nothing good happens after midnight and before the sun rises the next morning.
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