October 2006


Tuesday: Diagnosed with Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome (aka Runner’s Knee)

Tuesday: Fell down the stairs, sprained wrist

Friday: Participated in killer pilates class, body very sore 

Saturday: Dropped 3 foot wooden shelf on pinky toe, toe potentially broken

Sunday: Did flip on Moonwalk at nephew’s birthday pary, got whiplash

If you have any crazy stunt ideas, stay away from me until I’ve gone at least a week pain and injury free…

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Today has been “Ramsey Work Day” around our house. Mom has made Gavyn’s Cars themed 3rd b-day cake (it’s Gavyn’s Birthday Extravaganza weekend…), gone through Scott and I’s baby clothes with me, and sanded the spindles going down the stairs so that they can be painted. Dad has done some stuff with the cars, and prepped and painted the upstairs bathroom. I have organized my boxes of stuff in the basement, cleaned out my closet, dusted the whole house, and sorted through some of my stuff in the garage. Oh, and potentially broken my toe. (the shelf came out of nowhere and landed right on my pinky toe- damn those boxes in the garage…) Now we’re getting ready for Gavyn’s family b-day dinner at Joe’s Crab Shack. All in all, I’d say it’s been a pretty fruitful day around here. But that’s not the point.
My sis-in-law needed a tray from a set of my great grandma’s that I have for Gavyn’s party tomorrow to put cookies on. I was sure they had to be in one of my boxes somewhere, because I know that they were given to me. So, that’s why I started looking through and ended up organizing all my boxes in the basement. In the process of searching and organizing, I saw all my stuff that’s been in boxes now for over a year… and I began to miss it. It’s silly, really. It’s just stuff. But, it’s my stuff. The more I looked through stuff, the more restless I became. I mean, I’m 27. I should be domesticated, cooking with all my stuff in my kitchen for my all-American family, taking care of my kids while my husband works on man stuff in the garage. Or at least not living with my parents. BUT, I’m not, and I am. I began to feel… somewhat place-less. This just isn’t what I had anticipated for my life. And lately, I’ve been restless in it. I’ve been selfishly looking at everything I don’t have rather than looking at what I do. Sure, I don’t have my own place- I live with my parents. But, I have parents that are willing to put up with a moody, strange little girl who isn’t so little anymore being in their house. Yeah, I’m just a substitute teacher and am going to have to go back to school in order to get my own classroom, but I’ve finally found something I love and that I know I want to do. Maybe I’m not dating someone (actually, that’s not a maybe- that’s a definite) and haven’t found domesticated bliss, but I feel like I’m really learning who I am. I don’t think I could say that if things had worked out according to “my plan”.  And what is domesticated bliss anyway? It’s work, that’s what it is- not the fairy tale romance I used to dream of.  So all day, I’ve been face-to-face with this restlessness, wanting to stand on one side of cliff and yell, “Damn you, world! Damn you, life I don’t have!” while at the same time wanting to stand on the other side yelling back at myself, “Pull your head out of your ass! You have a really great life and a God that’s bigger than any of this ridiculousness! Stop being so freaking selfish!” Instead, I sort. And I clean. And I pray that sooner or later, grace will pull me out of this selfish phase that I’m in and I’ll really be able to soak in the goodness of the perfect timing, perfect plans and perfect provision of the Lord.

Oh, and just in case you’re wondering, the trays are still MIA. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find all of my stuff ever again! 😦

If a+b+c=d, solve for d if:

a=running

b=stress fracture (caused by running)

c=patellofemoral pain syndrome (aka runner’s knee)

Does this mean I should stop running?  I dunno.  You do the math.

My dad is on vacation this week. That means several definite things- 1. Things will get fixed, 2. Things will get broken, 3. There will be lots of stinky cooking, and 4. We’ll probably end up with a new gadget around the house by the time it’s all said and done. I got home last night around 9 pm (finally…), and it seemed as though all was normal. I put my stuff where it needed to be, then headed upstairs to get ready for bed. As I was heading up the stairs, I realized the project that had been undertaken for the day- he fixed the stairs. My dad built this house and we moved in upon completion my sophomore year of high school, so we’ve been here almost 12 years. I can’t remember a time when the stairs didn’t squeak, squawk, and groan at me when I walked up them. In high school, my mom said that it was her way of knowing I was home- the noise would wake her up, and she knew she could finally sleep well. I’d learned a pattern over the years as to which parts to avoid to remain quiet or which parts to hit if I wanted to make my presence known. Since I’ve been living back at home, it’s been a common source of annoyance for both me and and my mom, and we’ve let dad know that. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 months ago, my dad ripped the carpet off the stairs with the intention of fixing them. Since then, they’d been left carpetless, and had become even louder since there was no sound buffer. Walking up the stairs last night, I followed my normal pattern to avoid the creaking as much as possible, but I heard no squeaking. I heard no squawking. And I definitely heard no groaning. He had actually fixed the stairs! At first, I was excited. No more trying to avoid certain spots because it might wake someone up!  But, over the past 24 hours as I’ve gone up and down the stairs, I’ve realized that I actually miss the old noises- I miss the flaws. There was something about it that was… comfortable. Sure, the stairs were not working the way they were intended to, but for 12 years, they had worked the way that I knew them to work. It’s struck me through the day that I prefer them broken over the way they’re intended to function. I’ve found myself almost wanting them to go back to the way they were, squeaky and annoying, rather than finding satisfaction that what was broken is now fixed.

I’m not going to leave some huge thing on the meaning I found behind all this- take what you will. I know what I’ve taken…

“Shayla, turn around, and shut your mouth!”  “Someone’s got on their cranky pants today, and their bossy boots, only in your case Miss Ramsey, it’s bossy moccasins…”

My car smells like skunk. 

“Do you have a tatoo?”  “I have 3.”  “Three?!?  Been to prison much?”

I get to go to a hockey game tonight… at 8:40 pm… in neverville Kansas…  Oh, joy.

Today, if you looked up cranky mamajama in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of my cranky mamajama face.

Anybody want ice cream?  Because I do.  Maybe I’ll go get some…

I just stopped and washed my car at 1 am. Hey- somebody ask me why.

(from somewhere in blogland) “Why, Jessi?!?!?”

Well, because it smelled like a skunk. Oh- somebody ask me why!

(from somewhere else in blogland) “Why, Jessi?!?!?”

Well, because I ran over one on my way home from Springfield.

Vomit.

If you google my name, all you come up with (at least for the first 300 or so entries) is Babysitter’s Club books.

If you google “Osceloa Cheese Factory” my blog is the fourth entry.

Explain that.

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