You’ve heard about tennis elbow, right? I guess you get a sore elbow from too much tennis. Or something like that.

Yeah, I don’t have that.

From time to time I do get what I call mouse roller ball-thingy finger. On days at work when, for whatever reason, I have to use the little roller thingy a lot, my finger gets rubbed raw and it hurts to even touch my mouse. But it’s work and I have to touch it. This is mostly caused when I’m working in a spreadsheet.

I also get something I like to refer to as chair blazer elbow. This is caused by wearing a blazer and having my elbow rubbed freakin’ raw by said blazer on my chair arm rest.

Not only does it make my elbow all red and stingy, it also rubs clean through my blazers and makes me almost want to put those sweet elbow pads on that are straight out of the 70’s.

You know what I’m talking about.

I really have totally worn through the elbows of some of my sweaters.

This last week I’ve noticed that I’m getting another awesome ailment that requires a lame name. This one is called fingernails jammed into finger. It’s exactly what it sounds like. When I type it feels like my nails are jamming into the delicate skin on the top of my fingers.

I’ve been typing for years. Back in middle school I was even asked to the be teaching assistant for the Typing Class. (I got to walk around the tell kids they were positioning their fingers incorrectly and also teach them how to center the title on the page. Remember when we used to have to do that before computers?!) So since I’ve been a master typer for over 15 years, it’s very odd that this new fingernail jamming thing has only just started to affect me. (Frema, did I use the correct word there, or should it be effect? I can’t ever remember.)

I seriously sat at work yesterday and thought I was going to have to go home. Dude, if I can’t type at work then I’m pretty much of no use to anyone. I was paying attention to how I was holding my fingers to see if I was doing it different then I used to. I couldn’t tell what I was doing. But dang it, it hurt.

I did notice that my nails were a little longer and thicker than normal, thank you breast feeding. So yeah, maybe it was my nails being too long. Last night before bed, I cut my nails and shaped them. Hoping that they were the culprits.

Here I sit on my laptop typing away. And get this, my fingers are killing me. It is seriously like pulling teeth. And I still have like 7.5 hours of work yet. And it’s only Tuesday morning.

(My mom and dad are flying in tomorrow for Babboo’s first birthday. Hooray.)

The King and I have been taking turns every night. He gets the couch and I get the floor. The next night I get the couch and he gets the floor. We’ve been doing this for over a month. We are sleeping better, but this arrangement probably isn’t very good for our, our do you call them, marital relations.

The following conversation took place this morning at 3:45ish:

Isabel: You awake?

The King: Yeah, but I’m trying to get back to sleep.

Isabel: Want to come down on the floor with me and snuggle a bit?

The King: Yeah, that sounds good. But let it be known that I didn’t get my full night on the couch. Tomorrow night you’re gonna have to give up the couch at 4:00 for me.

Isabel: Whatever, just come down here and snuggle.

Don’t think for a second that he really won’t make me give up the couch tonight. I guess it’s only fair.

Now that I’m an adult and have a real job, and a husband with a real job, I have more of a disposable income then I ever did growing up. Oh wait, I never had a disposable income growing up.

I like to say that I was very poor growing up. And I was. But not poor in the we don’t know where our next meal is coming from sense. It was more like Dad has a crappy job and is going to night school while Mom stays at home with the 4 kids and the handful of aunts and uncles that we are also raising sense. Not to mention that my mom eventually went to school to become a nurse and then my dad went back to school to get his masters degree. Oh yeah, and my dad taught in the public school system, so he made a little over minimum wage. I also mentioned we were raising some of my dad’s siblings, right? Yeah, that cost some money.

That all being said, we didn’t have a lot of extra money. I never had a birthday party at McDonalds. I never owned pretty barrettes for my hair. I never drove a nice car or owned a pair of Girbaud or Guess jeans. I got a new outfit every year for the first day of school. Once I got a little older my mom gave me $100 to buy new clothes with at the start of each school year. I had the things I needed, nothing more, nothing less.

Once I was about 12 I started to baby-sit for the kids in the neighborhood. The going rate was $1.00 an hour. It didn’t matter how many kids you watched, you got $1.00 an hour. This was the perfect job for me. I could get paid for doing the thing I was doing for my mom for free all those years. So basically I felt like this was free money. Money that I could spend any way I wanted. So I did.

Some of you may recognize this picture. Most of you probably owned one in every color. Not me. I only had one. And after much thought I chose to purchase it in royal blue. I remember my mom drove me to the fancy department store and I shelled out $12.00 for my first trendy accessory.

My mom knew how important this was to me. I’m sure she didn’t understand why, but she knew. She also knew they couldn’t afford frivolous items. That year for Christmas I got another bag. It was tan and would go with more of my (crappy) outfits. The only problem was that it didn’t say Esprit on the front pocket. Instead it said Mondo, whatever the crap that was. To lil’ Isabel this was worse then no bag at all. Don’t get me wrong, I used my Mondo bag. I just wore it backwards so that you couldn’t see the Mondo part. My friend Jamie was the only one who teased me about it. (Nice friend.)

As I got a little older I realized I shouldn’t bother being cool. I was never going to have the right clothes, shoes, or accessories, so yeah, why bother? I tried to act like I didn’t care about material things like that. Like I was above trying to be in style. The truth, of course, was that if we could have afforded those things I would have been flaunting them everyday at school.

Instead I wore crap like this:

Yes, that’s a Polo shirt. But it’s a knock off that one of my dad’s students made in his graphic arts class. (And also, those are totally the shorts I wanted to be buried in. I miss them.) (And also, why do I keep posting horrible pictures of me as a teenager for the world to see? Why?) (And what’s with the squinting? It’s like I’m a mole person and the sun is going to kill me.)

I always wished I could afford to dress better. I told myself that when I was grown up, I would buy myself name brand items. I said I wouldn’t have a kid until I could afford to dress him exclusively in Baby Gap apparel. While Babboo does own some Baby Gap, I would not say he dresses exclusively in their stuff. And while I think I have nice clothes, nothing I own is what I would consider name brand. (I have discussed this topic before.)

My birthday is coming up. And get this; it’s on Mothers Day this year. Double whammie, my friends. To me this means I get super-awesome gifts. Right? I’ve been thinking about what I want for the last 6 months. I decided I wanted a pair of designer jeans. I told The King this and he didn’t try to talk me out of it, he simply stated that the pair of jeans I own that look the best on me are a pair of $24.00 Old Navy jeans. So why do I need a pair of $200 jeans? Why not just get another paid of awesome (yet cheaper) jeans?

The King’s right, as always. Why do I need a pair of designer jeans when the cheaper ones look just fine on me? And is it bad that I want to be stylish? But why does being stylish equal the amount of money spent on the item? Will other adults really like me more (or like me less) based on whether or not I have designer labels on my jeans? Do I want people to like me because I spent $200 on a pair of jeans? Am I a bad person for even wanting something so extravagant?

Maybe I should just screw the new jeans and instead ask for a new camera to take to BlogHer. I mean the jeans will eventually go out of style, but pictures of my favorite bloggers will live on forever.

So tell me, what do you all think about buying name brand clothes and spending lots and lots of money?

I heard a radio commercial on the way to pick up The King at the airport last night. It was for a jewelry store and they were talking about how the new trend in engagement rings are for them to be 2 carats or bigger. I don’t know what you all think about that, but that’s a damn big ring. And an expensive one at that.

The subject of engagement rings has always made me feel uncomfortable.

I remember my Mom showing me her engagement ring when I was a teenager. I vividly recall her telling me it was over one carat and that I should never settle for anything smaller. I also remember that my Mom always kept her engagement ring in a safe deposit box and wore a smaller ring my Dad had bought for her when I was little. I asked her what the point of having a fancy ring was if it’s worth too much money to wear. She didn’t have an answer.

Like most young girls I would look through the JCPenny’s catalog and look at the pretty diamond rings. I remember even cutting out a picture of a huge diamond ring and hanging it on my wall. It was oven a carat, just like my Mom said I needed. That was the ring I wanted when I grew up.

When my first husband and I were talking about getting married the discussion naturally turned to engagement rings. He asked me what I wanted. Long gone was the cut out picture from the Penny’s catalog. I no longer wanted a huge ring. I just couldn’t justify spending that much money on a ring when we could use the money for a trip. Or a new couch.

Plus, let’s be honest, what 22 year old guy has that kind of money? We sure didn’t.

That’s the part that makes me uncomfortable. I never knew that correct way to say; please buy me a ring that costs more than the car you drive. Please save up for months and months and then buy the rest on credit. I just couldn’t do it, even though I’m sure he would have been happy to buy me whatever ring I wanted.

I told him I wanted a very plain ring. He was happy to oblige and we ended up with this ring. I got a very small eternity band to go with it that had a few (very small) diamonds on it. I think it all cost less than $300. For our first Valentine’s Day he bought me another of the little diamond bands. I had them all soldered together. It was pretty, but very plain.

After the divorce I really didn’t know what to do with the ring. It wasn’t like I had a child to pass it on to and I knew it wasn’t worth anything to sell. I finally decided to give it to my good friend as a Christmas present. She had always loved the ring and I knew she would appreciate it and take good care of it. She is wearing it every time I see her and I’m glad to see her getting some good use out of it.

When The King and I were talking about marriage we didn’t even live in the same state. Thus making engagement ring shopping impossible. (Looking back now, I guess we could have virtual shopped together.) Again, I never felt comfortable demanding he spend lots of money on a ring for little old me. He asked me a few questions.

Do you want more than one diamond on the ring?

Yes, please.

Do you want platinum or yellow gold?

Yes, please.

The King surprised me at work one morning shortly after this discussion. He had driven all night, over 900 miles, to surprise me with a wedding proposal and an engagement ring. It was a wildly romantic gesture. And again, something that made me very uncomfortable. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry him. I did. With every fiber of my body. It was the whole money spent on an engagement ring thing that freaked me out.

The part that also freaked me out was that this new ring looked just a little too much like my first wedding ring. Only this time it was platinum and the diamonds were much, much larger. I was still shocked to see it. The fact that it reminded me of my first ring is something I’ve never told The King.

Leave it to The King to take things up a notch. Good boy. Check out those diamonds. Not only did he get me this lovely ring, he also got me a silver and gold band to wear with it. You know, depending on what outfit and jewelry I’m wearing. (Today, for instance, I’m wearing my gold band to go with my new shoes.)

While I love my engagement ring, it is by no means 2 carats. I’m not even sure that my little fingers could hold up a 2 carat diamond. That shiz’s has got to be heavy, right?

So tell me, is the 2 carat engagement ring really the new trend? And if so, what do you all think about it? I think it’s a lot of money to spend on a ring when you could use the money for a fabulous wedding in Mexico. Or something equally as amazing.

The King walks Babboo to school in the mornings. They really enjoy that time together. The King tells me they talk and sing and even dance, if the mood hits. I often scoff at him and ask how he isn’t embarrassed by talking to his baby while walking to work. And then he scoffs at me for thinking he should be embarrassed.

I do the walk home with Babboo after school. I spend that time listening to my iPod and catching up on all of my podcasts, while Babboo just sits there in his stroller. He could be talking, or singing. But I can’t hear him over the sound of Ira’s voice. He never seems to mind.

The King has told me that people on the streets of Seattle love seeing Babboo in the mornings. He says that everyday people will stop and smile or wave to him. He loves how Babboo can make others happy by just being well, my own Sweet Babboo.

I’ve told The King that nobody really pays any attention to us in the afternoon. We do our entire walk home with no interaction with others. Fine by me, since I’m busy with my podcasts. The King thinks I’m mean for not allowing people to enjoy our son.

The King was out of town for business last night. Iowa. I KNOW, so random. (Too bad he didn’t run into Kathryn and Kyle there.) But he’s back today. So we’re happy.

That means that I had to take Babboo to school the last two mornings. I still listened to my iPod and didn’t really pay attention to Babboo (who was busy eating toast and drinking from his sippy cup). This morning I noticed something different.

I noticed the business man waiting in line for his cup of coffee. I noticed how he stopped everything to smile at Babboo and wish us a good day. I noticed the trash man waving at Babboo and grinning, showing us his weathered face and teeth. I noticed the woman out walking her dog who looked up and commented on Babboo’s little hat. I noticed how Babboo was very alert and interactive. He was moving around in his stroller and waving to people. He never does that with me in the afternoon.

So while The King would like to think that Babboo’s like that because I’m too busy with my iPod, I don’t think it’s that at all. I think people, and Babboo, are just happier in the mornings. They haven’t been worn out by their job or their boss, their butts aren’t sore from sitting at a desk and looking at a computer screen all day. And seeing Babboo makes them even happier.

Frankly, I don’t blame them. He makes me happier every second of every day.

Here’s hoping he says the same thing about life with his mom and dad.

————-

Quick shout-out to my friend, semi-shown here. She went shopping with me last night and promised to tell me the truth as to what did or did not look good. I’m happy to report that I bought 3 new shirts. And only 2 of them are black.

It was cute when she suggested I put one of the black ones back on the shelf in exchange for a lovely royal blue one. She tried to justify it by saying; since you have enough black shirts already.

Right, but I don’t have this black shirt.

(And also, her and her husband found my blog. Found it! Mere days after writing this post. I will, from now on, just pretend they don’t read it. But only if they promise to not bring up the time The King and I vacationed at a nudist beach at church this Sunday.)

(Side note to said friends: we promise to keep our clothes on during our upcoming vacation together to Canada.)

(Maybe.)

When I was a senior in high school, we studied a Death and Dying section in my AP Psych class. We learned about the 5 stages of grief and what they all mean. We learned about what happens to those left behind when someone dies.

My Psych class took a field trip and visited a funeral home. We saw the different caskets offered there and how much they cost (a lot, by the way). We saw tiny little caskets for babies; we saw small ones for young kids and the plain black ones I had seen at funerals for my older relatives. We saw pink ones and blue ones and even yellow ones.

We talked with the funeral director about the different packages they offer. Things like having the funeral at the funeral home or at your Church. We were told about embalming process and the preparing of the body. I won’t lie to you. It was creepy and maybe not so healthy for a bunch of high school kids to learn about. (Especially the part about seeing the baby caskets. I will never get over that.)

At the end of the chapter we were assigned to plan our own funeral based on the things we had learned. Our teacher wanted to know what casket we would for ourselves. She wanted to know where we wanted our funeral held and who we wanted to speak at our funeral. She even wanted to know what songs we wanted sung and what clothes we wanted to be buried in. And of course, where we wanted to be buried at.

Maybe it was just me, but I spent a lot of time thinking about this (again, probably not very healthy for a teenager). I don’t remember how I can to the conclusions that I came to, only that I felt strongly about them. I wrote my report and turned it in. I also made sure my Mom knew what my wishes were. You know, just in case.

I wanted the cheapest casket they could find. One with not a lot of ribbon and lace. I knew that much. I wanted my funeral held at my church and I wanted my family to speak on how fabulous of a daughter I was.

The easy part was the outfit I wanted to be buried in. I had a favorite tie dyed shirt that had been given to me by my uncle (seen here). I loved that shirt and wore it every chance I got. (Yes, I owned many tie dyed items. Even a dress. I swear.) I had a lovely pair of faded cut off shorts that I also wanted to wear. And my sandals. Of course my sandals.

I wanted to be buried in the cemetery that was next to our house. I wanted to be buried next to my Mom. (Who, hello, isn’t even dead. Thank goodness.) I remember my Mom telling me that I would want to be buried by my husband and family. I told her that she was my family. She was who I loved the most. My 17 year old heart/mind couldn’t comprehend loving someone more than my own mother.

The part of my funeral plans that I was most proud of was the musical number. Yes, there is a musical number at my funeral. The song of choice is, of course, You Are My Sunshine. I’m not really sure why I picked this song. It’s not like it’s a favorite of mine. I don’t even own a copy of it. I think I picked it because I wanted to be the type of person that people would think of their sunshine. (Dude, 17 Isabel thought a lot about herself, didn’t she?)

Through the next few years I would ask, nay, invite friends and family to participate in this musical number at my funeral. I would explain to them the reason why I had this thought out. I asked them to please remember that they had been invited and to come up at the appropriate time during my funeral.

I was completely serious about this. I only asked people who meant a lot to me.

Seriously.

I was a little freaky, apparently.

I’m sure my Mom has long forgotten these funeral requests. My tie dyed shirt and cut off shorts are long gone. The sandals were worn thin and disposed of. I no longer want to be buried in the cemetery I grew up by. I’m hoping The King and Babboo never die so I don’t have to worry about being buried next to them.

(Just typing this out makes me nervous.)

As for the musical number, well, I still want that. And if you’re in town for my funeral-you’re all invited to sing along.