KIDS IN THE CASTLE

Out With the Old, In With the New

2012-01-11T15:40:00.002-05:00

My last few posts have been about the celebrated and honored seniors of our family. Time to turn it around and talk about the youngsters. The whippersnappers. The youth, or as Joe Pesci says in one of my favorite lines ever in a movie, "yoot. Two yoots."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpNgONH2ncI

On the last weekend before school was to start, my hubby decided he would take our two boys to the local gun show. It comes to the Civic Center once a year and I'm not ever sure who enjoys it more; my husband or the boys. At any rate it's become a tradition, and they generally call some friends to go with them. They make a Saturday morning of it and eat lunch at some dinky man dive after.

This year, as most, Clay and Nick went with them. Nick is my eldest's best bud, and Clay is his Dad, one of my husband's hunting buddies. When my three drove by to pick them up, they piled in the truck. They were off.

Only something was different, my husband reported later. Clay and Nick were both sheepish. A little quiet. Discombobulated even. Little did hunky hubby know he was getting ready to find out why.

Nick, Clay reported, had had John over the night before. John is the third of the Three Musketeers. Ever since second or third grade it's been Nick, John, and my Cole. Sometimes others joined, and lots of times two of the three got together when all three couldn't, but all these years these three boys have been dearest of friends and together often.

That night it was just Nick and John. They decided it would be fun to get some black powder from Nick's Dad's basement and light it. Yes, you read it right. Let me interject here that both these boys are all of 14 years old. Both bright. Both in A/C classes in 8th grade. Both have been Scouts since they were in Kindergarten. John, in fact, is getting ready to transfer to a magnet school for science - always has all As, is the 'most responsible' patrol leader in the Boy Scout troop, is engaged, respectful, and blends in well with kids and adults alike. What would make such a child decide he needed to light gunpowder, you ask? Me too - I've yet to figure it out. I'm still shakin' my head over it.

So who lit the powder? Yep, John. As his Mama said, "Yep, Mr. Smarty Pants wasn't so bright." John suffered second degree burns to his face and hands. Nick's hair curled, singed, and broke off, but he had no damage. A third friend, a next door neighbor, got smart and ran when they decided to light it.

Nick and John thought they would go to Nick's room and put some cold water on John's face until it stopped burning; that way they could get away without telling their parents what they'd done. But of course, John's skin began to burn worse and worse and before long, they decided they'd have to go admit to the parental units what had happened.

As the burns began to look and feel worse and worse, they took John to the Emergency Room. There they found out his burns were second degree. He was treated, bandaged and sent home with instructions to return a few days later for surgery. In this surgery, they replaced his burned skin with pig skin (I'm thinking until new skin regenerates?) and in a few days from now, he will return to the doctor to find out if there will be permanent scarring on his sweet face. Kills me that could be possible - I've looked at that beautiful face and perfect skin for years and I don't want to think it could be marred forever. In the meanwhile, he is out of school for at least a week to a week and a half, and in a significant amount of pain and discomfort.

I'm taking Cole over later to visit with John for a few minutes. He wants to let John know he's thinking about him. He's going to take him a basket of candy including but not limited to Atomic Fireballs, Hot Tamales, and RedHots. These kids have a sick sense of humor and in any other case it might be in poor taste to do such a thing, but they will adore the appropriateness of the gift and laugh together while they visit.

We have used poor John's situation as a teaching moment for Cole. Even though we have had dozens of conversations throughout our childrens' lives about safety of all kinds and just as many about guns and explosives specifically, and even though for years hunky hubby and I have each relayed stories to our kids about childhood friends who similarly burned their faces, eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair off and even blinded themselves lighting gunpowder, here's the thing. So had John's parents. I asked Cole what he would have done had he been with the boys that night, and he said he would've told them not to even go get the gunpowder. "What if they did anyway?" I asked. If they continued, he said, he would've gone and told an adult. But y'know, who's to say he isn't telling me what I want to hear, regurgitating the accurate answer? I want to believe it is what he would have done. He's smart and he's reasonable. He's down to earth and he's mature for his age in some ways. And I'd be willing to bet that since this happened it's definately what he would do in the future should he be in that situation, but here is the bottom line.

There's only so much you can teach your children whether by words or by modeling behavior yourself. After that (and during) you just have to pray over them. Daily. Sometimes hourly or by the minute.

I've received a teaching moment of my own from John's plight. It is that good, smart children can get into trouble and can do dumb things. That just because you've taught your children something doesn't mean they'll heed it. Moreover, that I have no power or control over my childrens' actual behavior, just the shaping of it and the consequences after it.

So why is it?

2011-12-28T07:26:00.006-05:00

During Christmas vacation we spent two days at my Mama and Daddy's house. On the way home, I related to hunky hubby that I was worried about my Mom.

"What do you mean? She seemed fine to me other than working too hard for a 79 year old woman."

It's true. She is my Grandmother's (who is 104.5) caregiver, bill payer, chauffeur, property manager, secretary, battering ram - y'know. She's everything. My Grandmother (who is 104.5) does not think of her daughter as a 79 year old woman, or if she does, my guess is that from her perspective that's a spring chicken. She has that syndrome that our seniors get sometimes; the one that is seated firmly in entitlement due to age, wisdom, experience, and maybe most of all, weariness. It's someone else's turn to do for them. Know that one?

So my Mama, who really should be the recipient of some caregiving of her own, "works" full time. Now, Mary Ellen wouldn't have it any other way. She's doing what she feels she's supposed to be doing with her life and for her family. But it takes its toll.

During our visit, Mama pulled out sausage balls and announced that we should warm them and put them on the table to snack on. But. She pulled them out of the pantry. . . NOT the refrigerator.

"Mama," I said. "Do those have meat in them?"

"Yes baby. They're sausage balls."

"Mama," I said. "How long have they been in that pantry?"

"Since yesterday when I made them."

Still nothing. I needed a stronger prompt, I guessed. Or maybe just an all-out, blatant one.

"Mom. Shouldn't they have been stored in the fridge?"

"Oh. I guess. I didn't think about that. Here. Put them on the table."

WHAT??????

I changed tactics. I simply whispered a warning to each of my other family members to stay away from the sausage balls.

After dinner: "Wellll, nobody ate the sausage balls! Weren't they good?"

Now you understand why I'm worried?

The next morning, my Mama called me from Grandmother's. (She rises at 5:00 every morning and goes next door to her Mom's house, feeds her breakfast, helps her get her bath, and then begins the general housekeeping and chores.) "Honey I got waffles for the kids for breakfast, and there's bacon ready to be panfried, too."

"Ok Mama, I'll take care of it."

The frozen waffles were nowhere to be found - that is, if you were looking in the freezer. Guess where they were. No really, guess.

Right. The pantry.

Guess what WAS in the freezer though?! The bacon. Ready to be cooked? Don't think so. Ready to be thawed maybe.

During our visit there were a few other similar incidents. None of them were dangerous - well, unless you consider eating day old meat that hasn't been refrigerated dangerous. But you know what I mean. She wasn't driving down the wrong side of the road or anything. Not that she hasn't before in her life, but that was thirty four years ago when she was just ditzy.

So, my hunky husband reminds me, she's always been ditzy. Why is it you're worried now?

I don't know, but I am. Her responses are different than the lifelong ditziness we're accustomed to - they have a different tenor, a different underlying ummm - I don't know what.

So, my hunky husband reminds me, she's almost 80. Peoples' 'tenor' change with age.

Mind you, he's not trying to minimize my worry. Well, he is, but for altruistic reasons, not dismissive ones. He's trying to rationalize, to make me feel better, to help me put into perspective something I can't get ok with yet.

Only now, two days later, in the middle of the night, have I recognized why I'm worried now. She's my Mama and she's 79. Yes, genetically she may very well have a good shot at living another twenty five years, but I guess I am facing the thought, the very real idea, that sometime in the future, the relationship my Mama and I have will change. For good.

There aren't many things I'm afraid of. Really there aren't. Losing my Mama however, is high up on that short list. It's a totally selfish fear, for she knows where she's passing to when she passes, and she isn't afraid. She has a deep faith and a strong and committed Christian heart.

So why is it I'm worried? She does ditzy things and I worry she's displaying signs of dementia instead of the regular ditziness that's been a part of her personality always. It weakens my argument that I can't describe why I'm worried or give objective examples or reasons why I think recent occurrences are more serious or forboding than the ones we've always laughed about, shaken our head and sucked our teeth and looked at each other with glances that say, "Ohhhhh, that's just Mama."

My greatest hope is that I'm wrong. I haven't given thought to what life will be like without my Mama, and I don't want to give thought to such a thing. Maybe I won't have to for a couple of decades.

I don't know where they are and neither does she...

2011-12-27T07:35:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago I talked about Sylvia and Marie's Grandfather passing away. As a result, Sylvia had to bring her Grandmother to live with her in Alabama. With her dementia progressing, she is not able to take care of herself. We know what an incredibly difficult transition and situation it is when you take on this responsibility - I commend her for feeling such strong accountability for her family. If you have been in this position however, or even if you know someone who has, you will understand there is a flip side to the seriousness and critical nature of the situation.

You just have to laugh.

Comic relief is a necessary thing, folks. So you'll understand I'm not speaking out of disrespect or making light of the situation when I relate these humerous bits.

From the time Sylvia was in Alaska (where Grandmother and Grandfather lived) preparing to bring Grandmother home, she began her campaign to get her Grandmother to quit smoking.

"Once we get to Alabama there's gonna be no smoking. Maybe she'll forget she smokes."

I laughed so hard I choked. Didn't expect that. Then, a few weeks later, this:

"I'm missing three pairs of shoes. Grandmother has a new hiding place and I don't know where it is and neither does she."

Again, laughed so hard I snorted. Seems like when a comic statement is a surprise, it makes it even funnier.

My own Grandmother, who is 104 years old, had a toothache a couple of years ago. At 102 the dentist was not inclined to do anything restorative; his suggestion was to pull the tooth and leave it at that. Over the holidays while we were there, my Mother, having just sat with Grandmother while she ate her lunch, said, "If we'd known Mother was going to live this much longer we might've had that tooth fixed instead of yanked."

Funny stuff. She didn't intend for it to come out funny. Just happened.

Similarly, each year when Grandmother's birthday comes around, my sister and my cousins and I all put our heads together to decide what and where to have the party. For the 104th party planning, I said, "Well lets make it a big one. Might be her last."

My cousin Sheri said, "Oh Caren. We've been saying that for ten years."

Hee hee heeeeeeeeeeeeee. It's not funny. But it IS. IT IS. Every time I visit my Grandmother, when I hug and kiss her goodbye and tell her I love her, I head out the door and get in the car to leave and spend the next few minutes wondering if that was the last time I would ever get to do that. It's so gut wrenching a thought that comic relief is a necessity. I tell myself every single day I get to spend with her is a gift. I'm sure Sylvia tells herself the same thing about her Grandmother.

Some gifts are more valuable and meaningful than others; some come with baggage, some come with strings. The gift of having our seniors comes with humor. Thankfully.

YOU SPENT HOW MUCH?????

2011-12-12T09:35:00.002-05:00

My hunky hubby has the George Bush Sr. Cost of Living Syndrome. That is to say, he's clueless about the current prices of groceries among other things, and accordingly, how much is generally and regularly spent for groceries for the average family of four. Uhh, family of four where 75% are male. I feel that statement is crucial because its insanely consequential to the bottom line.

Now then. I feel compelled to state for the record that Hunky Hubby can quote the exact and/or relational cost of an abundance of items, mostly related to commercial property and it's upkeep, maintenance and repair. Also he's acutely aware of the price of frozen pizza, Xochitl chips, salsa, guacamole, and hummus. And Diet Coke. Pretty much his repertoire as it relates to consumable grocery items. Now, if you're talking hunting gear that's a different saga. And a post for another day.

So when I got home from Costco yesterday and happened to mention that I'd spent $365, he. freaked. out. Lost his mind for a bit.

"You saw all the stuff we brought in baby," I say. "How much did you THINK it cost? You can't get this quantity of cases, multi-packs, and huge containers of consumables like this for peanuts y'know."

"Well . . . . well . . . . well, weeeeee're we're just spending a lot on extras right here at Christmas, that's all," he said with a frustrated hand raised to his forehead.

"Extras? Interesting viewpoint. I never looked at food for our family as extras, but if you insist."

"Are you kidding me?" He's hoarse by now. "Three HUNDRED and seventy DOLLARS worth? That's not EXTRAS?????

"Sad to say, but no my darling man. It's normal. And not only that, but I didn't get everything I needed either. I'll have to make a grocery store trip later in the week."

At this point I thought his eyeballs might just pop out of their sockets and the top of his head shoot off with projectile smoke billowing and a big ol' train horn sound for accompaniment. He looked at me like I had three heads.

"What? More? We still need MORE?"

*sigh* Bless his heart. Good thing I'm so in love with him.

Pregnant pause. Having known the man for somewhere over thirty years, I'm fully aware that now at this nano-second he's working that information in his brain to spin it so that somehow HIS reaction is MY fault.

"Well, you acted like $370 was a lot when you told me how much you spent."

"It is."

"It is what?"

"A lot."

Pregnant pause. Having known the man for somewhere over thirty years, I'm just now learning how to burst his blame bubble.

"Well then, see?"

"See what?"

"See? If you hadn't acted like it was a lot I wouldn't have - uh - said, yeah that's it, said what I did."

*sigh* Bless his heart.

"It is a lot, but it's not more than usual. See the difference there, Big Guy? And for the record, the term extras refers to something that can be done without. In excess. Ancillary. Extraneous. Last time I checked, it was not only illegal but unethical and abysmally negligent not to provide healthy and nutritional food for your children."

Okayyyyyy. So that parting shot may've been ever so slightly patronizing. But just WAIT until he asks me where the Diet Cokes are. Now THERE's an extra.

Christmas in Dixie

2011-12-07T15:17:00.003-05:00

It's snowin' in the pines....

Not really. It is supposed to snow tomorrow, but I've had that song stuck in my head since last week. That one and Sweet Home Alabama and yes I know it wins the prize for the most redneck song ever written. But tell me this. Do you know anyone who, when the very first four or five guitar notes of Sweet Home Alabama come on, does NOT say "Turn it up" along with Ronnie Van Zant?

I don't.

Nor do I know anyone who doesn't know Christmas in

Dixie. What's it doing in Memphis? Maybe Graceland's all in lights.

What about New York City?

By now there's snow on the ground.

Chicago?

It's windy and the kids are out of school.

What's goin' on in Motown?

It's magic and the city's on the move.

It's a warm, inviting, cozy song. Just like when you hear the first four notes of Sweet Home Alabama, you know for the next three and a half minutes Lynyrd Skynyrd is going to be right there with you, dependably twanging out the lines and guitar licks you know by heart and have for years. Who plays the air guitar when it comes on?

Mee, mee, meeeee!

Unabashedly. No shame. Riiiiiight out in the open, baby. If my kids are around when it comes on they scatter. Fast. So Mom doesn't embarrass them by playing her air guitar. They know I carry it everywhere with me.

And when Randy and Jeff Owens come on singing to me about Christmas in Dixie, there's no one that sings that last, sweet line louder than me.

And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight. For that one, my kids don't scatter. They sing it with me. At the top of their lungs.

It's special being Southern, no doubt. You see the quote "I'm American by choice and Southern by the grace of God", and you might think it's just a cute lil' catch phrase to put on a button or a bumper sticker, but no. Nnnnnnnnewp. We Southerners really feel it. I know other folks are proud of where they live or where they're from, but I don't ever hear the pride, the love, and the thankfulness come through like I do when I hear a Southerner talk about life in the South, or explain how to fry (or eat) fried chicken, how to make buttermilk biscuits, how to sit on the porch with a tall glass of iced tea, how to entertain while making guests feel like family, how to interpret Southern speak, or most importantly, how to speak gracefully and tactfully with a lovely, gentle drawl while shooting daggers from your eyeballs into someone's soul. It's the Southern feminine version of The Hairy Eyeball. The Stinkeye. Only we do it with a wink, a smile and a tilt of the head. A Southern woman must know this, as well as the backwards sympathetic comment "Bless your heart."

"Oh, she's gained at least twenty pounds. Bless her heart."

Anyway. Here I sit rambling on about being Southern when I need to be cooking dinner and helping J-rod with his homework. He's got a ton, bless his heart.

LOSING the GREATS

2011-11-28T19:47:00.007-05:00

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my family lost two greats. My children lost one of their remaining three Great Grandparents. That my children have thus far had three Great Grandparents in their lives has been a rare blessing. The Great Grandfather they lost lived 4400 miles away and had only met my children once. Still, it was a sad and reverent occasion. This Great Grandfather was the grandfather of my oldest son's birthmother. Follow that? Cole's birthmother's grandaddy. Each of my children claim their brother's birth family as their own, and I claim them all. The more family you can claim the merrier, I say. Cole's birth aunt also belongs to Jared, Jared's birth grandmother belongs to Cole, and so on. It warms my heart when Jared calls Cole's birth aunt by "Aunt Sylvia". That Aunt Sylvia's children are cousins to both my children and not just one? It's something so staggeringly positive and poignant, and most families who are made by giving birth to their children unfortunately never even get to experience it. It's one of the many advantages of getting your children by adoption.

The Great Grandfather we lost was Korean. He lived in Alaska. He possessed such a wide, deep, vast expanse of wisdom and knowledge and I'd always hoped he could someday share it with my children. Alas, too much worked against us for it to happen. There was a language barrier, distance, and failing health and it wasn't to be. His wife, the boys' Great Grandmother, has dementia and anything she might have shared with the boys is gone, for the most part. When history and wisdom doesn't get passed down a connection is broken and I don't think it can be regained. I'm sad about that.

The one remaining Great Grandparent is my own Grandmother. She's nearly 105 yet most days she's sharper than me - not that that takes much. I'm so grateful my boys have lived their lives thus far with her in it, and I hope we have more time yet with her. Every visit with her is a memory we all take with us. Makes us richer. Makes us understand the value of experience and seniority, the delicacy of life and the importance of savoring every moment with someone as if it's your last.

I'm so thankful my children have birthmothers who love them so much; who made the ultimate and most incredibly difficult, selfless decision to give their child a shot in life. Never do my children have to wonder if they weren't wanted, if they were given away. Their birthmothers and their birthmothers' families make certain they know otherwise, by their actions and their words.

We will miss our Korean Great Grandfather even though we didn't know him well. He held a spot in our family tree. He was an important character in the story of our lives, maybe Cole's in particular.

We also lost my Aunt Mary (that's pronounced Aint Mayree). To say that lost was profound is so incomplete as to nearly be offensive. She had an intense and far-reaching impact on the lives of her family. She was the sister of my Grandmother. The younger sister. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob (the brother of my Grandfather - that's a story for a post all on its own) never had any children, so they made their nieces and nephews their children. We all spent childhood summers at Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob's. They lived on "the old home place", a sprawling, peaceful Georgia farm of hundreds of acres, mature forests, trails, blackberry bushes, lakes, ponds, garden plots, pastures, fruit trees and barns that they played in as children. They had built a home there but also preserved all the old buildings on the place. They had cows, horses, and occasionally pigs. They always had two border collies and one was always named Sam. As long as I remember going there, there was always a furry black, blonde and white border collie named Sam.

My cousin Jeff eulogized Aunt Mary. It was by far the best, most appropriate, most endearing tribute ever given at a funeral where I've been in attendance. I have a copy of it coming to me. I'll share parts of it with you when it arrives. Jeff reminisced about how Aunt Mary taught us all what clean really meant - as we all apparently had erroneous definitions prior to her lessons. He told of her kindness and how many other kindnesses she was responsible for that no one would ever know about. He talked about her spirit, her contagious laugh, her financial shrewdness as well as her financial generosity. He talked about how many things we all learned just by being there with them - how to tell when a horse was getting ready to roll, how to jump off a horse, and how, in so many more ways than one, to get right back on the horse. During the ten or fifteen minutes he spoke, he brought back such intense, accurate, and delicious memories of Aunt Mary, and as I looked around at all the people who loved Aunt Mary and were gathered around her coffin, it was obvious Jeff brought the essence of Aunt Mary back for them too.

I'm so thankful to have had her in my life. I'm thankful she played such a great role in my life and provided me with one of the many models I was fortunate enough to have of a fiercely strong, joyous woman.

We have a lot to be thankful for this holiday season.

"We are

2011-11-10T18:55:00.002-05:00

what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
– Aristotle

Let that one sink in for a few minutes. The more times I read that the more I love it. The more I've decided I should live by it. The more I think it should be my mantra.

It's powerful. It's profound. It's simple. Excellence is a habit. Wow.

I believe that's a habit I'd like to have. It surely is easy to make something a habit. I know because Monday I started eating one funsize frozen Snickers when I got home and today, Thursday, a mere three days later, it's part of my daily ritual and I'm discombobulated if I don't get it. Yesterday I forgot and within five or ten minutes of walking into the house my mouth was watering and I was craving chocolate, caramel and peanuts. Exactly two frozen bites of it. What do you want to bet it takes me longer to break that habit than it did to establish it???? WHY is that? Grrrr. I digress. The point is, it drove home for me the fact that I can establish a habit within a short matter of days. Why shouldn't it be a fabulous habit? One I don't ever WANT to break???

Recently I started back to school. The group of 'kids' I attend with are late teens and early twenties, for the most part. They drag in at 9:00am, talk about how tired they are, how they couldn't get out of bed, their MOM had to call them SEVEN times before they got up.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR. Their MOM???? SEVEN times???? Don't anyone tell my nine year old. He's gonna feel SO hornswoggled.

One of these girls, rubbing her eyes with one hand and propping her head up with the other, peeps through her half shut slits and says, in my general direction, "Miz Caren, how in the HELL do you have so much energy this early in the morning???"

Early? EARLY? Give me strength. Any Mom knows that 9:00am is about lunchtime. When your day begins at 5:45am with two loads of laundry, a shower, getting something into the crockpot for dinner, making three lunches, signing four papers your kids forgot last night, writing a check for the field trip (again, said child forgot last night), feeding two dogs, throwing two coats of mascara on inbetween all that, then getting the kids to school and getting myself to school, all by 8:15 -- and lovin' every second of it ----- 9:00am is NOT early.

So my reply? Well, what I WANT to say? "How in the heck are you so SLEEPY at 9:00am???" You are burnin' daylight, lil girl!!! Energy is a state of mind. You ain't gonna acquire it slopped over the table like that with your head in your hands."

What I say: "Energy is lots more fun. It's a decision."

That's when the student next to me said "Hey! Aristotle said that, right?"

"I don't know," I said. But he shoulda, if he didn't. So I looked it up when I got home. Here's what the gal next to me was thinking of:

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence therefore, is not an act, it's a habit."

Wow. So, I think, is energy. So, I think, is a good attitude. So, I think, is a thoughtful and loving countenance.

I think I would've liked Aristotle.

GIVING THANKS

2011-11-08T19:01:00.002-05:00

This year our Thanksgiving is taking a turn. I'm not getting out the china and silver and crystal. Not washing it all up so we can eat off of it for an hour or so and then wash it all up again. Not getting out the linen and washing it all up, setting the table with it and then pulling it all off the table and washing it all up again. Some years it seems like a good idea to wear myself out doing those traditional things. Some years I really enjoy it, even though I spend an inordinate amount of time on it and lose way too much rest and/or sleep for its importance. In any case, not happnin' this year.

This year I either have time to cook OR be with family. I choose family. Thankfully my sister-in-law came up with the idea to have the meal catered out. Her schedule is similar to mine for the next two to three weeks and I don't know about her, but I'm having trouble finding enough time to get the bare necessities done, much less the 'can-do-withouts'. I haven't taken my kids anywhere fun in weeks. I haven't spent an evening cuddled up with my husband reading or watching a movie together in much too long. I haven't been to see my Mama and Daddy in months. Haven't had a girls night in forever. At this point, it would be an insult to those I love and haven't spent enough time with to agree to spend hours and hours in the kitchen cooking for one meal.

And thankfully, split several ways, the cost of the meal catered is less than I would pay for groceries for the event, plus all the time I gain being somewhere other than the kitchen with my hand up a bird's bum. It's a win-win.

I never have quite understood the feeling that Thanksgiving is so so much about food. I'm not thankful for food. Well, that's not right. Of course I'm thankful for food. But it's not what I'm celebrating and being thankful for on the fourth Thursday in November. Nope. It's family. It's spending a day together with people I don't see enough, don't hug enough, don't get to visit with enough. It's fellowship, laughter, reminiscing, storytelling, and just breathing each others' air.

And I get to thoroughly enjoy it. I get to enjoy it because I don't have broilers and roasters and casserole dishes and cookie sheets and baking pans and bar pans and cake plates and mixing bowls to wash. I'm going to do what the men do after a meal - sit down in front of the TV or on the patio. And then, I get to enjoy it some more instead of washing dishes. Paper plates go straight into the garbage. Yay. And then I get to enjoy it some more even, because I don't have to wash and fold linens.

Then when that celebration is over, I can make a pot of coffee and go upstairs and pack my bags so the next morning we can travel to my Mama's house for another Thanksgiving celebration. Don't have to spend half the night cooking. I only have to take myself and my three guys. No food. She's been catering Thanksgiving out for years.

I am one lucky girl. I should be thankful! (wink wink)

60 MILES, 3 DAYS, 2400 FRIENDS, ONE I.T. PULL, ONE SISTER, ONE GOAL

2011-10-30T17:59:00.010-04:00

Last weekend I participated in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day 60 Mile Walk for breast cancer. My sister (that my hunky husband's brother gave me) and I had been planning this for months. We'd been training. We'd been plotting. We'd been fundraising. We'd been talkin' it up. We'd been thinking about it and smiling but largely ignoring it owing to the fact that we both have lives that are all-encompassing, comprehensively, extensively, uhh, full beyond measure.

I had an advantage. My children both played soccer at a complex that was composed of five soccer fields and a 1/2 mile track which encircled three of the five.

Susan had an advantage. She did NOT have two children that played soccer or - well, she didn't have two children.

The two of us are of like minds in many respects. We understand if our nights aren't good our days aren't good, we understand our capabilities and our shortcomings, and as a result we elected to spend one of the three nights in Camp (for the experience. Y'know.) and the other two in hotel rooms where we could actually sleep well and arrive at the start line the next morning refreshed and ready. This decision actuated a chain of events that made us "exceptions". Well we knew we were exceptions already. We had to figure out how to get luggage to and from Camp, how to get from Closing Ceremonies back to our vehicle, and a few other such logistics. We managed.

Imminently important was how to get to the Medical Tent each morning in time to have our various hurty parts taped and then get in 'line' for the start so that we had the advantage of at least beginning the day's walk in the first third. We managed. Also important, how to arrive at Camp in the a.m. in time to throw in with the breakfast crew. Bacon, sausage, eggs, biscuits, jelly, butter, hash browns, cheese danish, fruit, juice, and coffee. Anyone with a brain understands the importance of making it in time to partake. We were, after all, walking 20 miles that day. We managed.

The upshot was that we DID it. We finished. We walked 60 miles for the cure. T-H-E. C-U-R-E. We had raised our money, trained, and we walked it. We started, we finished. It wasn't easy. At times it wasn't even fun. But. At other times it was. Fun. Fulfilling. Exhilarating. Emotional. Passionate. Climactic. Adrenaline charged. Emotion packed. Exhausting. Painful.

At the Opening Ceremonies we got to place a pink circle on the Memorial Wall. That one that says "For Diane" is mine.

And as much of a cliche as it is, here's what went through my peabrain. If Diane can receive the news that she has cancer, engage in the chemo/radiation fight and maintain a positive attitude, live (and I do really mean live) through years of remission, and then receive the bad news again and start all over with chemo/radiation, then guess what. I CAN walk 60 miles in three days. I can do that. No matter that my shins splinted and my I.T. band was pulled, no matter Susan had a hamstring pull and painful blisters. Somehow we understood that our issues were minor - even though they felt major. No. Not major. Epic. Deadly. Dramatic. B-I-G time.

Cauz know what? Diane managed. She managed. She managed with beautiful graciousness and gentility. She managed through her faith and her relationship with God.

Diane managed. She manages today. She has an invasive functioning illness/ailment and she could beat any of us out when it comes to attitude, cheerfulness, or faith. She has the best friend in the world. That would be my mother.

I'd walk another 60 mile walk for her. I wouldn't like it. But I'd do it. Throughout the 3 days, there was one thing Susan and I kept repeating to each other. "It's about the journey. It's about the journey. It's about the journey."

It meant so many things. When we wanted to pass everyone because they were pokey or annoying. When we wanted to sock someone in the face because they were selfish or thoughtless. When we wanted to hail the Sweep Van and just go back to camp and chill, have our muscles rubbed and wrapped. But the journey WAS what it was about. For every day I'm separated from the event for yet another day, I understand the journey a little better. I can pray that my shins will heal quicker. I can respond to questions with "Oh yes, I'd do it again." I can proudly announce, "We raised SIX AND A HALF MILLION DOLLARS." But in the end, even though I'm profoundly and permanently affected by the experience, I still don't have a clue. Not a clue what it's like to live with cancer. And I'm thankful, for that and for the conviction to do The Walk and to understand the blessings of my life and my family. For a sister to walk with. For a family to return to. For a Godly mother with a Godly best friend. And for a loving God that wraps me in His arms even when my biggest problem is my shins.

UTOPIAN ENVIRONMENTS AND SUCH

2011-10-17T07:34:00.003-04:00

This past Saturday was my first full day in the salon. No classroom, no theory, no demos. In the hoose. all. day. Saturday. The busiest day in the industry.

Heaven. I'd forgotten how much I adore the salon environment. It smells nice. There are hundreds of products. Beauty products. Implements. Tools for making you priddy. Words like "up-do", "wavy curls" and "facial". Feel good words.

Oh, of COURSE there are less than perfect things about it too. It's not all mai tais and yahtzee. Nothing's perfect. I choose to ignore them and enjoy. I did have to listen to customers' medical problems, home problems, marriage problems, and so on. I guess having your hair worked on is relaxing and personal enough to make some folks lose their inhibitions regarding personal issues. Maybe it's not altogether unlike having a drink or two and unloading on the bartender. If you think, however, that listening to that kind of talk is a downer, you are oh so mistaken. I listened to a customer tell me about her digestive issues and I was able to say things like "Tsk, I'm so sorry you're having trouble." I listened to another one tell me about her teenagers' antics and I was able to say "I know" in a low, sympathetic tone. Over and o-v-e-r again. "I know." Listened to yet another one lament about family issues, spouse issues and in-laws and how helpless she was in her own home, and I was able to shake my head empathetically and say things like "ohh dear. Ohhhh, dear," and "I am just so SO sorry," and "That's TERRible!"

Think listening to that stuff is negative? Ohhhhh ho ho ho nnnnnew. Nnew nnnnnew nneww. I wasn't responsible for fixing ANY of those issues. In fact I'm not allowed to dispense advice or diagnose medical problems. I wasn't responsible for calling Tummy Problems' doctor and scheduling a doctor appointment and driving her to it and talking to the doctor and paying the bill, then getting her to agree to stop by the pharmacy on the way home to buy her prescription. Nnnnnewp.

I wasn't responsible for Mom of Teenagers kids - for coming up with a suitable discipline for their antics, worrying whether they have a conscience or will develop one or remain sociopathic teenagers. Nnnnnewp.

I wasn't responsible for Family Relationships Chick, for her husband who largely ignored and took advantage and took for granted, her in-laws where he obviously learned that behavior, her mother who, through judgmental comments and complaints or backhanded compliments gave her a huge inferiority complex even into her adulthood, or her whiny, powerless attitude which allowed her situation to continue.

I had an entirely different role. The sympathizer. Surprising how saying "I know" while patting someone on the shoulder endears you to them. Remarkable how sucking your teeth, shaking your head and muttering "Ohhhhh my." engages and pleases a person. It's hard for me to take on that role but I liked it. At home I want to fix things when they go wrong. I want to help with solutions. In this environment I am not allowed to do that. It's forcing my hand, making me become a sympathizer, and I LIKE it.

I shook my head with them and Mmmm'd and Ohhhh'd with them and agreed with them. Then at 4:37pm when I walked out that door I smiled and looked forward to heading home. To my children who are healthy. To a hunky husband who took care of his children in my absence and welcomed me home with big open arms and a smile. To a home where I give myself the power to be strong and in charge.

I enjoy my life - being in charge and responsible for a family. Fixing things. Swooping in and helping clean up messes, real or perceived. It's what I wanted, what I chose and I'm grateful and oh so blessed.

There is, however, an undeniable lift to the spirit when you spend the day in a spa atmosphere. Regardless of whether you are the receiver or the giver of the service you're surrounded by good smells, lightweight tenuous issues such as whether to polish with orange-red or pinky-red or whether to do highlights just around the face or all over. Straight or curly, up-do or down.

Yes it's a fanciful, frivolous environment. To my mind it's the perfect balance to real life.

Well the windshield wipers, slappin' out a tempo,

2011-10-10T10:42:00.003-04:00

keeping perfect rhythm to the song on the radio-o-woh. Gotta keep rohhhhhhhhh-lin'.

Yep. Driving my life away. Not that it isn't the mantra of every parent in the world, but you tuned in to my blog, not theirs.

And to make the theme song of the day even more appropriate, it is raining. It's supposed to rain all week. About midway through the soccer season I pray for weather news like this. The prayer goes something like, "Father it's me Caren. I could ask for rain because we need it but You already know my heart so I may'z well come clean with You. I just don't want to spend every single evening and all weekend at the soccer field this week. There it is. Amen"

I don't think of it as a complaint or a whine, more like a request for a short soccer sabbatical. And to strengthen my argument, the trips to soccer will be replaced by trips to the mall for new jeans for my kids who each grew a foot and a half just last week, trips to get haircuts for my kids whose hair grew two inches just last week, and trips to the library to let my kids return the books they've had checked out for two months but didn't read. It's sounding less like a sabbatical, right?

It takes both of us - hunky hubby and myself - to keep it between the ditches. I say on at least a weekly basis I don't understand how single parents do it. I do think it's most helpful when you have grandparents and other family close-by that graciously offer to take your kids for you every once and awhile so you can, oh I don't know, have a few minutes to breathe. Go to the doctor maybe. Work. Have a no-kids evening. We did that all the time before we had kids. Seemed like there wasn't a weekend we didn't have nieces and nephews for at least one of the weekend days and usually overnight. We're not so lucky though to have the same advantage. I guess it's what we get for waiting so long to have kids. Hopefully we'll have plenty of time to spend with each other when the kids are gone, but I surely do miss it now.

At any rate, I applaud single parents. They make me feel guilty and lame for wanting it to rain all week just so I can skip soccer. You understand it doesn't make me stop wishing it. I just feel guilty and lame. But I'm ok with that.

"WHAT??? Mommy has a life too? I gotta call Dad and find out if this is true!"

2011-10-07T16:50:00.005-04:00

Know what ASP stands for? Depends who you ask. Cobb County School System uses it to stand for the "After School Program". The kids in it call it "After School Prison". More on that later.

I have my first full week of school behind me. I am more convinced than ever I'm in the right place. There are just too many signs to ignore. I've heard, "You only go through once, so do what you love and love what you do." Heard it all my life, well except for when I was trying to decide on a major in college, which ironically is when you really should have that counsel, isn't it.

Attempting to let go of lifelong perceptions, or reform them - now there's a task. One particular person in my household who shall remain anonymous but his initials are hunky hubby can not understand why in heaven's good name I would choose the cosmetology field when I have a bachelor's degree, post graduate classes and 20 years of business experience under my belt. "But it's like you're starting OVER and WHY would you want to DOOOOO that when you could have something so much more gratifying if you updated your resume and went back into your field? Used your degree? Leaned on all your experience?" This accompanied by much head scratching.

Well here's the thing. Gratifying to WHOM??? My sweet hubby is such a man. I have to declare to you that I'm extremely pleased about this particular detail. It works out well for our relationship. As men go however, it seems they're convinced that their job, their career, their earning potential defines them, plays a large if not primary role in determining their value - their worth - their import - their place - to others as well as to themselves.

Why yes. It IS a rank generalization, thank you for noticing. In my frame of reference however, it is a true one. Of the men I know, I can say with no misgivings they embrace the concept. Own it.

My hunky hubby for example, didn't attempt to hide his confusion. There was no judgment attached, just sheer stupefaction. He was bewildered. Befuddled. Asking for explanation. But (and listen closely my peeps, cauz this is why I adore this man so ding dang much) as he rubbed his head in confusion and before I ever began to attempt to try to get ready to undertake to endeavor to answer his inquiry, he announced "Well I support it. I support you. I don't claim to fully understand it yet. But it doesn't matter. I'm on board."

I'M ON BOARD.

What, I ask you, could a husband ever do that's more right than that?

Well I'll tell you what. In order to ensure my 9 year old 4th grader isn't a latchkey kid on occasion, I did the paperwork this morning for ASP. Completed the forms, paid the registration fee, and plunked a chunk of $$ in a top-up prepaid account. That way on early release days, inclement weather days and the like when I have school but Jared does not, we will have a plan. An easy arrangement giving him a place to be that is supervised, structured, and promises to strike a good balance between work and play. There are college students to help them with their homework and play games with them. There are teachers and school staff administering and managing the program. The truth is we might possibly take advantage of this option ten to twenty hours the entire schoolyear, but no matter. It's there. It's a net.

Jared has a much different perspective. Jared, since the second we met, has been attached to my hip. I said "Hello baby, guess what. You belong to me," and he responded by clamping himself onto my body and not letting go. Yet. Since. Ever. For the first five weeks I went everywhere with the little dark chubby cherub clamped onto me, full frontal. I learned how to go to the restroom, sleep, grocery shop, and cook with him locked on. At the present time he has evolved to the nine year old version of that. Socially adept, academically first-rate, emotionally on target, but attached to Mom nonetheless. I can come home from a 45 minute trip to Publix and he greets me at the door. "MOMMMMM, I missed you SO MUCH!!!" Again. Full frontal contact, and not just for a few comfortable seconds. Latched on. My hunky hubby, that angel's Daddy, is rolling his eyes and smacking his forehead.

So in Jared's eyes it was clearly, neatly an act of treason when I enrolled him in ASP. A betrayal. He appeared jilted. Forsaken. I was the double-crosser; Judas. "Whyyyyy, Mom, why can't you let me stay by myself??? And speaking of whyyy, why do you have to do this school thing???"

I explained it using the summarily self-involved version that goes like this: "Because I want to."

Jared looked confused. "Wull, why would you wanna do THET???"

Again, the short answer. "I just do." Then, for some obscure, unintelligible reason, I went on. "Jared you are growing up so fast. You are such a fabulous kid, and you'll be an even more fabulous man. When you are a man, you and I won't live together anymore. You will be on your own and you'll fall in love with someone and create a life of your own. You know what? That happened to me. The guy I fell in love with? That's your Dad. And he and I will still be together when you're off building your own life.

"But you don't want to be my Mom NOW?"

OH. Oh you're good, Mr. Jared. But no, nooo, no no no NO. You're not THAT good. Not gonna work.

So we had a little discussion about what it means, and doesn't mean, to be a Mom.

Now Ronny comes home from work. I relate the story to him, woebegone and dejected, for although I held my own with my boy, I melted into a puddle of guilt and uncertainty with him. So here's where he bested himself. "Aww honey. This was OUR decision. Not your decision. You may've carried out the duty but we decided on it together. I'm on it. Where is he?"

Thank you Jesus, for a husband who owns his job, understands his responsibilities. Who owns his opinions and his confusion and the ideals he carries with his Man Card.

And now, thank you for a husband who is amenable to being guinea pig for a facial and facial massage. Mama has to practice.

Who says men don't know where their bread's buttered?

WHAT THE CATERPILLAR CALLS THE END

2011-09-29T13:53:00.003-04:00

the butterfly calls the beginning. Martin Luther King said to take a first step even if you couldn't see the whole staircase. Somebody said you don't have to be great to start but you have to start to be great. I don't know who said it first but I've heard it all my life. "Don't wait until conditions are perfect to begin. Beginning makes conditions perfect." Same with that one - no clue who said it first but I know who said it to me every day for a year. Good thing too - it led to becoming parents. "You can't make a new start but you have the power to make a different ending." I thought I knew who said that one but no. It was some Roman warrior I think. Here's my favorite quote on the subject:

"The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it. "

Thucydides

I confess I have no big fat clue who Thucydides is but I saw that quote a long time ago at a bungee jumping place and started thinking about the things in my life most worthwhile and most extraordinary and recognized they had come about in that fashion. They didn't fall into my lap or happen to me randomly, but steps were taken towards accomplishing a goal regardless of the peril possible in the undertaking. I think that's a lot of words for what amounts to "faith". In my case certainly it isn't clear vision or bravery; maybe instead blind faith and a bad case of the Birdbrained Dopeys about the possibility of monumental failure. At any rate, the upshot is that at the age of 51, I'm going back to school.

YAY!! (Yikes)

Not only am I going back to school but going back and grabbing hold of a long lost high school dream. I lost it while I was in college, forgot about it as I pursued my degree and then career, pushed it aside and gave up on it as I made a home and a family. It began to resurface in my peabrain as I was raising my babies. When you stay at home to raise your own children you dream of working and when you work you dream of staying home with your babies I guess. I was right where I wanted to be, staying at home with my boys, but still daydreaming all the while. Daydreaming is a good thing.

Now that my little men-in-training are older and pulling away from the dependence of young childhood, my life is once again becoming more and more my own. It happens in such small increments you don't really notice it until one day a light bulb comes on and it occurs that you aren't any longer in demand every moment of every day. For some it's a sad moment, a poignant realization. Not me baby. Ready for the next phase. Bring it on.

I have enjoyed every phase of my kids' lives (some more than others) and continuing in that respect I am currently enjoying how our relationships are changing, how the dynamic is so fluid. I'm enjoying having thoughtful discussions with my fourteen year old that are not dissimilar to conversations with adults, and as he speaks, recalling how our conversations went and what he looked like when he was four. I'm enjoying listening to my nine year old explain the concise details and engineering concepts of his latest Lego build, and as he speaks, remembering when I found out he was appropriating Lego men from his preschool classroom and telling me he found them on the playground. Great story for another post.

Even more, I am enjoying that when they are hungry they're able to fix themselves something. I'm enjoying that they can do their own homework, get themselves up in the mornings, bring their laundry down when the hamper's full and take it all back upstairs again and put it up when it's clean; wash it themselves if they're in a bind. I'm enjoying that I can send my fourteen year old in to the store to quickly return a video or buy a bunch of bananas while I sit in the car outside waiting for him. I am not thrilled about not having anyone to read to at bedtime, but my hunky hubby has graciously volunteered to be the victim I mean recipient of my attentions in that area. I can't wait to see what he chooses for me to read to him. I'm kinda skeert.

So all in all, going back to school seems like a natural progression. I want to do something new. Something lighthearted. Something fun. Something I can walk away from at the end of a work day and not consider again until I walk in to begin another one. Something I look forward to each morning. I don't want another bachelors' degree and I don't want a post-grad degree in my B.S. major. Now is not the time for me to again delve into criminal justice, to rejoin the corporate world or the education field. I. want. uncomplicated. undemanding. uninvolved. I want to be able to express creativity and cleverness, design and individuality.

Caren's goin' to beauty school. If all goes according to planned, this time next year I'll be finished with school and on the way to doing what I wanted to do when I was in high school. Hair.

So here's the thing. Goals can be lofty, or they can be sweet. They can be complicated or they can be simple. They can accomplish many purposes or one big one. In my case, I'm following my heart. That makes it sweet and simple. Uncomplicated and unpretentious. What will be accomplished is yet to be seen but I'm looking forward to the ride.

I'll keep you posted.

A DANGEROUS JOB

2011-09-09T13:53:00.002-04:00

The sweet little guys sitting on top of these pencils represent exactly why I should NOT be working at my kids' school stores. I'm DRAWN to office supplies like a beetle to a bug zapper, and thus I'm always the first to volunteer to work (wink wink - using the word work loosely) at the elementary and middle school stores. As supplies go these adorable little pals are close to the top of the list. They sit on top of your pencil and shake their legs as you write. It's like they're swinging their legs shouting, "Yeah! Yeah! Write some morrrrre, I LOVE to read it!"

This is an addiction I've managed to foist off onto my kids. We are the total nerd package when we shop for school supplies at the beginning of the school year. One year a few weeks before school started I received an email from an industrious, overachieving Room Rep Liaison who said that this particular year they were offering a new service. They were group buying supplies by grade and thus lowering the cost. Should we elect to participate, we could pay $14.00 and on the first day of school we would receive our bag of supplies which would've otherwise cost us $35.00 or more. Eldest and I panicked. What kind of decision was THIS we were forced to make now? Save $21 and not get to shop for and buy OUR OWN SUPPLIES??? Impossible to make a right decision. There wasn't one. It was so wrong; so wrong. Eldest and I paced. Got jittery. Fussed. And in the end, we made the only decision that two humans who so dearly adore to shop for office and school supplies could possibly make. We turned down the offer to save $21.

Hi. I'm Caren and I'm an office supply addict.

My oldest child and I have been known to stop in at Staples for just nothing other than to look at pens - see what the latest, newest, coolest thing is. My youngest and I once drove all the way across town to get to an Office Max so we could use the "20% Off Everything That Will Fit In This Bag" promotion. On the way there we passed a Staples and an Office Depot.

I won't eeeven tell you about my enchantment with planners.

FOUNDATION PIECES

2011-09-06T10:32:00.008-04:00

I was doing some closet tweaking the other day, removing items I no longer wear or no longer should wear - shopworn, torn, or otherwise unwearable and unfixable. My youngest was sitting on the makeup stool outside my closet spinning to infinity (antique piano stool) as I held up a particular top to assess.

Youngest: So are you gonna put that one in the charity pile?

Me: No WAY. This top is my most valuable top.

Youngest: Mom. It's a plain ol' tee shirt for girls. It's not SPECIAL or anything.

Me: Well, it's not valuable from a money perspective, and it's not special from a design perspective - it doesn't have embroidery or ruffles or an impressive brand name. That's for sure.

Youngest: See? Why don't you put it in the charity stack?

Me: Because I can wear this top with 3/4 of my wardrobe. It's the perfect top. I can wear it plain with shorts, with pants, or with a skirt. I can wear it under a cardigan, blazer, or poncho. I can belt it or not. I can put dressy jewelry or casual jewelry with it. The color is perfect. The style is perfect.

Youngest: You do wear it a lot.

Now, you might think from this description this should be some fabulous top, eh? Are you telling yourself you really need to see this top if it's all that?

Youngest is right. It's plain. Nondescript even. And I have one in every single color made.

THE most Valuable shirt in my closet

Doesn't look like much, right? Plain old sweetheart tee, right? Well. Everything about it is perfect. It has a v neck with a narrow satin trim. It's pinched at the bust and fitted at the waist. The sleeves are 3/4. It's soft knit. It's just the right length. It's washable. It goes in the dryer like a champ and comes out looking just like it did in the store the day I bought it. If I could only have two articles of clothing to my name, this would be one of them (in the pepper red).

I asked Youngest if he had any belongings like that- some material thing that didn't look like much by itself but really was a wonderful thing to have for many reasons.

"Well," he said, "I guess Legos don't look like anything but a plastic block, but I wouldn't much want to be without them."

Then he went on. "Plus. One of them by itself is kind of useless, but if you put it with a bunch of other ones it's very valuable. In fact, you could have a whole bunch of Legos and not be able to make anything out of them unLESS you had this one particular one. THAT happens sometimes."

So I started thinking about the things in my life that fit that description, and how you truly couldn't judge the worth of something just by glancing at it; just by making judgments from your first glance. It's really those things that are my most prize possessions. A garlic press doesn't look like much but I wouldn't want to be in a position to have to prepare a meal without one. Compression garments don't look like much but I wouldn't want to wear a sheath dress without one. My minivan looks like forty seven others just like it in the school parking lot, a hundred others just like it on any highway, and not at all the vehicle that would be my individual pick, but it is the PERFECT vehicle for the job at this point in my life.

The list goes on and on. This ink pen is fabulous. (But it's just a pen, y'moron. Yeah, I know you're thinkin' it.) But it is. Fabulous, not just a pen. Well it's that too but the point is this is four pens. In one. Fabulous. I tell you, the very folks that roll their eyes at my relationship with this pen are the SAME ones that ask to borrow it in meetings. "I need a red pen - anybody got - OOH. Caren has one."

My Dad has been using this pen ever since I can remember - and that's a lonnnng time ago. Decades. He understands the fabulousness of a nonfabulous looking item too.

So I'm easy to pleasy. Cheap date. Youngest is the same way. On any given Sursey Day I have many choices that will make Youngest happy for $4.00. Eldest and Hunky Hubby however, different story. For another post. "Hard to buy for" doesn't even begin to tell the story.

So I'm off to JoAnn. There's a $1.00 fabric bin to scavenge through.

I DON'T THINK I'D BE A BIG GIRL

2011-09-01T06:58:00.002-04:00

Earlier this week we received word that a family member of an in-law had died as the result of injuries sustained while serving as a volunteer EMT during Irene rescue efforts. We didn't know the victim himself but quickly heard of his fine character and his dedication to his family and community. Countless memorials have already been written and shared via internet and social media. It seems obvious that this man was adored by family and friends, that he was a hero, "not for how he lost his life but how he lived it" as one write-up described.

http://planetprinceton.com/2011/mourners-say-goodbye-to-princeton-emt/

He and his EMT partner were called to rescue people who were thought to be trapped in a vehicle in the water on a flooded roadway. He was trained in swift water rescue, had followed safety procedures such as tethering to his partner and wearing a helmet and a flotation vest. And yet he lost his life.

My thoughts this week have been about Mike's wife and small daughter. I have grieved over his death, a 39 year old man I never met, but also and especially for the ones who adored him, for whom the puzzle of their life has lost a critical piece, who are now faced with conducting their lives absent of their husband, their dad, their sibling, cousin, nephew, friend, or co-worker. They're tasked with recognizing the gaping hole that is now where he once was and then learning how to cope with that. How to cope without Mike. How to eventually once again be a joyful, blessed person and lead an delightful life not by ignoring that hole but by learning how to live with it.

I'm fairly sure (not to mention extremely embarrassed) that I would have a hard time being mature in this position. Were I the wife of a man who lost his life while rescuing someone, I'm afraid I would be resentful that he was no longer here to take care of his children. Of me. That I could no longer take care of him. That the hole in our lives would be so great, so deep, such an enormous cavern, that I never could surmount the sadness of living a life without him, this man who risked and ultimately gave his life to rescue someone else. I fear I would be resentful - feel that my boys and I needed rescuing and now he wasn't there to do it.

In several of the internet memorials and newspaper articles I read the statement that "Michael died doing what he loved." While I understand statements like that are helpful coping mechanisms, I'm not inclined to believe that would give me any peace.

That there was ultimately no one even in the car to rescue? Don't even want to think where I'd go with that. It's the final affront. Overload.

I pray God gives Michael's wife more tenacity and resolve. I'm praying hard she has peace and tranquility over a tragedy that seems senseless. Hoping she won't see senselessness in it but feel God's good grace instead.

YEE HA! Git along, lil' dogies

2011-08-26T12:12:00.005-04:00

Tonight's entertainment for the fam. Every year we go to the rodeo, and every year I have to work hard and talk to myself to resist the temptation to wear all my western garb. Ohhhh, I have it all; western boots, hat, vest, denim, and a bandana. First of all, it's just too ding dang hot to wear that many articles of clothing. More importantly, if I wear all that stuff at one time I look like a wannabe or like I'm wearing a costume. I can get away with the boots and a bandana maybe - y'know. Sort of a nod to where I am instead of all full on, all out "HEY! LOOK AT ME I HAVE WESTERN STUFF TO WEAR!!!"

I love the horses. The horses are da bomb.

We started going to the rodeo back when my now 21 year old nephew was 3. HE donned the whole costume, but at 4 he looked cute. Owned it too, man. My Daddy showed him how to tie a bandana around his neck like a cowboy and as soon as that knot tightened, his accent turned to a country drawl. He played the part. Tipped his hat when my Mom walked by and said "Howdy, ma'am."

When my boys came along they weren't so gung ho with the wardrobe concept. They liked the rodeo and went along willingly, enjoyed it while they were there, but have never been bowled over by the whole idea. Too bad, I said. I adore it and you just have to go with me, I said. It'll give you experience that will help round you out, I said. No, you may not take your Game Boy, I said.

So fast forward to this year, and low and behold, they're looking forward to it! Yippie. Of course they're taking friends so they don't have to sit there by themselves with their gooberly embarrassing parents. But still looking forward to it.

Whaddya bet I'm not so lucky in February when the Atlanta Ballet's production of Snow White comes along.

THE OTHER ONE (or, HERE I AM LOOK AT MEEEE!)

2011-08-25T09:00:00.005-04:00

Yesterday's post was about my number one son. Today represents equal time to my Jr. Mint, my son who disallows the description "number two son". His reasoning? "I'm NOT poop."

This picture is my favorite and most accurate visual description of my second born. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's a hoot. And a half.

This child's essence, his aura, is just - I dunno, magnetic. He's full of piss and vinegar, is certainly at least half monkey, he's a prankster, a practical joker, a hugger, a passionate lil fella with huge highs and lows and he never. Ever. E-V-E-R. Is silent. Ever. ever

If he is not speaking, he's singing. If he's not singing, he's whistling. If he's not whistling, he's humming. If he's not humming, he's clicking, clapping, clopping, banging, boinging, chattering, prattling, rattling, clucking, cackling, growling, howling, screeching, *sigh* or gibbering.

....and ALWAYS moving.

Hands are always busy. Picks up everything he sees. We've tried to soften the negative implications of that issue using fidget toys. His observation on that subject? "Mom. I have TWO hands. You gave me ONE fiddle toy. I still have another hand to pick stuff up with." Accompanying that statement, an exaggerated eyeroll for dramatic effect.

Hate it when they're right.

The sweet creature does not have one single private thought. If he's thinkin' it, you know it. If it comes up, it comes out. Absurdly, as peevishly abrading as one would theorize that to be, it has a strangely charismatic effect. My Jr. Mint is very knowable. He has many interests and hobbies and as social and verbal as he is, if you know him - even if you've just met him- you know what they all are. Right away. It imparts a sense of intimacy, a warm fuzzy feeling like you get when you've known someone all your life.

A rare shot with his mouth closed.

I have the same parental feelings of insecurity about this one as Eldest. They're not quite as far along though, given he's four years younger. In the spot in my heart where I have sad feelings of Eldest leaving in five years at which time I still won't be finished talking with him, won't have soaked up enough of him, won't have heard his voice enough, felt his presence enough, I have feelings with Jr. Mint that we won't have spent enough time together in silence. That we won't have experienced enough together - enough of the things that go without saying. With both of us being jabbermouths, consummate gasbags, I worry not that anything will go unsaid, but something will go undone. Some experience he needs.

Again, hopefully he'll grow up successfully to be a good man despite me instead of because of me. However it happens I'm ok with it, as long as it happens.

My Mom has always said she didn't love any one of her three children more or less, but she does love them the same but differently. I only had an understanding of that complicated concept when I became a parent myself. I love my children with the same breadth, the same girth, the same largess, each impossibly miraculous boy the same. But different. They are "fearfully and wonderfully made," "the apple of His eye", and "His treasured possessions." He gave them to me to train up and enjoy so they could be the apple of my eyes too. My treasured possessions.

For a little while.

THE BOX OF ME

2011-08-24T10:50:00.006-04:00

Yesterday my eldest son had a school assignment to fill a box with things that represented him. Once in class, the students were to present the box to the class and give explanations for the items they chose.

Eldest's "Box of Me"

The items he chose:

A glove he found while on a meaningful trip

A rusty piece of metal he found at his Grandparents' farm

A beautiful purple rock given to him by his Aunt

A wooden ink pen he made himself at a Scout woodworking workshop

The hand exerciser he uses to strengthen his grip for rappelling/climbing

A piece of duct tape

Skateboard trucks

His Nixon watch

I can look at the contents of the box he assembled and agree that it contains the essence of what makes up my incredible Number One Son. Not many of the items would be of monetary value to anyone else, and of the ones that would, I can report that he bought them himself or made them himself.

I started thinking about how many times the content of this box of his would change over his lifetime. If he'd done the same exercise three years ago he would've had totally different items in the box. Legos maybe, candy, a book, a rock and an arrowhead. Two years from now my bet is the contents will again change altogether. Kind of a wonderful mystery-to-come of who he will be then.

Those thoughts are the same ones that, a few months ago, led to the feeling I have that my childrens' youth is slipping through my fingers, tiptoeing away quickly and quietly so that I don't notice until a large chunk is already gone. I have four more years with my oldest before he's old enough to decide to live somewhere else, do something else. Two years before he's old enough to drive himself somewhere. Time is already up on some precious things, like me being his favorite girl. Sadly that boat sailed when he was 10. I repeat mantras like "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it," I pray for my children every day, every time I pray, and yet I panic that there's something, something important, I'm forgetting to teach them. That I'm spending too much time and effort on things that may turn out to be less important than things I'm not devoting enough time to. That I put too much emphasis on those lesser important things and not enough on the crucial things that will give him the scaffolding to be a man.

Then he puts together a box like this one above, and I listen to comments my friends make about the choices he made of items to illustrate who he is, and relax just a little and recognize that he has the elements of a good man in his heart already. That maybe he'll grow up and be fine in spite of me instead of because of me. That fortunately, he has a Heavenly Father that loves him eeeeeven more than his Dad and I do - and how that is possible is so far beyond the scope of my understanding that I have to stand on faith that it's true, because I can't love anyone any more than I love that child.

I'm holding on to the few things that he hasn't yet stopped doing. He still hugs me and says I love you when he leaves to go somewhere, (provided of course no one is around). He still asks my advice when he's faced with a tough situation he can't work out on his own. He still texts me and sends me pictures when he's off with someone else. I'm told those things will go away too, at some point. I'm just enjoying them for now and trusting that even if he stops for awhile, that at some point he'll come back to it.

As I was looking at the box he put together for his assignment, I speculated about what I would put in a box to represent who I am.

I don't think my eldest would fit in the box.

GEORGIA CRACKERS and ALABAMA CAVIAR

2011-08-17T06:43:00.004-04:00

Every Christmas my mother-in-law makes a dish with black eyed peas, chopped bell pepper, onions, tomatoes, and Italian dressing. She gooshes it all up together and puts it in a bowl next to the Scoops or Monster Fritos and announces that the LA Caviar is served. That's for Lower Alabama.

I had that on my mind this morning. Yesterday a friend was relating a story to me about a recent experience where someone in her conversation group had used the term "cracker" to describe an extremely Southern person with an extremely Southern accent and an extremely Southern persona and just all around extremely Southern emanations. My friend was hot. Annoyed at the use of the term.

Now, it's my personal opinion that you will only be offended by something if that something is a sore spot for you. Or if you care. Make sense? Clearly there are exceptions; grievously offensive or hurtful words, for example, but we're not talking about that depth of offense anyway.

So back to Crackers. Here's the thing. Dictionary.com has five definitions for the word. Numbers one through three being what you would expect and referring to crisp flatbreads (which you could eat LA caviar off of. Let us take a moment to revel in the irony.) and stuff you light and explode on July 4th, here are numbers four and five:

4. Sometimes Disparaging and Offensive. a native or inhabitant of Georgia (used as a nickname).

5. Disparaging and Offensive . a poor white person living in some rural parts of the southeastern U.S.

SOMEtimes disparaging and offensive, a native or inhabitant of Georgia. What times? The times that you choose to interpret it that way, that's what times. I am most definitely, gratefully, and proudly an inhabitant and native of Georgia. I fudge on the native part a little. In the interest of full disclosure, I'll add that I was born in Alabama (middle, not lower) but my family was from Georgia and returned to Georgia when I was very young. Regardless. The point is that by definition I am a Cracker. And I am profoundly, entirely in love with and dedicated to that definition, being an inhabitant and native of Georgia, so I take on the term Cracker with gusto. Bring it on.

I could pick the number five definition instead and be hacked off, but why would I do that? AND. On some days I feel like I belong in that category too. Precisely what is offensive about being poor and white?

I love the name of my dear friend's blog: "Georgia Black Crackers". Mavis is an African American woman in hot pursuit of the genealogy of her family. Think the word Cracker bothers her? Here's a link. See for yourself: http://georgiablackcrackers.blogspot.com/

How I interpret (anything) is my decision. How I react is my decision. How I feel is my decision. The minute my friend went to the dark side upon hearing that term, she gave away her power. She alone defines herself, not the doofus who referred to that delightful Southern character as a Cracker. The A number 1 irony is that doofus thought he was being offensive, meant to be offensive, derisive, by using the term. So he misused the term Cracker. My question is, does that make him one?

SAGE, LEMON BALM and TESTOSTERONE

2011-08-16T09:03:00.006-04:00

I am cultivating a small herb garden in a little plot to the side of the house. Couple reasons for that. Besides just that I have the need to grow fresh herbs, directly in front of this little plot is the boys' basketball goal. Most afternoons and weekends there is a clutch of men-in-training stomping around mercilessly about the basketball goal, the entire passel oblivious to the concept of purposeful landscaping. The goal then, (ha, get it?) of my plant choices was to choose the toughest, most hardy plants available. Herbs. For the most part, bugs don't bother them, there are plenty of perennials to choose from, and they're useful to use and share. What I didn't realize was there would be yet another benefit. For me, that is. For the boys, not so much.

When they come in from shooting basketball, they smell like lemon balm - an intoxicatingly delightful scent, not to mention that it's an astonishing improvement for their shoes to smell like lemons instead of the way they usually smell. I can't even describe that smell, although the word wicked comes to mind.

Occasionally I look out the kitchen window and watch them play for a minute. The other day the agglomeration of boys ranged from seven years of age to fourteen. They were particularly aggressive on this day - they'd been to a neighbor's house and the poor, trusting Mom had allowed the kids full access to the refrigerator, in which the Dad's stash of Mountain Dew was kept. Nice and chilled. Full of mega-caffeine. "Here I am," it called to the bunch o boys. "D-r-i-n-k m-e-e-e-e."

So they did.

Alas, the barbaric basketball game. Holy cow, I thought. If I don't get some water in those kids to flush out that caffeine and sugar, they'll kill each other. Or gang up on some poor unsuspecting soul and mame him. Either way, it wasn't the way I envisioned the afternoon unfolding. I quickly fixed a gallon of cold, icy water, grabbed a stash of go-cups and headed outside.

"Boys, take a water break."

"Ok Mom, - QUIT it - just a sec - LET GO OF MY HAIR - and we'll be - I SAID QUIT IT! HAIR IS OFF LIMITS!" - right there."

Sheesh. Had someone not seen this gaggle of boys together before they would never believe they're a creative, polite, well-mannered group that gee-haws naturally.

Not this day. At times like this I find it unbelievably inconvenient that I don't have the ability to whistle. I do, however, possess lungs capable of hollering almost as loud as the storm siren. Or so I've been told.

"Scatter!" When you scream it while simultaneously cracking a six foot bull whip onto pavement, it is downright astounding how quickly a testosterone-caffeine-sugar filled group of boys come to attention. Bug eyes were just a bonus.

"Mizzez Ceeeeee!"

"Yes Samuel?"

"You. Are. Da. MAN!"

"Yes, Samuel, yes I am. Now then. Each of you men-in-training to your own corner. Find your own spot and/or your own toy or game. No team sports or group play for thirty minutes AND four glasses of water each. When you've met those two criteria, you may reconvene. Any questions I thought not."

"Mizzez C?"

"Yes, Samuel?"

"Y'know this minty like stuff we step on all the time while we're playing ball?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Kin I pick a leaf er two and shove it down in my waw-tah?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Um, wait. Mizzez C?"

"Yes Samuel?"

"Thur's this other stuff I step on sometimes - I mean I don't mean to step on it honest - but anyway it don't smell like lemons. It smells like my Gran's house at Thanksgiving. What's thet?"

"That's sage, Samuel. Would you like to take some home to your Mom?"

"No thanks. I hate the way my Gran's house smells at Thanksgiving."

I love boys. They're tough, sensitive, and oh so honest, all wrapped up in one big ball of - well, usually dirt.

PEEP-TOE BOOTIES and other insane logic

2011-08-09T08:02:00.004-04:00

We enjoy oxymorons - my friends and family bat them around, making jokes, poking fun. One of my friends' husband belongs to a group that does actual reenactments of Civil War battles. That one always gives us all a chuckle. My CPA friend murmurs about consistent discrepancies. Another friend's son just joined a co-ed fraternity. My friend the English teacher has a specific, accurate, narrow definition for oxymoron. She's a purist. But I like ones that even just nod to oxymoronism. Limited freedom. Political ethics. Fresh sour cream. Willful negligence? What about a stripper's dressing room?

These fit into the category nicely:

My brain just can't take this in. Are we trying to keep our ankles and heels warm and give our toes and arches air?

Are they boots or sandals?

<----This is like wearing evening shoes with daisy dukes and a wife beater.

My friend the professional singer thinks I'm a baboon when I get the giggles after she says live recording. OK the term comes up more than you'd think.

Here are some more favorites:

initial conclusion

authentic replica

extensive briefing

marijuana initiative

Windows XP

flexible ethics (I don't even want to know)

And my personal favorite: enough time

Oxymorons are sort of accidental hyperboles. I like literary accidents. We'll examine puns next. We have competitions with those.

STORIES I'LL NEVER FORGET or, 3D COMIN' ATCHA!

2011-08-06T18:31:00.003-04:00

It's curious what your brain decides is important enough to file away. Based somehow on what an impact an event, story, a fact has upon you when you learn it, your brain either files it in memory or pitches it into File 13. We're to believe that our brain is employed by us, functions on our behalf, uses our own personal character, abilities, needs, and interests to help distinguish what to file and what to pitch. I beg to differ.

I can, for some screwball reason, recall some of the goofiest details of the waygone past, but can't remember what time I'm supposed to pick up my eldest from FCA. Oh relax. I always remember to pick him up. I just have to scramble to figure out whether it's over at 5:00 or 5:30.

For example, every time I see the word "cutout", I'm reminded of the time my sister-in-law was bra shopping at a great sale at Macy's. All the sale bras were in a big bin - the kind that looks like a messy underwear drawer where you have to rifle through it all to find what you're looking for. Well, sister got tired of looking and grabbed a bra that suited her. She exclaimed, "Oh look! This one has sweet little triangle shaped cutouts at the top of the cup. Yep. I'll take this one." She got home and tried it on quickly to realize the cutouts were not at the TOP of the cup. They were in, errr, in a much more revealing spot. Sorta slap dab in the middle.

Q: When is a sale not a sale?

A: When the sale bra you bought makes you look like you're not wearing a bra.

What's the point of that anyway? (Yes, yes, yes. I get the pun.)

So why in heaven's name would my brain perceive that is critical enough to remember while tossing aside the time I'm supposed to pick up my child?

Here's a good one. A friend of mine who had a quite precocious child recounted an incident to me while we were sitting around the country club pool once. Oh relax. We lived in a rural Georgia town where the country club cost about as much as a suburban Atlanta YMCA.

"I guess we forgot to lock the bedroom door." Stories that start with that sentence never end well. She leaned forward and spoke in an embarrassed whisper. "Glenn and I were engaged in passionate, all-consuming - uhhh - intimacy. 'K? Suddenly," she says with much redness about the face, neck, and ear tips, "I feel something tickling my feet."

Uh oh. Do you know anyone whose chest begins to get very red and blotchy when they're upset? Then from the chest, the red blotchiness spreads to their neck, betraying their feigned attempt at confidence, composure, aplomb?

She screamed. Glenn took it as a compliment. Tamara jerked and craned her neck over Glenn's shoulder to see their son, all of aged 7, standing at the bottom of the bed.

"I KNEW THAT THING HAD TO BE FOR SOMETHING BESIDES JUST PEEing!"

I remember the story almost word for word. I remember the swimsuit she was wearing and the color of her eyeliner. I remember the time of day and the color beach towel I had flung on the pool chaise. I even remember the book I was reading at the time. I recall the comment my mother-in-law had when I told her that story. "That child oughta be glad his parents love each other."

That family moved away shortly after and sadly we did not keep in touch. Yet, even though my brain can retrieve that story in its entirety with details intact, I can't remember which one of my friends loves avacados and which one had a doctor appointment I need to ask after.

I only hope that when I tell them the story about Tamara and Glenn, they'll laugh so hard and love me so much for my funny stories they'll forgive me for not remembering that I should be asking about their doctor's report.

No, I don't think I'm in charge of what gets saved to the grey matter and what goes to the recycle bin. Is it a cop-out? Maybe. Do I get points for wanting to remember the important stuff? Maybe. Regardless, it is what it is. I adore my friends, my family, and I'm thinking, I'm fairly certain, confident even, that they know it. What I don't have in memory I hope I'm making up for in attention, empathy, and time spent.

READING and other luxuries

2011-08-05T10:25:00.003-04:00

A few months ago I came into the 21st century with regard to reading. Begrudgingly and with a tearful wave to the tactile wonderfulness of a book spine in my hand, the musty smell of a book and its pages, and the beauty of a sweet little bookmark poking out of the top of a book, I got a Nook.

Little did I realize.

This gadget holds thousands of books. The world is my book!

Partially ok mostly because my kids were young, also because I had kids in my arms and no room to tote books, up until a few years ago I had all but stopped reading. Almost sheepishly I admit that with the exception of vacations or hospital sitting I didn't crack a book. Well, I didn't crack a book for pleasure. Cookbooks I cracked plenty. How to raise strong-willed boys cracked a bunch of those too. Anywayzeez not until I began reading again for pleasure, now that my kids are reaching varying stages of independence, did I recognize how very much I was missing.

BC (before children) I think, if memory serves, I probably read minimally a book a week. I forgot how my vocabulary increases exponentially and without me recognizing it. I forgot how my head and my heart become more open, more flexible, more understanding of the world and people around me. I forgot how my brain works at a quickened pace, processes at an accelerated speed (not breakneck ok, I mean this is me we're talking about, not Einstein). I forgot how the more I read the more I crave to read.

I always envied my sweet sissy, who, even when her children were young, could sit on the sofa, totally engulfed by a book. Of course, it's important to know she has girls. They read with her. Sat quietly, looked pretty. All you could hear in the room was pages turning, classical music in the background. All you smelled was perfume. *sigh*

I have boys. Enough said? I can't even describe what our house smells like. (Thank goodness for candles.) I never mastered the art of reading a book while keeping one kid from jumping out of the top branch of a tree while the other one was stealthily placing a springboard on the landing bullseye. And yes, I did have an hour here and there while they were practicing soccer. I discussed snack schedules. Made menus, grocery lists. Clipped coupons. It was either then or during church.

Right now I'm reading four books at once. One fiction, one auto-biography, one memoir, and one cookbook/storybook. My eldest reads two fiction books at once but I don't have the brain power to keep characters and storylines straight. Maybe as I read more.

Each of the four books serves a different purpose and depending on whether I have ten minutes and need to jump into and out of a book quickly, have thirty minutes to read before I go to sleep, or an hour at the pool while the kids play, I have something appropriate to read without having to haul a stack of heavy books around in my arms and in the car. I recommend it.

Ironic what happens when you hesitate to jump out of your comfort zone and embrace new concepts. When the ereaders came out I winced and shook my head, poo-pooing electronic reading in favor of the feeeeeeel of a book, the smell, the experience, of reading a book. Great in romantic theory. Practically, not so much. That poo-poo kept me from reading voraciously which, as it turns out, is way higher on the scale than smelling the mold from an old book and using cute bookmarks.

Just sayin'.

IT JUST MAKES YOU SHAKE YOUR HEAD

2011-08-04T08:03:00.002-04:00

A friend's husband passed away yesterday. The two of them were so close, devoted to each other and family. Having raised their children, retired from jobs, they were in the era of their lives where they had the time to notice the beauty in things, not from the interstate at 65 mph careening toward work, but slowly, easily, where they could stop, sit, reflect and enjoy the simple loveliness of a tree. A grandchild. A spouse's smile. And most especially, the true beauty of time itself. It was to be the time in their lives where they got to lie down in the grass or sit in their recliner or on their porch swing and recognize, fully, that they were not wasting time, but enjoying and appreciating time.

My first thought was "there's always a reason things happen". A paraphrase of a popular scripture in Romans, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

It's a comforting concept to fall back on, an answer when there is no answer. For those of us who study God's word there are a googlezillion other scriptures that convey that message. We believe it, have faith in it, recite it while shaking our heads at some misfortune or sad event.

In the face of this kind of loss however, my human need for understanding, for putting things in their proper perspective rears its head. I know what the Word says, but what could the reason possibly be? A woman loses the love of her life just when the sweetness of life was emerging? A woman who says things like "Love is like a violin. The music may stop now and then, but the strings remain forever... '"

I don't get it but I don't have to. The word "but" is what gets me in trouble. I know what the Word says BUT. But I have to understand. The truth is I don't. I, me, myself, this isn't about me. (Got that revelation on the treadmill this morning.) Again, He pointed out that I'm but a speck. Important to Him but in perspective, a speck. Unless I'm omnipotent I don't have enough information to understand what the reason could be. Same as any other situation - fact gathering is a necessity before understanding and an informed decision can be made.

And so it is that it occurs to me it's my own ego that engages me and says "Oh girl you have to figure this out. Get it to work. Make sense. Put it in a cubbyhole."

Nooooo, I don't.

There's nothin' worse than an egotistical 51 year old white blonde woman. I don't want to be her. Nope. So my role is to support and sympathize, pray for the one who passed and his family.

And what a relief that turns out to be. Big ol' burden off my shoulders, trying to figure God's stuff out. I'm leaving it to Him. I have a hunch He's capable. There are lots of things that He asks me to help Him with even though He's capable of doing it Himself. This isn't one of them.

AND I THOUGHT JUST THE IDEA WAS ATTRACTIVE

2011-07-21T09:56:00.005-04:00

My kids call me names - lots of 'em. It makes them giggle so hard they snort. Their favorite is Food Nazi. Earth Mother is another common one. Tree Hugger, Henna Hippie, Natural Nellie, Organic Mama.

In my home you will find chemicals galore and even some junky processed food. I only do what makes sense to me at the time and make improvements one at a time, and I'm good with that. I don't care to present an organic image as though it's an attractive character. It's a work in progress. I figure by the time I'm 60 I will have rid my home of nearly every chemical, be growing all my own food, capturing my own water, and still feeding my kids home cooked meals from scratch when they come home to visit. I will, however, still be going to the salon to have my roots done. Just sayin'.

See what I mean? Total hypocrite. I'm good with that. I only use organic products if they W-O-R-K, and there are many needs for which I've not found such a thing. Yet. Soooo, I will continue to use the mainstream, nasty, polluting, environment robbing products until such time as I can find some natural, organic product that WORKS. I'm confident I'm not screwing my kids out of a beautiful future world in the meantime.

For example. I've watched and read every single informational piece OUT there about natural weedkillers. Tried them all. I mean AAAAAAAAAALL. Did my share. Drove around the world (really just Atlanta but it's shockingly similar) finding unusual, organic ingredients, mixing, fixing, experimenting. Tried the "you have everything you need for a great garden and lawn in your kitchen cabinet" route. Mixed, fixed, experimented. Tried the retail organic stuff. No mixing, fixing, yet still an experiment.

Nuh-uh. None in the same class as Round-Up. Round-Up is da bomb. It's on a pedestal at my house with a spotlight trained on it, almost equivalent with the joy my family and pets give me. Nah, not really, but it is. so. great. You just can't kill poison oak with borax, vinegar or salt. It's a fact. So I'll continue to use Round Up until such time that a true replacement is found.

Note: Replacement (verb, used with an object)

1. to assume the former role, position, or function of, substitute for

2. to provide a substitute or equivalent in the place of

3. to restore, return, make good.

Note key words and phrases above: to assume the function of, to provide an equivalent.

I rest my case.

On the other hand, there are many organic and/or natural products I have embraced and there are new ones on the market all the time. It's getting easier. The products work and they don't break the bank (another big criteria). Alternatively, I've made my own products for years: window cleaner, all purpose cleaners, laundry detergent, soaps, cleansers, lotions, shaving gels, lip balms, and so on. Making organic/natural products is even better (and usually less expensive) than buying them.

To be fair however, I'm not the only person living in my home, and the other three do not walk the organic road so willingly. So. I have backup in some appropriate cases. I have a bottle of off-the-shelf laundry detergent for the rare occasion that any of the three of the others living in my home might try to do laundry. I have off-the-shelf toilet cleanser in the boys' bathroom. It's difficult enough to get them to swab their own pottie when it's one easy step; no way would they carefully pour baking soda and then vinegar into the pottie, let it fizz and sit, then swab. It's a matter of success and survival. Where to make concessions. What to concede to.

And so it was that I came to use Method brand anti-bacterial kitchen cleanser. Functional, not too expensive, smells good, and not made up of caustic chemicals. Not perfect, but good stuff. In fact, now I know to tell you this, the active ingredient is thyme oil. Here's how I know. Funny story.

Last week the boys and I went to Florida, leaving my hunky hubby and their daddy home all alone. Now then. While he's not a fastidious person, nor is he interested in order or neatness or bothered by the lack of it, he did a commendable job keeping the kitchen man-clean. Not woman-clean, but a fair job nonetheless. I was appropriately impressed.

However. During our absence an army of sugar ants marched in to keep him company. Upon our return, hunky hubby waltzed back off to work during the day to leave me to deal with organizing and implementing their demise.

Day 1: Washed down counters, sinks, backsplashes, handles, faucets, windowsills, underneath of cabinets and any other random surface on the affected bank of countertop, ostensibly to clean whatever microscopic blops of food or sugar to which the teensy soldiers were attracted.

Day 2: Woke up to tripled efforts by the ant army. Hunky husband stopped by pesticide store on the way home and bought Amdro or Terro or something super strong max strength ant bait. Repeated day 1's cleaning efforts and placed ant bait units in appropriate places. Went to bed.

Day 3: Ant armies called in the infantry, the cavalry, and maybe even military from cooperating countries, I dunno. My white countertop looked like a Belted Galloway cowhide from a distance.

I love these cows. My kids used to call them Oreo cows.

Anyway, the ants were crawling OVER the commercial ant bait to get to my countertops. I declared war of my own. I got serious. I made up my own slow-acting poison that the unassuming lil buggars would drink, get drunk on, and take back to their queen, who is apparently busily spitting out baby ants quicker'n I can kill 'em, the hoochie. Ran out of Method cleaner so I used my homemade vinegar cleaner to repeat day 1's ministrations, then poured blobs of my heinous killer bait in appropriate places.

Day 4: No ants.

Day 5: No ants.

Guess what. No go ahead, guess!

The Method cleaner was attracting the ants.

That is too left of center for even me to wrap my head around. Here's the bottom line question, and boy it's a head scratcher:

How can it be a cleaner if it attracts bugs??????

This organic/natural concept/battle just never stops, does it......

BIBLE STUDIES and SERVICE PROJECTS

2011-07-20T09:41:00.006-04:00

Last night at 2:00am I was lying wide-eyed staring at the ceiling fan and giving my snoring husband the stink-eye (unbeknownst to him because he was ASLEEP) and wondering why insomnia is such an ingrained part of my personal make-up. As you can imagine I came up with no good ideas for that question (and you can well believe I've beat the subject to death over the years). So I looked past the ceiling fan and said, "Ok God it's just you and me. Whaddya want to talk about?" As it turns out he wanted to discuss the service project I am committed to do as a part of my summer bible study program. We have several choices but I had been initially and particularly drawn to a specific one called Seven Bridges. What perked my ears when I heard it was that Seven Bridges Road is my favorite song in the world by the Eagles. And yes. I do believe in signs like that. The Seven Bridges is a recovery program for homeless who live under the bridges and in the streets of Atlanta. It's for the last, the lost, and the least, they say. (I love that. Alliteration is a beautiful, powerful tool.) It's a first step program to rescue homeless and then provide placement into a recovery program. Once they go through that program they are connected to a next-step resource at a discipleship home or whatever is appropriate for their personal needs.

Me: So. God. I-I-I-I just donnnnn't knowwwww about the under the bridges thing- yikes. I'm kind of scared about that.

God: You think I won't take care of you when I'm the one that put that project in your head?

Me: Well when you put it THAT way......

God: Remember what I said to Job?

Me: Well no. Maybe. I don't know. Which time? You know I'm not super knowledgeable about Your Scriptures. But I do want You to know I'm working on it.

God: I know. I'm talking about when I lectured Job for pages and pages in your Bible about how powerful I am and how he obscured my plans with words backed with nothing - no knowledge. I told him to brace himself and answer like a man when I asked him things like "where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?" and "have you ever given orders in the morning or shown the dawn its place that it might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it?" and "can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water? Do you sent the lightening bolts on their way? Do they report to you, 'Here we are'?" and "does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread its wings toward the south? Does the eagle soar at your command and build its nest on high?"

"Well, Missy", He said. "Don't MAKE me direct that lecture to you." (And I'm telling you. for all the world that sounded like 'Don't make me stop this car!')

Me: Ok. I get it. And by the way, I love that scripture.

God: Thanks, my dear daughter. And I love YOU.

So. Even though it was made abundantly clear that I am but a speck in all His plans, I am still everything to Him. Quite a paradox and acutely, remarkably comforting at the same time.

My next prayer to Him will be that He bestow the same comfort about my Seven Bridges project upon my husband. Ha.

Well since you're snivvling

2011-07-02T07:15:00.005-04:00

Half a dozen folks I know are snotty. Snivvly, snarfley, honkin, sneezin, hackin sick. I don't know what's blooming right now but it's prevailing over lots of my friends' and family's immune system. So here are my favorite remedies:

Cold Relief for the bath:

2 cups Epsom Salts

1 cup Sea Salt

1/2 cup baking soda

6 drops Eucalyptus essential oil

6 drops Lavender essential oil

6 drops Peppermint essential oil

6 drops Tea Tree essential oil

1-2 tablespoons of oil, whatever oil you choose - almond, grapeseed, olive, coconut

Mix ingredients thoroughly and seal in an airtight jar. Add 1/2 cup of salts to bathwater.

Muscle rub:

4 oz sweet almond oil

3 oz beeswax

1 oz cocoa cutter

15-20 drops Vitamin E oil

25-30 drops Lavender essential oil

Melt all and pour into a mold or jar. Great alternative for those who don't care for the scent of menthol. I found out when my eldest was verrrry leedle that menthol affects him negatively. I put Vicks in the medicine cup of his humidifier and within minutes he was uncomfortable and jumpy and he couldn't stay in the room.

Special Cold Tea

Boil 4 cups of water.

Grate a 1" piece of ginger and put in teapot. Add about 5 or 6 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice. Add a dollop of honey or Agave nectar - 2-3 tablespoons (to taste).

Put the lid on teapot and allow to steep a few minutes. Strain into your teacup to avoid getting bits of ginger.

Commercial favorites:

Pure-Aid Hot Patches they contain menthol and capsaicine. Great for chest or between shoulders.

Ocean - helps open up nose and sinuses without harmful (and addictive) decongestants or steroids.

Fishermans Friend lozenges - same ingredients and recipe since the 1800s. Not organic, but no artificial ingredients.

Hot water bottle, heating pad, and humidifier. The good old staples of cold war.

Heal quickly!!!

BLUEBERRIES FOR SAL (and me)

2011-07-01T13:04:00.007-04:00

This is my favorite Robert McCloskey book, even more than Make Way for Ducklings or Homer Price. He wrote it in the 1940s and won a Caldecott for it. I have an old copy of it that was printed in the 1960s and the illustrations were homey and warm; the illustration of the kitchen reminds me of my Grandmother's old kitchen. My Mom read it to me, then she read it to my sister, then I read it to my little brother. I read it to both my kids so often they could recite it verbatim.

I went blueberry pickin' this morning. I got up early and drove to my favorite Pick Your Own blueberry farm with a cup of Southern Pecan coffee and the sunroof open. I always think about Blueberries for Sal when I pick blueberries. I got out of the car and walked into the field between the rows where many of the blueberry bushes are so tall they provide sort of an arbor to walk down. It was peaceful, sun was shining down in broken streaks through the branches, birds were singing and a couple of bluebirds were fussing at me, and my toes were damp from the dew. Life was good. I was putting handfuls of berries in my bucket and eating one every now and then when a plump, juicy one was just too much to resist. I thought "wouldn't it be funny if I heard a rustle of leaves and a 'plink, plank, plunk' from the other side of the row.

No such luck. I'd rather it have been a baby bear, to tell you the truth. But no, it was two women who had come to pick berries together. Guessing they were in their 70s. They enjoyed each other's company and while they were picking they conversed. N-o-n-s-t-o-p. Theyyyyyyy talked about vitamin supplements, they talked about their husbands' declining health and vigor, they talked about sales at the grocery stores, what they cooked for dinner last night, their hip pain, their thin fingernails, their droopy eyes, droopy boobs and shingle butts and other minutia. Sooooo much other minutia. My ears began to throb. Where in the heck was my quiet, lovely, early morning outside time where I could marvel at God's handywork while I picked blueberries so ripe and juicy they were all but dripping from the bush? listen to birds tweet and squawk? squench my toes in the dewy grass? I moved to the other end of the field lest my throbbing ears begin to bleed. It was a little quieter there but I could still hear the Prattle Twins. From that distance they sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, which was a vast improvement from the pastiche of subjects they'd discussed in detail within my earshot.

Decidedly they have a different archetype for blueberry picking. Theirs is one of camaraderie and conversation, mine of solitude and meditative time, admiration for nature. At least I came home with a gallon of blueberries, which have now been washed and at the moment are drying on trays with the fan blowing on them. When they're dry they'll go in the freezer until they're individually frozen, and from there into Zippie freezer bags.

I guess when I'm 70 I may be one of those women - the ones who are in the moment, who don't care who's around or who hears them, who feel compelled to loudly discuss inconsequential and somewhat private drivel in public places - after all, to be fair that describes the entirety of this blog, so who am I to judge??? See you prolly didn't care to know the details of how I was preserving my blueberries, but I hadta tell you.

A few more of my favorite childrens' books:

This was a particularly special book to my kids, who never had blankets for woobidies but other objects instead. Every single time I read the name Owen I thought about screaming it the way Anne Ramsey did in Throw Momma from the Train. Never did. But I thought about it.

Gerald McBoing Boing is a hidden Dr. Seuss treasure. I always had to read this one using appropriate voices for each character.

As it turns out, my youngest son IS Gerald McBoing Boing.

This one is a favorite because my hunky hubby used to read it to my kids aaaaaaaaaaaall the tiiiiiiiiiime. Another one they could recite by rote. The reading of it produced a particular cadence, sort of a rhythm that always made me tilt and rock my head and shoulders like I was doing the snake. No matter what I was doing, when I heard them reading Dummer Hoff, my head and shoulders were movin'.

I don't know whether my kids loved Corduroy or if it was just me and they tolerated me reading it to them. It never was one they asked for by name, but I always threw it in anyway. Such a sweet story.

A-CAMPING THEY WILL GO (or, Mommy has some girl time!)

2011-06-30T08:03:00.004-04:00

This is home for my hunky hubby for the next three days.

All three of my guys are gone to various getaway spots. Ronny and Jr Mint are in the woods camping with the Cub Scout pack, and Eldest is in Florida with his cousins.

Poor, poor lonely Mommy. *sigh*

When such an occasion arises that I'm sleeping single in my king sized bed, the gamut of emotions runs a wide berth. I adore ADORE, I say, plump pillows behind me and all my creature comforts within easy reach; nail polish, magazines, Nook, remotes, cell phone, netbook. As a general rule multi-tasking is not my strong suit, but this is an exception. I can text, talk on the phone, watch a movie, surf the net, read a magazine, and paint my nails simultaneously. One has to wonder then, why I can't help my kid with homework and answer my husband's questions and cook dinner all at the same time. But that's another post.

At any rate, apart from turning my bed into a girl party for one, once I settle down in the covers and turn the lights off I miss -yes, I really am saying - I miss hunky hubby's snoring. I heard my great aunt say one time that was one of the things she missed most about her husband who had recently died, listening to him snore beside her. She went on to say she wished she had appreciated it more while he was living instead of poking him to turn over and grumbling. She discovered only after he was gone what a comforting, peaceful sound it was and how uncomfortably quiet her nights were without it.

Can you even imagine the decibel level of snoring at the Scout camp-out? Yikes.

Here's another professional snorer. The big one. That's my baby brother with my boys. That, in fact, is another boy trip. They were touring a military ship and #1 Snorer of whom I spoke earlier was taking the picture.

Eldest doesn't snore, but he travels while sleeping. Jr Mint doesn't snore either, but he has discussions in his sleep. Between the three, nighttime is a pretty lively time at our home.

Back to Mommy time. There was a warm stone pedicure yesterday, and today there will be shopping. Probably not the kind of shopping you might assume. I need a rain barrel, bird seed and some fresh veggies, so I will be headed to Tractor Supply later on, and then to the farmer's market from there. My kind of shopping.

So tonight, fresh steamed vegetables for dinner. Mmmm. (The carnivores are camping.) If I'm lucky the fresh salsa guy will be at the farmers market and I'll have chipotle avacado salsa and chips with my veggies. Blueberry picking tomorrow. Mmmm. First Friday Art Walk tomorrow night, yaaaaay. Saturday my fellas come home, hoo-rah!!!!!!

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY FROM MY DAD (and me)

2011-06-29T16:40:00.003-04:00

I usually repost this every Veterans Day, but I missed it this year. I think it's just as appropriate for Independence Day since we're celebrating the history, government, patriotism, and traditions of the United States.

It's a letter from my Dad to his Uncles on a Memorial Day several years ago. Pretty self explanatory. He copied my siblings and myself. He sent it to me in a plain white #10 envelope with a little note attached in his (usual) henscratch that said something simple like he thought I might like a copy, that this was something he felt strongly about and had for years and finally was able to articulate it -something like that, I don't remember his exact words now. I have it in my "treasures" box.

My Dad has a unique way of writing that combines factual information with the emotions he feels in a straightforward manner that, while it isn't flowery or wordy, is perfectly descriptive and yet poignantly eloquent. He puts a fine point on the subject and then blurs it a little. This is one of his most powerful pieces and I only read it once a year, but on that one occasion I read it over and over and over. And over. With a wad of Kleenex in hand. Then I thank God for my Uncle Paul and Uncle Ralph, my Dad, and so many thousands of others who could have been the recipient of this very letter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dear Paul and Ralph,

I guess I would not have started this letter had not some things come together. Mainly the publication of the book THE GREATEST GENERATION by Tom Brokaw, the observance of Memorial Day by the nation, and the need I have to tell you both that you have always been my heroes. I'm sure I could not say that face to face without making a fool of myself. My son and I have frequently talked of the selfless, noble self-sacrifice of your generation during World War II, and have lamented the passing of that great large-hearted outlook in defense of your country. It has probably not been said as it should be said yet, but Tom Brokaw does a credible job while we are waiting for perfection.

Both my son and I are in awe of your generation. That something horrible has happened to the American heart and spirit between then and now we both know, but we do not know how to say it. The wonder for both of us is that the people of your generation are not affected by the current one. There remains the same spirit of manners, helpful cooperation, humility and the total lack of pretension as were present when you served.

Among the several blessings I realize regarding my children is that they all three got somehow the gene for analysis and the ability to see, quickly, to the core of a matter, and as a result we talk of the two of you more than you realize. I know you have seen the "media" coverage of Memorial Day and all the hype attendant on such an occasion. I doubt that all that meant much to either of you. Well, this letter is a poor attempt at bringing the hyperbole right down to the most elementary level, in an effort to persuade you, fifty four years after the fact, that, if you both had not risked getting you ass shot off a hundred, a thousand times, we would all likely be speaking Japanese or German now.

So never doubt that, in the extended family, everyone in my age range and younger, whether they say it or not, realize that we all owe you, both of you, a debt that we can never pay by simple thank yous. And it is not strange that the attempt to express what we feel chokes us up so that we feel like fools trying to get out what we feel.

We all know that you are heroes, and you will always be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So happy Fourth, rah rah for the red, white and blue, and with all due respect to the Declaration of Independence and its import on this occasion, rather I'm celebrating the humans that have made independence possible through the generations and today.

BLOOD KIN, BRANCH KIN, FAMILY

2011-06-28T15:34:00.002-04:00

My youngest had his six month dental cleaning this morning. Bless his heart, his reports are never as good as his brother's. His older brother has no cavities, straight, strong teeth and a knock-em-dead smile. Jr. Mint has an underbite, a crossbite, and 'chalky' teeth. And braces. Bless his heart.

Today was no different. "He has a little cavity again," says Ms. Dentist.

"Why does he have one e-v-e-r-y time we come?" I wanted to know.

"Well," sighs Ms. Dentist, "could be his chalky teeth, could be diet, could be reflux." I had to inquire about the meaning of chalky as it pertains to teeth. New to me. Rough and slightly more porous than they ought to be, in case you were wondering.

Not only had our traditional six month cavity made an appearance, but his seals were worn off his back teeth. Gone.

"Gone??" I was scratching my head by this point in the conversation. "How does that happen?"

"Well," Ms. Dentist sighs again, eyebrows raised and shakes her head, sucks her teeth. "Could be his chalky teeth, could be diet, could be reflux."

"And," she continued, "sometimes it's just hereditary. Do you or his Dad have reflux?"

"Yep. His Dad. And his Grandmother, both Grandfathers, and a couple of aunts and uncles and cousins."

"Well!" Ms. Dentist's arms opened wide, palms up. "There it is. See you next time to fill that cavity and reapply his seals. Have a wonderful day."

There it is my foot. I got my kids by adoption, not by birth. Our entire family tree could be toothless. Every relative on every branch of both our family trees could have hiatal hernias, gastroesophageal reflux, heartburn. (Incidentally, hunky hubby calls relatives that are fairly far out the branches of the family tree 'branch kin'. It makes me cringe when he does, but it does paint a pretty accurate visual image.)

At any rate, no consanguinity. (I love that word.)

In the car after we left Jr. Mint's asking me about reflux - is it the same thing Dad has, what are we gonna do, why do we have to do anything, why does he have to have yet another doctor, can't he just be a person who has reflux?

"No," I said, "you can't. Know why? Because it's fixable. And if we fix it now, you won't have to deal with it in your adult life. You won't need that additional doctor. You won't have to take medication, sleep on a wedge or raise the head of your bed, stay away from spicy food, or have people cart you to the ER when you think you're having a heart attack. It's just like your teeth. We do braces now so you don't have headaches and TMJ and tooth erosion and bite problems when you're grown. You spend a lot more years being grown than being a kid. You want to go into adulthood with every physical advantage we can muster."

And then, then, here's what came out of my mouth to wrap up that snappy little diatribe. "Someday you'll thank me."

Nnnnnnnewwwwwwwww! Did I? Did I, did I really say it? Yeppers. In any event, I digress. That's immaterial to the point, but I felt the need to confess. I've become my Mother. *shudder*

We had forty eleven errands to run after the dentist, for which the first two Jr Mint couldn't eat or drink anything (for thirty minutes after the fluoride treatment). So now I have a Gloomy Gus accompanying me, dreary and dejected, put-upon. Grievous, heinous, shocking information had been uncovered which threw my nine year old into such a deplorable funk I was tempted to cut short the errands.

"Mom! How can you take this so calmly??? I have another cavity, which means another shot in my mouth, more drilling, FAT lips, NO eating for HOURS after, and nowwwwww, on top of all that, I got Dad's REFLUX TOO????? This is big, Mom. I'm nine years old, I have five doctors." (insert big eyeroll here)

"Ok, lets try to approach this from another angle," I respond. "You know how when you have plantar fasciitis during soccer season, and your feet hurt so badly, who is it that knows exactly what to do? And why?"

"Dad. It's Dad. Because he has it too."

"Uh huh. And when your neck is sore after you come home from the Chiropractor, who knows how to put ice packs then heat packs on it and rub it down with muscle rub?"

"Dad. It's Dad. Because he has it too."

"Yessir. And when you have writing assignments and you're sitting at the kitchen table with a pencil in one hand and your head in the other, who is it that knows exactly how you feel and commiserates with you?"

"Dad. It's Dad. He hates writing too. Mom? Do you guess God knew all that when he made me your son?"

Did He ever.

Patriotic Sunday, pew buddies, and unexpected blessings

2011-06-27T07:41:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was Patriotic Sunday at church. It's a yearly tradition I look forward to, take Kleenex to, and hustle to arrive early to. That's three dangling prepositions already. Count the grammar mistakes if you will. There will be more. It's called conversational writing.

On Patriotic Sunday there's no sermon. There's no Gloria Patri, no Affirmation of Faith. It's a one hour program of music, narration, pomp and circumstance surrounding the branches of service, their flags, uniforms, and songs. Military attendees are invited to wear their uniforms, and are asked to stand as the congregation honors them. Congregation members who would like to stand in memory of someone do that too. We sing patriotic anthems, we watch the jumbotrons as pictures flash of military family members. Solo, duets and ensemble groups sing to us. It's a one hour "Thank You" dedicated to freedom and those who provide it, secure it, defend it, fight for it, sacrifice for it, and protect it.

If you don't arrive by 10:30 you run the risk of, minimally, not getting to sit in your traditional spot. Much later than that, of not getting to sit at all. We arrived a hair past 10:30 and were able to squeeze in to a pew on the SIDE, not our regular center pew seat. First realization. LOVE the side seats. Don't think I've ever sat in a side church pew. Well. With the exception of a wedding.

So until the service began, I had a respectable amount of space between myself and the semi-elderly woman sitting beside me, whom I didn't know. Sitting beside her however, was a lady I do know. She introduced my immediate neighbor as her mother. We spoke briefly and the mother asked me if I was expecting anyone else, and when I said no, she motioned for me to move closer to her. "I think we're ok," I replied, "but thank you".

Thirty seconds later I felt a polite poke on the shoulder. "Are you expecting anyone else?" No, I replied, but thanks.

A minute and thirty later I felt a pokity poke on the shoulder. "Are you expecting someone?" No ma'am.

Forty five seconds later. Poke poke. "Are you expecting another person?"

I smiled at her and shook my head. No ma'am. We're all here. The sanctuary was getting fuller, noisier, busier. She was getting a little agitated. Her daughter, on the other side of her, patted her leg occasionally and looked at her and smiled often.

I began to take a visual inventory and realization of the probable came quickly. I hadn't noticed anything unusual about her appearance at first glance. Seemed low profile and mainstream enough. Upon second look however, I noticed she was wearing black socks with her black Sunday shoes. One was a crew sock and the other an ankle sock. Her pants bagged unnaturally in the lap, as if she had them on backwards. Her arms and hands were fidgety and she looked about the room with an unusual smile on her face- the kind of smile that says either "I'm uncomfortable here," or "I'm not sure where I am but I think I'm supposed to know".

During the ceremony she sang along with the choir on occasion, giggled at times there was nothing to giggle about, pointed to people on the stage speaking, and poked me several more times to ask if I expected another person. She enjoyed the service.

When the service was over I turned to her and said "It was a pleasure sitting beside you this morning." To which she replied, "Oh hi. Are you expecting anyone else?" No ma'am, have a wonderful week. Bye.

So here's the thing about Alzheimers. There's a wide disconnect between people who live with Alzheimers patients and people who encounter them occasionally. (Pretty obvious statement, huh.) But stay with me. Mama's daughter sat on the other side of her. The daughter is a woman I attend Bible Study with, worked VBS with, and talk to at church fairly frequently. Never has she mentioned her Mom has Alzheimers. During the service she didn't dote on her Mother, shush her or manage her. Mom's behavior and appearance was left of normal but within parameters of acceptable social behavior. She just easily allowed Mom to be herself and enjoy her hour, as daughter enjoyed hers. I expect there will be a time in the future when that is no longer possible for the two.

So I guess there are heroes that have Sunday church services dedicated to them (as well they should) and heroes that sit quietly in the pew with their Mom or daughter. There aren't anthems dedicated to Alheimers victims, there isn't a flag or a uniform. I came to the service looking forward to honoring our military heroes and walked away with a renewed and deeper honor of personal heroes, and the families of all.

As I told my pew neighbor that I had enjoyed sitting with her I put my arm around her shoulders. She immediately leaned in and smiled while looking up at me. Didn't have a clue who I was but she hugged right back. I choose to think "Are you expecting someone" really meant "I enjoyed sitting with you too but my brain won't let me say it right now".

The Life I Lead, and other parallels

2011-06-10T09:34:00.009-04:00

I walk early in the mornings. Have to. It's 90 degrees by 10:00am. In order to get in five miles before the Georgia landscape sizzles like shrimp on a spit, I have to hit it by 7:00am. I have several lovely choices for venue, all resplendent with the lush scenery of God's artistry (the deep South version). There are two tracks within two miles. Both are surrounded three sides by tall, old, strong pine trees and 100 year old oaks, dogwoods tucked among them. There's privet within sniffing distance and jasmine crawling up a fencepost. One of them is 1/2 mile track that surrounds my kids' lush green soccer fields, and at 7:00am the sprinklers are giving the grass a drink. Without fail, one errant sprinkler turns around and decides to arc over the track and water the sweaty, overheated walkers/joggers instead. It's a treat.

(My house is a couple of miles behind the tallest trees - the ones behind the concession building.)

The other track is the high school track. I find something oddly comforting about school buildings, and this track's fourth side scenery is the High School. The science department has built a bird commune on the back side of the track at the woods edge. There are at least eight or ten bird houses and as many feeders, and I get serenaded for the duration of my walk when I choose that track. The track itself is the cushy stuff that feels like chipped up tires with Elmers glue caulk, and it's banked - since it is a cross country competitive team track. In order to keep my hips from feeling cattywampus after a few laps, I change direction. Fairly surprising to me that the scenery changes so much in the same spot just because you change directions. Check out the background:

(My house is less than a mile behind that tallest stand of trees.) You can see a tad of the pink track behind the team. I don't have a good picture of this track. I need to snap a good one next time I go. You just gotta see.

The third place is the Silver Comet Trail. Can't describe the scenery because there's just. so. much. Just look.

See what I mean????? So here's the point. At 7:00am when you are blessed enough to be standing at any of these spots pictured and healthy enough to be able to walk for miles, WHAT could be better, I'm askin' you????

It's the perfect opportunity to listen, since fortunately my feet make tracks without me having to think about it much. It may be a trick God uses to keep me from realizing how far I've walked, it may be the environment that's impossible to navigate without understanding the depth of God's presence and pervue, it may be that it's a combination of both those things or others I'm not aware of, but whatever it is, I get a personal lesson from the Creator of me and the environment I'm in. Every. Time. I. Walk.

Today I was aware that since God is my Father, that makes me a Princess. (I didn't come up with that. My very wise friend Bee shared that one with me.) Then I became aware that as selfish, thoughtless, thick, impatient and judgmental as I am I surely must test His patience on a regular basis. That made me chuckle. Until I realized that's the relationship I'm supposed to have with my children. He's the model for parenting. I fail miserably. Regularly. So while I was alone, taking in this lush picture, breathing fresh cool morning air, I could easily see how perfect my children actually are and how I am to parent them based on my Father's example - that I will guide them instead of snapping at them, that I will be understanding of their actions and lovingly take their hand and help them along their way like my Father does for me. It's a valuable lesson for me to learn in the summer, when the three of us are together 24/7 for days at a time.

The Perfect Job. or. If I had a brain.

2011-03-25T08:46:00.003-04:00

Occasionally I daydream (we will agree to call it planning for the future) about the perfect job. I think about the time that will come when I'm finished raising my children OK DON'T TELL ME YOU NEVER FINISH, what I mean is when they're older, either next year or through high school or at whatever juncture a light bulb blinks on over my head and I am compelled to once again, after 20+ years, return to the work force.

The one that always rises to the top, my favorite dream job of all, surfaces the same every time. I would be a Personal Chef. Well, Personal COOK since I'm not a chef. (Learned that lesson through the catty, elitist comments of the TRUE *eyeroll* chefs on Food Network). I need to find a family of great enough means who desires to have a cook, meal planner, grocery shopper, snack fixer, party menu planner. In general someone who is in charge of the kitchen - which, natch, would necessarily be a stainless steel chef's kitchen outfitted with industrial appliances and components and a fridge the size of Texas. The size of the fridge would be diminished only by the size of the pantry.

Early, super early in the morning I'd head to the farmers market to gather fresh fruits and vegetables. I'd have to have the family's breakfast planned and readied before I left so when I got back I could cook a fresh, hot breakfast for all. A couple of times a week I would have to make a stop at Whole Foods or Trader Joe's, then a quick run-in at the Natural Food Market once a week or so. Last but not least, I'd stop in at the local organic farm for eggs and meat.

I would spend time each day planning menus, meals, and snacks according to the family's schedule, activities, events, health issues, and preferences. I would have the pantry and fridge stocked with healthy grab-em snacks and drinks.

After dinner was prepared and sitting on ready, I would retire with my cookbooks, laptop, tomorrow's schedule, and a cup of hot tea. And maybe an issue of Whole Living.

And then last week, just last week mind you, a thought so terrifying, so satisfying, incredibly confusing and laughable occurred.

I HAVE THAT JOB NOW.

It's such an irony and it strikes so quickly it makes me shake my head and stop dead in my tracks. I. Have. My. Dream. Job.

So why don't I recognize when I've already got it all? What's the deal with the daydreaming errrrrr, planning for the future? I'm saying it's God's way of making me recognize, on my own time and by allowing me to process information at a speed and depth which my pea brain can absorb, that my God, so great is His wealth of glory in Jesus Christ, that he will fully supply every need of mine. Philippians 4:19.

So if you will excuse me, I have to get back to my job. I've grown slightly fond of the family I'm working for.

ECZEMA

2011-02-18T21:37:00.002-05:00

orrrr,

HERE. Put this salve on it.

Oh yeah. We're in the trenches. The eczema patches, hives, stinky feet, soured hair, and too many other grossities to name. Maybe it isn't too many. Maybe it's too much information. At any rate, I live with three male humanoids. 'Nuff said?

No. Not enough. I hardly think so.

Every time I open my toiletries drawer, I am amazed by the sheer number of tubes, bottles, spray cans, tins, creams, salves, and homemade or home mixed remedies that are before me. The next one contains every possible shape, size, color, and type of bandage available to man or woman - or thirteen year old or nine year old.

And here's the sad part. They haven't been there forever. The contents of both drawers turns over at such a rate that occasionally, I scratch my head and entertain the inconceivable thought that perhaps our home is being used for an Urgent Care while I'm away. I check inventory before each grocery trip. Something always needs replacing.

How can one family go through THAT MUCH Benadryl spray? THIS MANY finger bandaids? I should purchase stock in Neosporin. No, wait. Polysporin. I forget since I've bought generic brands for so long that my kids call it Krogersporin. I've been banned from buying Bactine. My kids hate it because it stings and NO Mom, blowing it does NOT help, 'specially if you're trying to REMOVE germs.

I have products in these drawers that my kids love to show their friends so they can all get a good giggle-snort-smirk. Udder Cream and Butt Paste are two of the current faves. I got rid of the Lansinoh a year ago. Couldn't bear the questions anymore.

So. Here in the infirmary of scabs and rashes, peeling skin and unidentified blotches am I. Go ahead, Bandaid Brand. Come out with a new type of Bandaid. I'll be the first to buy it. Neosporin, love your little purse sized spray. So did all seven soccer players on Jared's team with bug bites last week. Advil, love that purse sized tube. I refill it often.

Hi, I'm Caren. I'm a First Aid Junkie.

It's the SOUTH. We're not SUPPOSED to be prepared.

2011-01-12T13:24:00.004-05:00

If I've heard it once I've heard it a hundred times. "*Scoff*, you Southerners shut everything down at the first snowflake."

It makes me shake my head. Why wouldn't that be the case, is my question. OF COURSE we don't know what to do!! Of course we shut it all down! This kind of winter storm happens once every decade or two. We had one in 1973, and one around 1986. I don't remember about the 90's, so if we had one it wasn't severe enough for me to recall it.

Noooo, we don't have the equipment to deal effectively with it.
Noooo, a great percentage of Southerns do not know how to drive in it.
Noooo, our school buses do not have extreme cold cranking capability and motor warmers and more importantly, bus drivers who are trained in driving a 39 foot yellow children hauler in ice an inch thick.

Know why? It's not our lifestyle. Know what? We adapt well when it does happen. Know what else? We don't make fun of folks who come down from New York and eat fried chicken with a fork and knife, and we don't make fun of folks who come down from New Jersey who screw their face up and say "GRITS! What the heck are GRITS?!", and we don't make fun of folks who come down from Manhattan and say "Man. I have to DRIVE everywhere down here," or "Car insurance is HOW MUCH?" or "OMG the bugs down here, ack!" or "Holy crap the humidity down here is unbelievable!" or "I never had allergies until I came here."

We patiently encourage you along, giving pointers on successful, joyful Southern living, knowing secretly that you just haven't figured out yet that you're in God's country. We figure sooner or later you'll go grab a bite instead of going for a nosh. We hope you'll stop shlepping stuff and start totin' it. We cross our fingers that you'll begin standing in line instead of on line. We just know you'll come to ask for a glass of water, not wooda. Call it a fire hydrant, not a johnny pump. A hose pipe, not a wooda spigot. And at the top of the list, we desperately, with all the good Southern graciousness, gentle tact, and kindness we can muster, hope you'll stop referring to your Northern home (which you left for a reason, remember?) as if the fact that they know how to handle the cold up there is something for which they should receive an award. It snows and ices up there every day for months for cryin' out loud. I hope to hell they know how to manage it.

But if you don't, its ok. We'll let you stay. We know you just didn't have the privilege of being raised here, and we are sympathetic. As long as you appreciate where you are, we're glad you're here. And if you don't, well, Delta flies both ways, baby.

WELCOME BACK LENNY!

2010-12-13T16:08:00.004-05:00

Orrrrrr, can you see???

This morning we had to be at the hospital at 5:15am for Ronny's surgery at 7:30. After we checked in, were ushered from the Surgery main waiting room to the surgery waiting room and then from there they took him on back to his own private little surgery waiting cubicle with a lovely curtain door, a gurney, a locker for his clothing, and a flatscreen TV with a fabulous corded remote/nurse button combo.

Now then. Let me say first of all that hospital gowns have drastically changed since I wore one. Ronny's gown had a vacuum sized hose connection port for a heater fan, of all things. A heated hospital gown. It still showed his cute lil fanny when he got up. But it was a warm fanny.

So there we were discussing the latest medical miracles such as the aforementioned heater gown connector hoses, when I became conscious of shuffling outside his curtain. Presently, a female who was presumably walking down the hall stopped at the spot where the shuffling was coming from and said "LENNY! WELCOME BACK! Feel ok? So.....can you see???"

WHHHHHHH-Huh??? I wasn't sure whether Ronny heard, so I made an attempt not to react visually. Not sure I was very successful, for as I scootched over closer to the curtain to eavesdrop on the conversation following the comment that had singlehandedly shredded any faith I had had in what was about to occur, the tips of his ears turned beet red and he stifled a chortle - or a scream, maybe. At the time I thought it was a chortle.

"Well that's not good," he mouthed to me. Then one corner of his mouth turned upwards in a grin that he saves for mischievously ironic situations. I know the look. It's accompanied by a stiffly raised eyebrow on the same side of his face - as if someone from above has pulled a string connected to that side of his face.

"HELLO, good morning, hi hi hi, I'm Lenny. Your operating room nurse."

WHHHHHHH-Huh??? Lenny appears to be in his late 50s, is tall, lanky, moves gracefully and with confidence and enviable stealth.

I'm starin' at his eyes. Just sayin'.

Lenny checks Ronny's vital signs, asks him his name and why he's there. "Can you tell me what you're having done this morning Mr. Culpepper?" and I am praying he's asking for verification purposes and not because of whatever event it was that caused Lenny to be welcomed back and asked repeatedly about the quality of his eyesight.

Lenny steps out for a moment. Ronny snaps his head toward me, sticks his index finger out in my direction and looks down the barrel of it, squinting. "Do NOT make an issue." I have to report that a man in a hospital gown puffed up with warm air does not exact authority. He wondered why I didn't take him seriously. (Really?) "I mean it Caren. That guy's gonna be the second most important person in my operating room. DON'T piss him off."

First of all, my poofy love, Lenny doesn't even rank in the top two. He's a close third. Secondly, I do have the insight or foresight or some kinda sight to keep our operating staff happy. Which may be more than I can say for Lenny. On the other hand, I'm in a pickle. By this time three passer-by nurses have welcomed Lenny back and inquired as to his eyes. When responding Lenny lowers his voice to a whisper. When medical folks whisper there's a reason. In this case it didn't take a medical degree to figure it out. He didn't want his patients to feel insecure about the fact that his eyesight was diminished. I say diminished because I know for a fact he wasn't totally blind. While he was tending to Ronny, I moved across the room twice and he followed me with his head. Stealthy, I tell ya. I never knew sneaky moves until I became a Mom. Since that time however, it's become a way of life. There is more than one way to skin a cat. While Ronny and Lenny were eyeballing each other, I strolled down the hallway and stopped beside one of the nurses.

"This is Lenny's first day back?"

"Yeaaaaaaah, he's been out a little while. We surely did miss him."

"I can tell. Everyone's so glad he's back. He must be a great nurse."

"Oh Lenny's the best OR nurse in the world. He's tops. He trained us all. So glad his retina healed. It was detached. The HR department said he could come back last week but he said he couldn't see well enough to be in the OR so he stayed out longer."

Stealthy, I tell ya. Got my intel, made a buddy. Headed back down to Ronny's Surgery Waiting Cubicle and flashed Lenny a smile. He smiled back. Life's good.

As Lenny wheeled Ronny out of his cubicle and down the hall, I walked alongside. As I walked, Lenny calmly, gently described to me what would happen when they got my husband in the operating room and at what points he would call to update me. We approached a crossroads in the hall and Lenny turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said, "This is the kissing corner." So I kissed my sweet hubby bye and left him in the care of The Best OR Nurse In The World.

Lenny called me four times during surgery. All four times after he told me what was happening with Ronny, he asked me if I had gotten a chance to eat anything, get something to drink, and walk around a bit. Then he ended the conversation by saying, "Don't worry Mrs. Culpepper, your husband's fine."

Of course he was. He had The Best OR Nurse In The World. Welcome back Lenny indeed.

One Hundred and Three - and whaddya know

2010-08-11T14:07:00.002-04:00

but there are all manner of issues that come up which none of the rest of us Spring Chickens anticipated. Head scratchers, light bulb moments.

My darling Grandmother is one hundred and three years old. I spell it out not in obedience to rules of grammar, but because it is far too important a designation to be relegated to three. little. numbers.

I'll begin by admitting that each year in the weeks previous to her birthday, those of us who are her junior, which would be - well everybody, whisper things to each other like, "Well YES of COURSE we have to have a party. This one MAY be the last." That we've been uttering that sentiment back and forth for the past ten years is the very reason we KEEP uttering it, because now we have the certain foreboding that should we fail to say it, it actually will. Be. . . y'know.

Now back to the original thought. Since it is a rare occurrence to know anyone, much less have in your own family a person who has reached octogenarian status, we find we are discovering new and novel situations on a regular basis. Reinventing the wheel, so to speak. For example. A visit to the dentist is a horse of an entirely different color with a one hundred and three year old. The truth is a trip anywhere with a one hundred and three year old is a whole day venture, but that story's on another page. Dentists do not fill cavities or crown teeth on one hundred and three year olds. From a pragmatic standpoint there's little reason to go to the expense and more importantly, the pain and discomfort to the one hundred and three year old. (Yes, I'm going to continue to refer to her in this manner. It's not easy for me either, it's a whole buncha more typing, but lets get over it.)

When you take a one hundred and three year old to a gastro doctor and tell him she's having the same stomach troubles she's been having for two years only now it's worse, they don't do tests, they don't put on their research or diagnostic caps. They give you a look that says, "She's a hundred and three. What do you expect?" Which she doesn't see because glaucoma took the last little remnants of her vision just after her one hundredth birthday.

Ultimately the doctors are right and while they are using logic, compassion for the one hundred and three year old, and respect for the quality of her life and/or medical treatment, there is an underlying message that I feel in my heart each time I hear it again. She's biding time. She's waiting to die. "No sense fixing anything at this point" is what it all reduces to, back in the niggley little place at the back of my brain at the base of my neck, that place where my idiosyncratic intuits live.

And make no mistake. She's ready. But it still is a forlorn ghost of a thought that stays way deep in the pit of my tummy. Yep. Tummy too.

She doesn't turn the lights on when she gets up in the morning. No point. She's giving away little, sentimental things to particular family members, so she can make sure each gets what she wants them to have. It's all a part of life we don't generally get to experience, but for when you happen to be lucky enough to have a one hundred and three year old in your family.

I'm grateful and blessed that I get to learn these lessons that have come with my one hundred and three year old, for even though some are a little sad, they have become part of quite a family story that even my children enjoy telling their friends.

Perhaps the saddest phenomenon of all regarding a person that makes it to this stature is that when they do pass, the gathering for the service may tend to be small. Know why? All her friends are gone.

So this post is dedicated to my one hundred and three year old Grandmother, who has more life in her than many of us spring chickens, and most assuredly, more wisdom and a rich history of life experience to share.

Spring Cleaning! or more accurately, catching up......

2010-04-27T13:44:00.003-04:00

.....on cleaning and other house jobs I should've been doing on a regular, (boring) scheduled, (boring) continuous (boring) basis. I can't tell you how thick the layer of dust under my beds was. Really, I can't, because then I'd be ashamed to ever come back here again. But it was enough that three under-beds worth of vacuuming along with under a couple of other pieces of furniture I don't regularly move filled up the entire cannister of my little Bissell Vac.

Then I moved on to ceiling fans. One blade had "HELLO MOM" written in dust. I don't even want to know how my kid got up there to do it but it gave me a good laugh as well as a sharp reminder of how often I should be cleaning those suckers.

After I finished ceiling fans I changed bed linens to spring/summer, washed walls in two rooms and changed out a couple of throw rugs to lighter, brighter warm weather ones. Now about the wash water after I'd done the walls. It was about the color of a Coke. HOW is that possible? No one smokes in this house or ever has, particularly since the LAST time I washed them. The walls, not the people. There are two possibilities I s'pose. Four little boy hands whose corresponding feet may well walk on the floor but those hands walk the walls too. Don't let anyone ever tell you human young are upright two-legged creatures. Mine walk on all fours- two on the floor, two on the walls & trim. It's a close cousin to the way they open and shut a door with ANY part of the door OTHER THAN the knob. The second thing is the gas heat. I noticed the walls around a vent were much MUCH dirtier. It's my firm belief that neither of those things are likely to change during the length of time we live in this house, so once again- a firm slap on the hand for me about how often I should be washing walls.

A few years ago I noticed that after I had vacuumed and/or dusted the house, I felt lighter and more clear-headed, and my vision as well as my outlook were suddenly 'brighter'. For many months after the initial connection came to me, I decided it had to be in my head, or potentially because I felt a sense of accomplishment at getting it done and out of the way. Then one day I went over to a buddy's house. The minute I crossed the threshold into her home I got the exact same feeling. I said "Hey, what have you been doing this morning?" She had vacuumed and dusted her home. There's something to this. Perhaps the same theory as when I de-clutter. I get the same feeling then too.

I'm gonna explore it in depth when I'm not so pooped.

A RECORD or, IT'S BEEN AWHILE

2010-04-15T18:46:00.005-04:00

I'm ashamed. I think about posting all the time but as you can see it's been nearly a year. As we say down heah', for SHAME. SHAME on me. I vow to do better. I vow to sit down and write on my blog after I work out, fix organic meals, dust the blinds, work in my yard, train my dog, visit with my friends and my family, finish projects, and call my Mother. Or, I could be realistic and say - pffffst. Goals. I do some of those things sometimes, others of them more times, but I should just come to my knees with the hard core truth that I can't (or won't - don't - ain't gonna) do all of them all of the time. And be happy with that. All these goals are worthwhile and (in my psyche) necessary, but writing is good for me. Just me. Perhaps that's why I have neglected it, and also precisely why I shouldn't.

So. What's going on with us, izzzzzz....... I'm planning a family vacation to Cancun for this summer. Lemme tell you about it. Ronny and I went to Cancun 15 years ago. BC. (that means before children, for those of you who are SC - sans children). So my hunky husband, who has no concept of the marching on of time and its consequences (that's a GOOD thing when it comes to gazing in his wife's eyes, or, errrrr, other parts....lower) or assessment of changes to our lifestyle and needs between that trip and this one, says to me, all wide eyed and smiley, "Oooh. Let's stay in the same place we stayed last time!" Gotta love that man. We did have a fabulous time. Large volumes of alcohol were consumed, sometimes from breakfast on through dinner. (Well, it WUZ 90 degrees at 7:30am, after all.) OMGosh that was back when I still wore bikinis. Whoa.
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OK I'm back from my memories. Dinners that lingered for hours at authentic 5 star Mexican restaurants were a nightly occurrence. We would wander anywhere, try anything, throw caution to the wind. But. (There's that big BUT. Precisely why I no longer wear those bikinis.) The face - rather, the complexion - of Cancun has completely changed. The face or complexion of our family has changed as well. Well, think about where YOU were fifteen years ago. How much have things changed with you? Cancun's no different. The hotel we stayed in has dropped a star. Reviews, on the whole, are not good, and, lets face it, it's fifteen years older. There's new stuff to be had.

There's a whole new section of beach, in fact. Riviera Maya. I'm just sure it wasn't even THERE when we went. I can't prove it, but I know it. Rationale in a whole nuther post.

Finally found a place that was family friendly yet attractive for us adults, and worked with our budget (so far as it can, anyway). Booked it, baby. Now I wanna pack. Today. Now then. The last time I went I packed jewelry and shoes for every outfit. This time, I'm thinking seven sundresses, two pairs of flip flops (one black, one brown) , a sleep shirt, a great pair of silver post earrings, and swimsuits. Done.

Boy, how my life has changed. Taken a turn. It's not about the outfits, the clothes, the all-inclusive deal. It's about taking my children to the country of their origins. Yep there are beaches there, ruins there, amber necklaces there, jade rings there, Modelo (well you HAVE to include beer), but there's also culture to be soaked up. Things to point out to my children and then watch their faces as their reaction unfolds. THIS. Is why I can't wait, and also why I'm packin two pairs of shoes for a seven day trip. It's a trip for the record book!!!

I HAVE DECIDED

2009-06-24T09:23:00.003-04:00

I don't have what it takes to respond to social network requests. So I quit them. Yes that's what I did. Rid myself of the stress of trying to keep up with it, maaaan!

This morning while I was tooling around my facebook page, which by the way I drug myself into kicking and screaming against my better judgement in order to BEEEE more frequently social with more of my friends and family in a more updated way, (see previous post) I was horrified to run upon a double column of 'requests' from friends. All kinds. Of requests that is, not friends. That too but that's not news, and it's fabulous. *_* In total, there were two hundred and seventeen requests. Hugs, eggs, flowers, family tree thingies, songs, you name it. My heart fell. It took me an entire cup of coffee and a protein shake to maneuver around my Face Book (it really is a book, wow....) and figure out that my application settings were set so that I wasn't being notified (duh) when I got a request. So they had piled up in this spot that was obviously pretty tucked away until SHAZAAAAM! this morning, the double column list, the fonts, and the colors became so noticable that even ObbyLivious here noticed.

Irony of all ironies......

This is the same reason I don't participate in Secret Santa and Secret Pal exchanges. I can't keep up.

Talk about pet peeves. I have one friend whose pet peeve is gossip. One whose pet peeve is grammar. One whose pet peeve is people who interrupt others. One whose pet peeve is people who correct others. One whose pet peeve is people who don't take care of themselves. One whose pet peeve is passive-aggressiveness. One whose pet peeve is people who have too many pet peeves (that one makes me laugh. hard.) One whose pet peeve is people who don't eat healthy. One whose pet peeve is women with big hair. One whose pet peeve is people who drive hooptie rides. (those last two tend to go together, by the way) The list goes on......

Well. MY new top #1 pet peeve is overdone social networking. I have a friend who has made a big - uh, I don't know what to call it....game? competition? pride point? out of how many friends she can collect on facebook, how many followers on Twitter. She grieves when she loses a follower. The fact that she even keeps up.......blech. A measure of self worth based on an internet network group. Makes me sad.

I got a new computer the other day and it came with Skype. Nowwwww, I've been hearing about this forever, and apparently this is a means of making free phone calls over the internet. But I already have that. So I'm deleting that one. Whew. One down....

I'm resisting the pressure to join, add on, become a member of, include myself, take part in, and even reciprocate excessive computer and/or social network applications. That last one's gonna hurt, but I counted up how long it was going to take me to pay back two hundred and seventeen requests, at approximately a minute per request, whether all at once or as they come in. They're generous, they're wonderful, they're sent/given by friends, but they're not the reason I joined and I gotta cut it off somewhere. I already spend too much time on the computer, in my own estimation. Besides. What is UP with those dang eggs......it's not even Easter!

So here's the thing about pet peeves. It's only mine....... I love watching my friends do those gift-y things to each other. No judgments, wouldn't make anyone feel bad about doing something just because it's my pet peeve.

A LITTLE CAMARADERIE

2009-06-03T19:37:00.007-04:00

This is one of my favorite pictures from this year's Spring Break beach trip.

The photos I pick out are rarely anyone else's picks. This one for example is so dark you can't see the childrens' faces. Wouldn't matter since they're facing the other direction. Their faces aren't the point of the picture for me though. Maybe it's just special to me because I know it's them - I know their profiles so well; I know Jr Mint's cowlick and head shape and #1 son's body, the shape of his feet and that low, lowwwww spot where his pants band sits.

This picture is so meaningful because of the moment it captured between them. The shadows just made it even better. It sort of makes me feel as though I have to guess a little about the detail in their expressions. I really wonder if #1's eyes, especially the right one, are squinting a bit from mischief, or if they're big and round from the onset of a great idea he's explaining to his brother.

I'm having this one transferred onto a canvas and stretched over an artists' frame.

MY FACE HAS A BOOK NOW or, I've stepped into the year 2009

2009-05-11T11:54:00.004-04:00

I thought I was a pretty updated gal. Truly. Just goes to show how one's reality can be skewed in an embarrassingly gigantic proportion quite akin to the circus mirror that makes you look short and wide like Humpty Dumpty with a bad case of gas. I have an iPhone and I'm not afraid to use it. I keep my calendar on it, my address book on it, my grocery list on it, my notes on it, my pictures on it, my recipes on it, books on it - written and audio, magazines and newspaper on it, songs .....
I have email accounts, several for different purposes, I sync this to that and that to this. I share my synced stuff with other folks so we're all synced up. I can talk on the phone and look up stuff on it at the same time and while I'm doing that I can look something up on the computer and talk to you on the computer too. Send you something on the computer while I'm talking to you on the computer and the phone aaaaaaaaaaaaall at the same ding dang time.

And I can do 5th grade math. While I'm doing all the above.

Sound impressive. . . no. Everybody can do all that stuff all at one time now. Daily grind. Regular bidness. If you can't do all that at one time you can't get through the day these days. Not only can you not get a job, but I'm here to tell ya you can't make it through a PTA meetin', gerl. Most folks try to do all that while they're drivin'. Ok now I'm exaggerating. Ha.

So anyhow, last week I was talking to one of my husband's cousins. There are hundreds of 'em, law me. Oh are you on Facebook? she says, eyes big, tilts her head SSEWWWWWW innocently. Lots of the cousins are; that's how they're keeping up with each other these days. No, I said. It's all I can do to check my email often enough and respond to them all between soccer games blah blah yada you know the rest. Then there are text messages and the twitter doololly.....whew. My seventeen year old niece is texting me every other day, and I'm getting tweets (sounds so dirty, sheesh) here and there from people all over the world telling me all kinds of innocuous, really bland things that folks are doing or thinking or wondering, and what I'm wondering is how much time I've got left before my eleven year old gets interested in all this uber communication and mostly, whatever happened to wonderful, beautiful, contemplation, reflection, being in the moment you're really IN.

So I'm sitting on the soccer field and I get a text from my brother. When I text him back I ask Hey, do you do facebook?

Of course, he says. It's a great way to keep up with what's going on with everybody, especially folks who are far away.

Keeping up with people I love, that can't be a bad thing. So I thought I'd check it out, but it turns out you can't check it out unless you have an account. THE FAMOUS WAY TO GET SUCKED IN TO MOST EVERYTHING IN LIFE. . . the five little words - You Must Be Logged In.
That's how I became a blogger. That's how I got an email account. That's how I became an online banker.

So now I have a facebook page. *_* And it turns out that I only thought I knew what was going on in the world and how connected people were. Right off the bat Facebook asked me if I wanted it to take my email address book and check it for friends. It found that 118 of my contacts had facebook pages. WHO. KNEW. People I go to church with, people I live next door to, people whose kids bully mine, my chiropractor, people I sit next to at committee meetings, scout meetings, go to parties with, people who teach my kids, coach my kids, cut my hair, massage my back, do our portraits, roof my house, work with my husband, sell me stuff, it is pervasive!!!! And within three days, sure 'nuff, Ronny's cousin was right. I have five of his cousins as friends, one aunt, two nephews and a niece. Most of them are people we don't see but once a year at Christmas. So if this is the only way to see them, how glad I am their face has a book too.

Happy Earth Day, and Hello Again, no the earth didn't swallow me up.....

2009-04-22T07:42:00.004-04:00

An abandoned blog, how sad. This is part of my Earth Day clean-up. I am re-activating, greening up my blog.

Hello all you happy people! I should start by skimming my own blog but if I did that I would use up the time I've allotted for blogtime. It's been awhile. So long in fact I don't recall the subjects I wrote about last but no matter. I know what I want to say now. I haven't been compelled to write. For almost a year it seems like - at least - I have been uninspired excepting the mini storytelling episode that only manifested itself from a daily life experience, landing in a note to a friend or a post on my message board. The part perspiration and part inspiration ditty must be specifically if you're getting paid because I never have broken a sweat . . . . wait a minute . . . . maybe that's for good writers. . . . oh hell I can't take time to think about all that deep stuff. Anyway about the inspiration. For me it's part inspiration and part habit and part having the right environment to write. So if I have forty projects going and constructon havoc all around me I can't write. Maybe partially because of the physical environment, maybe partially because me pea brain's so cluttered with trying to get the projects done I can't think about getting inspired to write, maybe because I'm out of the habit, who knows.....

Maybe I'm a fair weather writer.

My Dad and my sister-in-law say I should take my writing tablet or computer (respectively) and go out in the pasture or to the library (again, respectively) and write. May I clarify that both of these lovely individuals have reared their children and kicked them out of their (respective) nests?

Now, I will admit that writing is, like family get-togethers, Pilates, vitamins, and girl parties, therapeutic for me. (How many times have I said 'me' in this post? Yikees.) However it is not like Pilates where I can go every Thursday. It isn't like vitamins where I can go to the cabinet and pour out a measured handful and take my recommended dosage every day. It isn't either like girl parties where I can schedule an event and invite my favorite mix and number and choose a spot to meet. And it especially isn't like family get-togethers where with one call, a little house-cleanin', and a crock pot of chili I can surround myself with those who love me and each other most. It has to hit me. I can't hit it.

But that last one - the family get-togethers......... that's where I'm most likely to get hit.

Appropo of nothing sort of, we were on the way to a friend's house for a party a few weeks ago and Jr. Mint asked "Now where are we going again?"

#1 said "We're going to a friend reunion at the ___________'s house."

"A what?" I said.

"A friend reunion," says he. "You know. Like a family reunion, only but cep with friends instead."

I like it. I like it a lot. It inspires me.

HOME MAKING -or- what makes a home, anyway?

2008-09-17T11:26:00.003-04:00

Sometimes when I think about the decade that I was a kid in - a single digit kid that is, I think about trying to describe some of the differences to my kids. Sometimes I give it a whirl, sometimes I sigh and decide it just makes me seem like such a relic.

I mean. Houses were ranch style. Sprawling. They were nice but they were efficient. We l-i-v-e-d in them. Things the family used sat out in plain view. Phones. TVs. Radios. Blenders. Why, it was even common to see a napkin holder on a table. OUT. Y'know. Such as that. Yards were y-a-r-d-s. The grass was green and we had flower gardens, foundation plantings and so on, but as I recall nobody was rabid about landscaping. The kitchen was the center of the house and pots and pans were well used and bunged up, sometimes enamel was even chipped and that's because it was U-S-E-D every day, every day, e-v-e-r-y day. The bacon drippings crock was a large part of the kitchen decor.

The writing or telephone desk was a fundamental piece of furniture. That was back when the telephone stayed in its place securely connected to the wall and we were the boss of it instead of . . . . . well, you know.

I was looking at the volume of my kids' toys -which is moderate compared to their friends-, and I was just thinking that when I was a kid I would have thought I was rich beyond my wildest dreams if I had as many toys as my children. We had some books and one toybox of toys. To be fair, my toybox was a hardsided laundry hamper with a hinged lid that my Mom covered with colorful fabric and edged with trim. I didn't appreciate it a whole lot then but now looking back on it I think a couple of my buddies had round laundry hampers to chunk their toys in. I should thank her for that toybox. I could go on forever about my toys but for the sake of your eyes and having a topic for another post, I will not tell you about my homemade Barbie clothes, homemade stilts and so on WHICH, by the way, were all better and OH so very sought out by all my friends. The Tiedye house was always where all the kids were and it wattn because of bossy Tie for that you can be sure.

It seems like the bathroom was pretty spartan. It never smelled of luxurious bath salts or candles, but rather the smell of Comet always hit your nostrils the moment you walked in, lingered a moment and then was replaced by the strong but pleasant scent of Camay soap, which had a cameo embossed on the front; again, a large part of the bathroom decor, second to the Kleenex box. I can't find that soap now or that stuff would be in my bathrooms as I type. Another example of things you needed sitting out in plain view? Toothbrushes. Manual ones were hung right there on the wall off the ceramic tile toothbrush hanger thingie that had the cup indention in the middle, and electric ones had one base and each family member had their own toothbrush head with a different colored dot. It sat on the countertop. (Eww. What we didn't know then....)

The house never smelled luxurious either. It either smelled like Mama had just vacuumed or dusted, or it smelled like the floor furnace or (when we finally got one), the window air conditioning unit. Twice a week it smelled like Mama had just set and dried her hair with the home Sunbeam hair dryer with the bonnet. All definitive smells. Home smells.

But you know what? Who's to say those aren't luxurious smells? I enjoy them. My kids friends however are not familiar. They come home from school with my kids, walk in the door, crinkle their nose and say, Oooh Mrs. Tiedye what do I sah-mell? Yee-ikes! Well honey bear, that's Comet. Oooh Mrs. Tiedye it's HOT in heah. Well honey the windows are open. Ooooh Mrs. Tiedye what're you doin? You been in here awhile! I'm c-o-o-k-i-n-g, babydoll. Go on back outside, dinner'll be ready in about fifteen minutes.

I'm so thankful for living in today. I'm thankful for the advantages of technology I enjoy them regularly. I'm also thankful for having grown up when I did and knowing I don't have to live by today's standards if I like my own better.

Life's good.

THE LAST HURRAH or, BOONE, neener neener : - '

2008-08-04T08:45:00.005-04:00

The boys and I are in Boone. We came to visit my brother and his wife for a few days, the last trip before school starts back. Whenever they know I'm coming to Boone, my friends stick their noses in the air, roll their eyes in their head and poke their lower lips out. Jealous, they are. Grown women. I've aaaaaalways wanted to gaaaawwwwwww thaaaayur.....

Well, I'll bring you something. Whaddyu want?

Oh, anything. . . something kitschy, antique-ish, mountain-ey, North Carolina-like, and OH! it should smell good.

Good grief. It reminded me of a scene from a Diane Keaton movie called Baby Boom, where she was a big money man-eater advertising rep in New York, had quit, moved upstate to the country with her baby and started making baby food in mass quantities with apples from her orchard. In the middle of a frigid winter, frazzled, frustrated and nearly broke she's standing in the general store trying to talk the owner into selling her baby food when two yuppie couples from the city come in. (I think one of the wives was Rita Wilson, by the way, but I can't be sure.....I need to watch this movie again - it's so great - but I digress.)
Anyway, they're going on and on about how cutesy this place is, and oh LOOOOOOK at theeeeees and oh how kaYUUUUUUUUT is thAAAAAAAAT and we need to take six of these flannel shirts back to the city for the wintertime, they're so, oh I don't know, Eddie Baaaa-wer, but here they're only seven dollars (shhhhh). . . . blah blah blah, when they spy a jar of Diane Keaton's homemade baby food with the sweet little country baby label and all that jazz, and one of them, Rita Wilson I think, holds it up and says, OH. MY. GOSH. MARY JANE LOOK AT THIS!!! Cute little small town homemade baby food! We have to have four jars of this and the other one says oh how great! homemade? no how many are there lets take them all and turns to Diane Keaton and says how much are these and back to her buddy and says out of the corner of her mouth lets get 'em all and back to Diane Keaton how much did you say? and she says $2.00 each I mean $2.50 no $3.00 ....$4.00 a jar yeah uh $4.00 a jar.

Now I don't remember why I started this story but I gotta go watch that movie. Which I can go do because I'm takin' it easy for three days in cool, breezy North Carolina. My gosh it's so nice here. It's almost 10am and no air conditioner needed. We slept with the windows thrown wide open. Heaven. Ate dinner last night on the deck. Grilled out. Can't do that at home. It's still brutal at 9:00pm! Ronny called this morning in fact at 8:00am from work in crunchy brown Georgia and I told him how cool it was and he was sooooo jealous. I'm frying already, says he. Don't even tell me says he. I can't stand it.

Yep, I'm looking forward to fall. But right now, lemme tell ya. I'm looking out my brothah's front picture window at the rhododendrons that line his driveway and the hostas that grow the size of shrubs. He has an amazing amount of shade, which is one of the things that comes with the hilly terrain here. It's a give and take I suppose. Last night when I was bragging on the temperature in his house (sans air conditioner) and his lush landscaping, he said I'll trade you that for a flat piece of land.

I guess it's all relative.

HAINT BLUE

2008-07-29T14:57:00.003-04:00

Most folks paint the ceilings of their porchs blue, but since it was my floor what needed the paint, that's what got it. Don't fix it if'n it ain' broke. Anyhow haint blue works anyolwhere. I ba-leeeeeeeeev.

Not that we have haints. What we haaaaave, is skeeters, bugs, no see 'ems, bitin' flies, yaller jackits, and any manner of buzzin', bitin', stingin', aggravatin', annoyin', infeeyuriatin' pests that skeet in every time the door's open for a milleesekent. And theeyin, once-chu close the door? Well, they're all yer guestiz; rahht thur on the screen powitch. But cept'n nowwwww, well. The haint blue'll skeer 'em off. *grin giggle snicker snort*

So. It's a few less fer iced tea 'n rockin' t'night, Tater Bug!

Ta.

HELLO FROM CAMP ONESIE

2008-07-15T08:09:00.002-04:00

This week we're three. My eldest, my first, my biggest baby - well the truth about that is my first child is my second biggest baby but anybody with a husband knows the honesty swimmin' in THET pool but I digress my baby's at camp for a week and I'm having to keep really busy else I might think too much and well we aaaaaaall know how dangerous THET kin be ohhhhhhhhh NO nobody wants that to hapn.

Plus'n. There's the lil detail of King Jr. Mint. Ohhhhh yes sir. This happens only once a year does he get to be the only child so it has to be pomp and circumstance all the wayyy Mr Jr. Man. Surprises hidden every morning when he wakes up, playdates every day, lunch out, snuggle time in Mommy and Daddy's bed before bedtime, Skittles and chewing gum E-V-E-R-Y day, snuggle up in the loveseat recliner and watch a movie munching popcorn while dinner's cooking and we're waiting for Daddy to get home, activities with Daddy in the evenings. Next week he'll be rotten but oh well.

So last Friday night we have friends over for dinner, the parents of #1 son's best buddy. The one he's at camp with. . . . just to sort of kick off the coming week at camp. Well, that and they're just good friends and it was our turn to have them over anyway. So I roasted two hens, one in the oven and one on the Green Egg, cooked fresh green beans, roasted Vidalias, steamed brown rice, and made homemade whole grain bacon bread. Then at the last minute I decided to whisk up some chicken gravy out of the yummy crunchies in the bottom of the pan to drizzle over the rice and chicken for anyone who wanted it.

We had a good time. Sat out on the patio and ate, drank, and ate some more. I had done a few dips for appetizers - pimiento cheese, fresh salsa (yes I guess we took our lives in our hands....) and a white bean dip that was out of this WORLD). Can't remember where I got the recipe but I've made it a few times, soooooo easy. Here's what I did:

1 can cannellini beans, drained
2-3 cloves fresh garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
zest of 2 lemons

I poured the beans in the food processor, smashed the garlic with my knife and threw those in too. Then I put the top on the processor and turned it on, adding the olive oil through the chute kinda slowly. Let it go until it was all smooth. Then when I turned it out into a bowl I added the zest and a lot of black pepper, little salt. That's IT. It's to die for. If you have any leftover you can put it on a sandwich with stuff like lettuce and tomatoes or grilled veggies. That's delish too.

Got to go. The King is rumbling in his royal bed. I need to hide his surprise before he graces me with his presence.

Ta.

HELLO STRANGERS!

2008-06-17T07:21:00.005-04:00

Yup I'm here. Here I am. Contrary to popular belief I am raahhhhhhht heahr, it's just my head that's in the clouds. Har.

Ok seriously. I am S-U-C-H a creature of habit and I got out of the habit. But lets not make this about me.

SO. Have y'misst me?

On the positive side, I have been seriously productive. TreMENdously productive. Yyyyew jess woudn't believe it if I tol ya. So anyhowz, here's what I been about, cuuuuuuz there've been a few changes around here. First off, my handsome hubby's company has been bought out and his work future is uncertain. Not a good thing. Well it could be not a bad thing in the long run but in the meantime? Not so much.

Maybe that wasn't the first thing chronologically but in order of import, certainly.

OK. Thennnnnnn, a big ol' honkin' tree fell on my deck.

Yippie skippie. Really. No really! No one was hurt, and yesssss, it was an inconvenience, and yesssss, it cost us money (boy howdy. . . . .) but ultimately the result, after the insurance claim offset some of the expenditure blahdee blah blah blahhhhh, and much gnashing of teeth and dealing with contractors later, we have a beautiful new stone patio.
Needed to happn. Sometimes y'just need that push, know what uh mean? In this case, our push was a 30 ft tall pine tree that broke off at the middle during a wind storm at 5:00am and landed on our 20 year old deck. I hate pine trees generally, but this one was mah fren, and it gave its life for the cause. Go in peace, friend.

Been a lot more going on around here but I have to save SOMEthing for the next blog entry..... that way I'll motivate myself to actually get back here and DO one, huh. Plus I need to get outside and actually plant something around that new patio. Trim my hedges. Weed. And all before 9:00am when it gets too hot to do anything outside but walk to the mailbox.

Good to talk to ya. More later. Tah.

ONE PRESSES SHARPLY ONE GLIDES GENTLY or maybe he rolls

2008-04-15T07:53:00.007-04:00

Guess which is which. (Hint: the pronoun the clue..........)

Hellooooo there! I misstcha. Spring Break with the captl S and B is over and now we're grindin on reg-uuu-laaar life again, headed toward Summer Vacation with the captl S and V so I am here here I am to allow what I found in my head during the time I sat on the beach contemplatively last week. Don't hold your breath for anything grand. Really. Remember. I am blonde. Har.

I read a few books while we were gone and even more magazines - gosh seems like I can speed read while on vacation does that happen to you? anyway once I stick my nose in one (book that is) I can't extract it until I lay my eyes on the last word, to the great pleasure and prolly also the immense annoyance of my handsome husband if he dares get hungry . . . but cest la vie he does know where the kitchen is and how to feed his own and our children's pieholes. Oopsie did I digress?

Anyway when I read that many books in a short period of time, there are words, phrases, concepts that always "stick" to me when I read, in my head, ones I love, ones that make me go hmmmm, ones that just sit on my head stick to me so hard I can't shake them off ones that sink right down through to my bones sit in my core because they're so striking or so "OH!" or so "ME" as in MEaningful or so plagiaristic, that is to say ones that are so terrific I WISH they were mine or they SHOULD be mine ding dang it..... but sadly..... not so much. Or maybe it's because I'm supposed to do something with them? *scratch . . . head . . .blink . . . eyes . . . tweak . . . ear*

It's the ones that stick so much I can't shake them off that are such PESky lil boogers. I read somewhere in my voluminous vacation readings about two people who were very different, one who pressed sharply against life and was hurt by it fairly hard sometimes in return. The other one was the favorite one, favorite of family and destiny and found life and the world to be a comfortable and welcoming place. The minute I read it I felt every nerve ending in my body, every single one. I knew I'd remember every single word of both those sentences but I scrambled for pencil and paper just in case.

All the rest of the week those words stayed with me. Like a haunting they stayed. They kept coming up, like when you throw up in your MOUTH they kept coming up and yet at the same time I knew I had stumbled upon something I needed. Oddly that was comforting or it was going to be comforting sometime in the future, no, it already was. But whyyyyyyy. . . . .
Hmmm this is a good mystery. Mary Higgins Clark would approve. Meanwhile I read one of her mindless mysteries, which I (egotistically and from my amateur throne) declare to be worthless drivel and a total waste of money, badly written and abhorrently predictable.

Dinnertime comes and having just come in from the beach I tossed Ms. H. Clark onto the hydrangea wicker sofa. DH and brother look at me. Ruh roh. Here comes su-thin. They been drinkin beer at the beach.

DH: Can Jr Mint sit in your lap in the Expedition to the restaurant so we can all ride in one vehicle?

What I think: ARE YOU CWAZY MAN? ON THE ROAD? WHAT ARE YOU THINKIN? HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO HAVE THIS DING DANG DISCUSSION? IT'S THE ROAD. THIS IS MY CHILD. HE NEEDS TO SIT IN THE SEAT. IN HIS BOOSTER. END OF DISCUSSION. GEEZ. Why do I always have to be the voice of reason?

WHAT I SAY: I don't think that would be safe, do you?

DH: It's only eight or ten blocks and we're on a beach that's not really that busy. We don't even have to get out on a main road.

What I think: DID YOU NOT HEAR WHAT I JUST THOUGHT?

WHAT I SAY: So you think that would be safe? I'd really rather not...I'll drive our car with the kids if y'all all just want to ride together and let SIL drive you.

So now DH and my brother both walk away annoyed and fairly scowling. And truly it is only a few blocks away from the beachhouse to the restaurant, and apparently the point was the two of them wanted to have a couple of drinks together while at the restaurant and The One Pressing Sharply fouled or foiled the plans of the One Who glides gently and is Comforted and Welcomed, (and his Cohort).

So but and (spoken like a true Pressing Sharply gnarl of the-what-for), why can't both sides live in tandem is what I wonder, now that I have the epiphany. I mean it's the A personality issue, clearly, and it's the same argument as Sales verses Administration, art department verses accounting department, teachers verses board of ed., parents verses kids, the list goes on forblippinever but the ol story is the same and the older you get well you'd just think you could solve it, live with it, get Ohhhhhhhhhver it. Mahhhhhhhh-an.

Malaise maybe? Living life uncomfortably - or having to work harder to be comfortable, control issues, perfectionism, or just feeling responsibility? Depends who you ask. Decisions, life in general, much smoother for my handsome husband and I envy him that at times with every fiber that makes up my Sharp Pointy Pressy Self.

Everything's relative, perhaps it comes down to picking your battles. My children? Their safety? THE battle to pick every time. Prolly still was a little over the top, considering I watched other folks haul their kids in Jeeps with no roll bars down the same beachy streets all week long, but it just has no bearing so why do I wake up in the middle of the night whimpering all piteeful Why Am I The Bad Guy When I'm Doing The RIGHT Thing????? The Unselfish Thing? It's So Not FAIRRRRR! Waaaaaaah!!!!

Pressy sharp pointy person I am, I got a million examples just like that one. Doesn't matter. Budget, kids, schedule, homework, bedtime well that's schedule isn't it anyway Why Am I The Bad Guy When I'm Doing The RIGHT Thing????? The Unselfish Thing? It's So Not FAIRRRRR! Waaaaaaah!!!!

There's no answer is there, except life's not fair, but at the least I want to have the courage of my convictions but not be the bad guy, maybe can I at least be a nice guy while I'm being a bad guy? Or can I be the prettiest guy or at least wearing pretty clothes with a good haircut and fabulous shoes when I force my children to bed on time even though their father would've let them stay up? And as I do this may I close my eyes and repeat the sage mantra of every lone Mom with no support on bedtime issues: *someday they'll understand, someday they'll understand, someday they'll understand*

A Man and His Dad, or Just What Was the Prize, Anyway

2008-02-25T07:45:00.010-05:00

I don't know how I missed this in 1992. I wasn't much into sports. Maybe that was it. Maybe you saw it, but regardless, watch it now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zi0_LjHHN4

Watch it again.

I've only recently discovered it, and now I watch it about once every couple of days. Our childrens' minister used it as a tool to illlustrate a point at the halftime devotional during soccer games last Saturday. Now I have it bookmarked on both computers.

That video is remarkable in so many ways beside the obvious one that Derek Redmond GOT UP. That his father broke past the security guy (You better git outta my way, that's my boy out there!) I made up words for that part. Just seemed like that's what he was saying. That's what I'd be saying. That his Dad put his arm around his son and helped him to the finish line. That he got him back in lane 5 and walked with him, patting him every step of the way. That his Daddy's right hand did not stop patting, comforting, holding. Pat pat pat. That even though Derek Redmond's biceps qualified for big guns in my book, probably twice the size of his Dad's, Dad had the power of comfort and strength and his hand moved from his son's waist to his shoulder to his arm back to his waist as they walked, patting, squeezing, hugging, giving his son comfort. I doubt he even knew he was doing it.

So they finished the race. Walked across the finish line. Heartbreaking, the whole video clip, but the part that made me sob and snort almost out loud (which would've embarrassed handsome husband except he was too busy trying to look all macho and as though he wasn't teary himself) was when they finished the race and Derek Redmond put his face in his hands and his head in the crook of his Daddy's neck. UNbearable.

The silly thing is, that was 1992. It's sort of but not like crying over a commercial I s'pose. Still cry every time I watch it. But Derek Redmond (I didn't know it thennnnn, the first time I watched) has since parlayed that horrible experience into a great career complete with books, speaking engagements, the works! Good for him. When life gives you. . . . . . . . y'know.

The sermon yesterday at church was wrapped up in the same scripture (which is Hebrews 12 by the way in case anyone's interested). I have to stop here and say that my lil ol brain is so simple that things like this impress the snot out of it. The church coordinates the messages in all areas of the church for the week so that when you get home as a family, here's what happens. You're able to talk about the same message in a googlezillion different ways. Simple? Yes. Do all churches do it? Why yes, of course well prolly maybe but I only go to mine and I'm still impressed. 'K? It doesn't take much.

So anyhootietoo, the preacher calls all the chirren to the front for the kids' message and he (he's so brave) he says sunthin like Has anyone fallen down ever? I mean besides when your big brother or sister helps you fall down? Cuzzz, y'know they do that. And the message went on and on and I listened and cute kids were saying funny stuff like yeah and YEAH and I fell right on my BUTT and I got a bruise you wanna SEE it? and the preacher laaaaughs and the congregations laaaaaughs and all the meanwhile I was still back on that cuzzzzzz, y'know big brothers help you fall down.

Sometimes childrens' sermons aren't just for the children, but the message there is for - well - whoever needs to hear it. And yesterday that was me. Lighten up on your oldest boy, gal. It's normal for him to do that to the lil one. Developmental even. Let it happen, they'll work it out.

Hmm.

Powerful. Suddenly that was me being steered back into Lane 5 and a limp I didn't even know I had was easing.

And I was impressed that my church coordinated messages.

AND WHO WOULD PLAY ME?

2008-02-22T09:56:00.002-05:00

It's a game I've played for years. Who would play you in the movie? (The movie of your life of course!) There isn't a single rule, you just cast yourself. That's all. You can cast based on looks, personality, character, mannerisms, whatevah. You're the casting director. It's your call. No judgments either. Okay so there IS one rule.

I cast my family long ago and nothing's changed. Well, rather, the constants have remained......we've removed a few here and there, added more. Here we go:

My Handsome Husband ...................... Bruce Willis or John Travolta
I'm wishy washy on that one.

My Sweet Mama.....................Shirley Maclaine

My Wondermous Daddy...................................Dennis Weaver

Best Seester Ever .......................................Demi Moore

Seester's Handsome Husband......................................Tom Cruise
although with his behavior of late (Tom Cruise's, not my brother-in-law's), I may have to re-cast to the guy from that TV show where all the kids were raising themselves - Scott somebuddy.....???

My Baby Brother..............................................Branden Frasier

Brother's Lovely Wife........................................Sonia Braga

My Sweetiepie Grandmother........................................Olympia Dukakis

I don't usually cast the kids but my gosh my sister's oldest girlie is a dead ringer for Dakota Fanning so there that's a no brainer.

Now then. Let's us delve into the in-laws, shall we? Hee hee eeeeheeeeeeee hehe ha ahem.

Loving Mother-in-law.......................... Elizabeth Taylor.

Hubby's Brainy Brother....................................Ralph Fiennes.
Well he's handsome too, of COURSE, cuz he looks just like my hubby ; ^ )

His Wife, My Wise Sister-in-law ................................... Sigourney Weaver
I have known this since the day I met her. They look nothing alike but she channels her I just know it

Hubby's Wonderful Sister..........................................Delta Burke

Her Hubby, My Talented Brother-in-Law........................... Paul Reiser

What a cast, huh. Some were cast for appearance similarities, some for similarities otherwise. Over the years I've cast others in my life just because the resemblance to some celebrity is in some way so immediately striking.

Because I couldn't cast myself, and because my sister kept on until I just said Well then YOU do it, she cast me as Helen Hunt. A few years later, a good friend recast me as BONNIE Hunt. Ironic, huh. A Hunting I shall be. Har.

In the next few days I hope to have a pic beside each name, so you can see casting for yourself.

Recently I was reminded that there are families that become divided over material things, immediate family members who turn their backs on each other in favor of stuff. Things. People who love each other, have been raised together, lived together, have history together, who have had harsh words and betrayed each other over things that will not last, stuff you can't take with you, material things that you can't tuck into your heart, you can't count on like you can your family......if that is, you haven't put STUFF before them.

I have the most awesome family and things like the family travesty above continue to remind me of it. Well I mean, gosh. How can you lose with Ralph Fiennes, Demi Moore, and Branden Frasier in your sib repertoire? Liz and Shirley for Mamas?

SUPERBOWL WEEKEND naaaahhhhhh GIRLS DAY OUT yeah THAT'S IT!!

2008-02-04T13:03:00.000-05:00

See the picture of the feetsies over to the left there, all posed for a picture? The ones that are vacationing in St. Thomas and cruising on a sailboat? Well. The middle three sets of tootsies belong to a set of sustahs in-laws if you must but you can see the previous post for how I feel on that subject and we three had a day on Saturday last. Yes we did.

We spent a lil bit of time at the spa having some stress removed in various ways. Handsome husband's sister had a lil more than stress removed but we won't go there. It was her birthday by the way, double nickels, and after the spa we skipped on down to the bar and celebrated some more. Our intention was to have one lil cocktail and go home, where our husbands awaited. I had cooked dinner earlier in the day and had everything on timers or in the fridge so we could have sister's birthday dinner upon our return but a funny thing happened on the way to the bottom of the glass and the giggles. We ordered the second one (oops) and about that time summmmbunny's cell phone rang. It was handsome husband's brother calling his loverly wife, who was on last sip of first glass of wine. WHERE ARE YOU?

We're here.

HERE WHERE?

Having a drink.

Wull hurry.

Why? What's going on?

Nuthin, we're just here, that's all. Just hangin' out. Y'know. Watchin' the dogs chase each other, playing Wii and stuff. Hurry.

No. In fact, we may be a lil later than initially planned. Buh bye. . . .

Now, these are guys that collectively manage oh. maybe. I dunno. billllllions of dollars? hunnnnndreds of people? meet with EVPs, CEOs, in fact both of them tell THOSE folks what to DO on a fairly regular basis. They were raised together, two of the three of 'em anyway.

Hurry. *sheesh*

Second round comes, the sustahs need food. The beef tenderloin bruschetta begins to look like something we need. But so do the onion rings. Get themmmmm botthhhhhhhh after all there are three of us. Sunbudie's phone dingalings and guess whut. Eeeeet's MINE this time. Hey honey, I just wanted to remind you that you guys need to stop by the package store on the way home - uh, whenEVER that might be. . . you know, no rush or anything. We're low on vodka.

Ronny?

Yeah honey?

Where are you standing?

At the kitchen table.

Turn around.

OH. I didn't see it there. Ok then. . . uh, I guess I'll see you uh, whenever, then. . . . just . . . . when . . . you get home then . . .

And there's more in the freezer. Bye baby.

Wull bye . . .

We owed these men a debt of gratitude simply for providing us material for laughter if nothing else. We giggled, gossiped and scratched our heads over the helplessness and keystone cop frantic antics of our brainiac husbands who are brothers. We clinked glasses, shook heads, and made toasts while we wiped away tears we laughed so hard.

When the checks came, Susan grabbed the checks quickly and over protests began to pay the bill. When we continued to protest, she said LISTEN. There aren't many people I love as much as you.
Now I ask ya. Can the day keep gettin' better?

The answer's yes. When we arrived back home, I got dinner ready, dished everything up so everyone could eat and then the three of us proceeded - we planned it on the way home cuz we weren't reeeeeeally finished with girls day - to go upstairs to my office and work on paint colors for Donna's house. May I share with you that if we thought the earlier outing had discombobulated the men, this sent them spinning into another orbit.

Wull . . . where're you goin? What're y'all doin' up there?

All in all we got about twenty minutes of good girl time before we were just badgered enough that we gave up the ghost and went downstairs and joined. The men almost visually, physically relaxed when we came downstairs and sat down. It became a traditional family get-together and they were happy. We just enjoy your company, they said. We missed you, they said.

I know the solution to this, we said. More girls' days so they get used to it.

FUNERALS, FRIENDS, AND FISTS

2008-01-10T08:32:00.001-05:00

When you've been married twenty seven years there isn't a lot of difference between your relatives and your spouse's anymore. The lines are blurred, the words in-law don't mean what they once did and in fact, we drop that designation many times, for it is seemingly unnecessary, almost offensive at this point. My mother in law many times calls me her daughter, my brother has for years and years called my husband his brother. It goes on and on. The words are useful still; "in-law", but alas only to explain to a freshman to the fold which one belongs to which and then, how the association came about.

Earlier in the week my handsome husband's step-Grandmother passed away. "Step" is sort of the same as in-law. I never got to meet handsome husband's Grandmother. She passed away a year or so before we met, and his Grandaddy remarried shortly after. He was married about eleven years to Nell before he passed away but Nell remained Nell or Grandma Nell to Grandaddy's nine grown children, their kids and their kids for the balance of her life. She was kind and generous and she was a loving Southern gal. She was a hoot and a half. She was a story for another post.

A relative of Nell's was responsible for the arrangements of her funeral, and apparently there were either misques that resulted in Nell's wishes not being carried out or Mr. Relative was not particularly sensitive toward said wishes. At any rate the end result was a fairly egregious error of callousness in my humble opinion; not on the level of the Rock Springs Crematorium debacle clearly, but a heavy load to carry nonetheless. It isn't a correctable error should Mr. Relative develop a conscience.

I came home with a heavy heart. Besides the kind of heavy heart you normally leave a funeral with I mean. The kind Mr. Relative will feel should he develop said conscience. Everyone is entitled to a perspecific beautilicious send off, and if they have requested something by golly that means its important to them. If a human person of the humankind goes to the real trouble of writing something down, something they want specifically done after they die, at their funeral, when they don't even truly know it, you better believe it's a MUST. Come onnnnnnnnnn.

There weren't but two things she wanted, and one was a blanket of roses on top of her casket. She didn't get that and in fact she didn't get any flowers or anything on top of her casket and it looked so bare and so spare and I thought about that blank, bare casket all evening and every time I woke up in the night. Nell's first name was Rosie. Y'know I didn't know that, all the years I knew her I feel so bad about that it's so funny the things you don't know about someone. I did know how she loved roses, had them everywhere EVERYWHERE except the top of her casket like she wanted them.

So I was talking to a few friends about it. . . . and here's what one friend said back to me in an email:

I feel bad for her that she didn't get her roses like she wanted. I just sent a big ol' bouquet of imaginary pale pink sweetheart roses to the cemetary and had them put right where she would know they were there. And the thing is, they will always be there and she can always see them.

Hope your day is gu-ud today!

Thanks Beezie. I bet she knows they're there, too. Why didn't I think of that? When I read it I was standing up at the island in the kitchen and as soon as I got to the word cemetary the words began to get slightly fuzzy, my arms locked straight by my sides, my hands balled up in fists, and I stomped. By the time I got to the end I could barely read the words at all and I was stomping HARD. Like a spoiled child. That was right before I melted into a big heap. A big blubbering heap. A gu-ud day indeed. That's an understatement. My heart is light today.

Bee and Nell would have been great friends. There's a blog post in there somewhere. : ^ )

HERE'S THE NEW PLAYSET

2008-01-04T16:00:00.001-05:00

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO OUR FAMILY, HUH..... (see the Monday, November 26th post)

I have to wait until Spring to stain it. . . and the top level of the fort. There's a swingset to the left of the pic, but it's not so 'citin'. Jes swings. ;- )

Y'know what a girl I am? I can't wait to see what it looks like when the trees leaf out. *blush*

RESOLUTE

2008-01-04T13:58:00.001-05:00

HELLO in 2008!

Long time no see. Where ya been? Hmmmmmm, kidding. ;- )

Okay so earlier this morning as I was doing the earthshaking but olfactorily and (obviously, duh)sanitarily necessary task of pottie swabbing (and for those who have boys, remind me to tell you about the new pottie seat I got. It's a must. . .) I was perusing the ol' thinker for signs of interest in New Years Resolutions. Late, yes. Normally I don't go for them. Yesterday howsomever I began to twiddle with the idear. Twiddled some more around in the gray matter last night when I awoke at 3:30am to the sound of Jr Mint talking in what I thought was his sleep but it turned out he was wiiiiiide awake.

HELLL-lllo he said when I tiptoed into his room.

I jumped. "Why are you awake?"

Because I'm fweezing. Bwuddah stole all da cuvahs.

They were having a sleepover in #1 son's bed. Their Dad set them up to watch Osmosis Jones on his laptop lying in the bed, then they decided to camp out together for the night. Ahhhhh, Christmas vacation.

So stea- errrr, take some back!

I caaaaaan't, he's lying on them. He won't BUDGE. He's like a BWICK, Mmmmmom.

So you're just lying there, freezing, talking to yourself.

Uh huh.

Ohhhhh-ba kay-ba, well if you decide you want to warm up, let me know how you think you might could solve that......in this big ol' house......with several bedrooms......and lotsa beds...... See ya.

So, back in my (warm) bed, (with lotsa covers pulled up) I flipped the TV on and while I cursed past all the informercials I started thinking about resolutions and why it was that the word and the deed stuck like a hairpin somewhere between my medulla and my oblongata. So I looked it up. Miriam says resolute means to be 1. resolved and 2. bold and steady, then she defines a resolution simply as the act or process of resolving.

VOILA! THERE's my prollem! The New Year's resolution is only the first step. If a resolution is the act of resolving, then that only takes a split second. "I'm going to --BLAH--." Take your pick of vices -quit smoking, lose weight, exercise more, read more, sit less, walk more, clean your car more, spend time with your family more, spend time on the computer less, spend less money, save more money, ever noticed how all or most all end in LESS or MORE? Hmm. A trend.

The biggest part of this exercise isn't the resolution itself. It's being resolute the REST of the year. Hunh. Gooooo figure. Maybe that's why normally I don't go for them. Maaaaaaan I love it when I can figure out little tidbits of my goofy self. Baby steps, woman, baby steps.

Arright. So. Now you're laughing and rolling your eyes, further proof that crackers really are as dumb as you've always thought, because people have known this about resolutions for centons, you say. Well, simple simon here, clearly, no. Takes me awhile to catch on.

So the bottom line is, I have one. I have been thinking about it for awhile, and I'm going to commit to it. I haven't done it in years, this resolute-tion thing, but I'm going to take it seriously. This one doesn't take any giant will power, it's not physical, won't require dietary changes or exertion on my part (although I ought be doin' all that too) but I know myself and one thing at a time is my mantra.

It's gonna take all the gray matter my medulla oblongata can spare. Changing a habit always does.

15 FOR A MOMENT

2007-11-26T10:58:00.000-05:00

Been sitting at my dining room table this morning designing a playset to connect to the boys' fort. They call it a fort but actually it began its life in my mind as a playhouse. They poo-poo that designation. Sounds too girlie but you look at it and tell me just which name sounds more accurate. Its the picture directly above this post, dead center of the collage. At any rate, handsome husband and I were out to eat last week and he says to me over his poached salmon What are we going to get each other for Christmas? and I said Oh we're doing that this year? and he said Yeah, you know, collectively, for the house and I said Well I don't want to get anything that requires the initiation of any ongoing projects and so here's how that goes. I say how bout this and he says nahhhh, and I say how bout that and he says mmmmm nahhhhh, and I say well ok how bout the other thang and he says well uhhhh hmm nahhhhhh don't think sewwwww, and I say ok then Mr. Man what are your ideas and he says I du-nno I just thought maybe we could go sort of big ticket and get ourselves something we both want and also knock out something we've sort of been needing, but if you don't like the ideeeer. . . .

Kiss my tiara, big foot.

Y'know, they just like to turn up the volume and watch you dance. Then if you don't do the steps they like, they take away the music. But they don't ever join you on the dance floor. It ain't fair, it just ain't fair. Ain't fair.

So. I smiled sweetly, sorta like Melanie did to Ashley, and I said Welll, you know there IS one thing I have really been wanting to knock out for several years but it would - nah, it costs too much.

Whut?

Nothing. And actually, we - the boys - can just wait and you can do it. It's one of those things you can do better anyway. You said you wanted to do it and we've been waiting, its on your list. Never mind.

WHUT?

It'd be a lot cheaper for you to do it and . . .

WHAAAT?

And that's how I got the playset for Christmas. It's been on "the list" of "things to do" for three years. The boys are going to be in high school by the time you can get to it I've been saying, as he rolls his eyes. Guess I just caught him at a weak moment. It's a gift that will pay us both back all year long. Kids come over to play with my boys all the time. I have a backyard full a couple of afternoons a week. This is an investment. What better place to invest than your children and their creative play? Besides. I'm hanging my airchair from the breezeway that's gonna connect the playset to the fort. Playhouse. Everwhat.

So as I sit here and play with designs, which elements to put on the thing, I think about the words to this song I love.

A family on my mind
I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

I don't think I'm heading into a crisis but 50 isn't a party I was begging to be invited to exactly. Not complaining, just reporting,

15 there's still time for you
Time to buy, Time to lose yourself
Within a morning star
15 I'm all right with you
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

and I'm so looking forward to my childrens' lives, all every single minute and week and month and year of them....playgrounds and teen years. Everyone says I'll change my mind about the latter. I'd rather be here for it than not, that's my statement.

Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye

Sure don't think I'm wise now but when I look backwards I was such a dummy then. Another blink and they'll be grown and then I'm looking forward to being two again. We were a couple before and we'll be a couple again but richer because. Wow so many becauses - years together, children, families, friendship, crises, memories, all that sappy stuff.

WULL WHURE'D THEY GIT THET FRUM?

2007-11-13T07:49:00.000-05:00

We went to visit my Mom and Dad this past weekend. During the course of the visit my sister and I made the executive decision to go shopping. I know you're shocked. Handsome husband, brother in law, and Daddy were attached by the posterior to the couch, by the eyeballs to the football game.

I'm leaving our children with you honey.

Huh?

Seester and I are going shopping.

Wha...?

Our kids. They're here. Sister and I are leaving. In the car. Watch them.

Watch hu . . . who?

Y'know here are a couple of facts you may not be aware of. When a game is on, the volume on the TV is permanently set on BLAST YOUR EARDRUMS and the remote does not function.

WATCH OUR CHILDREN. OUR KIDS. OUR YOUNG!!!!!

OK, I git it. AHHHHHHHH, TOUCHDOWN!!!! Y'don't have t'yell, for cry'n ayut layoud. Young. Ayr yung. Hunh. Fpmpt. Pass it pass it pass it paaaaaaass iiiiiitt.......... I'll put'em on m'back and hobble around and pertend I'm dayid if sumbuddy points a bagel dubba barrl at me. WHOA, DIDJU SEE DAT????? Ho, me. Thatuz a goodun......

Mercy.

On the way home that night, we had a conversation about a new vehicle for handsome hubby. Went something like this.

Weeeeehoo, ju see thet?

What, what?

That pea cup thet just passed us?

Oh. No, I missed that. Durnit.

Well here, lemme ketch up.

Oh no no no neeeeeeewwww, that's OK!

Oh you gotta see it - it's a bagel thang. Be turble if you mist it. It's what I wonna replace this ol' peesa sh - err, this older Volvo with. (Insert nice, smarmy smile here)

But baybee. That thang's a deezel. Eeewwwwww sheeewwweeee. Ba the way, haintchu bedr git outa the lay-uft lane?

Ahsposo. Leesn. Deezel doan smayal so bad eeny mo-ahr. An I kin git a great deeel downtown 'Lanna. Listen, see? It's not even thet loud? Juhere?

Mmmmm. Good grief, I bet that thang's goin' 90 maul anar. Here. Jauntsamore a these cashoos? I'm done. Well you find out whut the innerst rate is, we'll go from thar if you find one you like, I reckon.

So we got home. Kids were asleep. Carried them upstairs, put them to bed. Next morning, they're sitting at the breakfast table eating their waffles and Dad is reading the Sunday paper. "Ewww, thur's a fly!" says Jr. Mint. "Git the floss water!"

WHUR IN THE HECK DIDJU GIT THET HILLBILLY ACCENT?" says his Diddy.

HAPPY VETERANS DAY AND THANK YOU

2007-11-09T08:34:00.000-05:00

And thank you is just something we say so often it hardly means anything anymore.

I guess by now we could call this shameless laziness, copying a previous post, but my preference is calling it a deep, important connection. A couple of years ago on Veterans Day I posted this letter. It's a letter from my Dad to his Uncles on Memorial Day. Pretty self explanatory. He copied my siblings and myself and sent it to me in a plain white #1o envelope with a little note attached in his (usual) henscratch that said something simple like that he thought I might like a copy, that this was something he felt strongly about, needed to get out, something, I don't remember now. I have it in the "treasures" box.

My Dad has a way of writing that goes right to the core, right to my core. This is one of his most powerful pieces and I only read it once a year, but on that one occasion I read it over and over and over. And over. Then I have to go wash my face, thank God for my Uncle Paul and Uncle Ralph, my Dad. Wash my face again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Paul and Ralph,

I guess I would not have started this letter had not some things come together. Mainly the publication of the book THE GREATEST GENERATION by Tom Brokaw, the observance of Memorial Day by the nation, and the need I have to tell you both that you have always been my heroes. I'm sure I culd not say that face to face without making a fool of myself. My son and I have frequently talked of the selfless, noble self-sacrifice of your generation during World War II, and have lamented the passing of that great large-hearted outlook in defense of your country. It has probably not been said as it should be said yet, but Tom Brokaw does a credible job while we are waiting for perfection.

Both my son and I are in awe of your generation. That something horrible has happened to the American heart and spirit between then and now we both know, but we do not know how to say it. The wonder for both of us is that the people of your generation are not affected by the current one. There remains the same spirit of manners, helpful cooperation, humility and the total lack of pretension as were present when you served.

Among the several blessings I realize regarding my children is that they all three got somehow the gene for analysis and the ability to see, quickly, to the core of a matter, and as a result we talk of the two of you more than you realize. I know you have seen the "media" coverage of Memorial Day and all the hype attendant on such an occasion. I doubt that all that meant much to either of you. Well, this letter is a poor attempt at bringing the hyperbole right down to the most elementary level, in an effort to persuade you, fifty four years after the fact, that, if you both had not risked getting you ass shot off a hundred, a thousand times, we would all likely be speaking Japanese or German now.

So never doubt that, in the extended family, everyone in my age range and younger, whether they say it or not, realize that we all owe you, both of you, a debt that we can never pay by simple thank yous. And it is not strange that the attempt to express what we feel chokes us up so that we feel like fools trying to get out what we feel.

We all know that you are heroes, and you will always be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's a common myth that in order to be called a veteran you have to've served in a war, but actually you just have to've served in the military. Clearly there are distinctions, particularly to a mother, a family, a friend, but I believe I want to say thank you to anyone who served. In the miliary. Who signed up. Wore a uniform. Learned how to be a soldier. Took the chance that while they were "in", they could be sent somewhere or called up somewhere dangerous or far away, and, well, bad things could happen. So thank you from me. Thank you. If you were here I would hug, bake, have you sit at my kitchen table and pour you a cup of coffee, offer you a beer and some nachos..... but cyberly speaking I am just so grateful for you. It's about all I can do from here.

Locally there was a Veterans Day breakfast at my childrens' school, where I had the honor of serving veterans coffee. I've never waitressed, but every year I am honored to don an apron and refresh coffee cups. It's MOST difficult to do it dry eyed because rather than seeing a cafeteria full of humans sitting at tables talking and eating, what I see is a room full of senior relatives of the children in our school, the 'people' of our kids, (that's what we call 'em in The South - yer 'people') a sea of folks who've every single one served our Country. Every. Single. One. And I get to serve them. Just coffee, but I get to serve them. It's powerful, it's humbling, and I couldn't dare say it out loud because it would sound EVER so melodramatic, and I know it must be so because every year I look around and no one else is fighting away tears but me. Well hell. Screw 'em. These folks deserve a wrenched tear or two.

YOU CAN PUT YOUR BOOTS IN THE OVEN, BUT THAT DON'T MAKE 'EM BISCUITS

2007-11-02T14:26:00.000-04:00

This morning as I was helping the kids get their breakfast, I made the mistake of lamenting how old I felt, due largely to an untimely cortisone shot in my derriere. posterior. hipbone. my butt. Yup, my ass is grass but that's another story for another post. So Jr. Mint says Ohhhh Mom, 60 is young! Now he thinks he's bestowing a compliment because he's five and learning numbers and number relationships, so the look on his face is one of pure joy until he sees the demon in my eyes which has come out quite by accident and immediately, I might add, upon the number 60's entrance into the room. It would have come out had the number 50 joined us as well, but the point is, how come? Why did that lil demon pop right out there I mean I look like I look. I feel like I feel OOPS! BINGO! There it is.

Sometimes when my handsome husband and I have spent time discussing a subject and suddenly the answer bonks him on the head from outa nowhere and flows from his lips as if given to him on a plate, his famous statement is And there it is. Arrright maybe not famous but I always know its coming. But this time I didn't know this was coming. This birthday has been a lesson, a struggle. I didn't look forward to it, I was on the verge of tears during most of it, and now that I'm on the other side of it, I'm glad it's over. I feel pretty alone about the way I want to celebrate my birthday, fairly misunderstood. I guess that happens when you live with boys. Don't care much about material gifts of financial import, there's nothing I really want of much meaning in that respect. My body wasn't keeping up with me. I limped with my hip, a limp that of a person twice my age, someone who has had a hip replacement or a broken hip. I limped like Gramma Nell, the one who used to squeeze our cheeks and wear too much bright pink cakey powdered blush. As she walked, her head would bobble back and forth like a metronome, from high center to low left, high center, low left. It was her left hip too, just like mine. She was ninety if she was a day.

So it's just a birthday. That's the thing. There are wildfires in the west. Droughts in the south. A war in Iraq. I have friends who need prayers for family members who have real problems, my friends have real problems. My handsome husband comes home every day saying if he has to work one more millisecond he'll explode and he has too much to do and too little time to do it in and he's forty million hours behind and so stressed out and his cell phone rings every two seconds and he's a Crackberry, checking his phone email every twenty three seconds.....

I'm so lucky I'm alive on my forty eighth birthday, well, luck has nothing to do with it. God is good. But it is what it is. And a blog is where you do this. Say what you want. And so I did. Say what I wanted that is. Now what I wanna say is this: This ain't my first rodeo, an' akshully, come to think about it, if things got any better I'd have ta hire sumbuddy ta hayulp me enjoy it. So.

Time to swap spit and hit the road. I'm gone!

THE WITCHES OF AVEDA

2007-10-30T14:16:00.000-04:00

One of our yearly Halloween traditions is trick or treating at a local open aire mall. The mall hosts a lovely event on a Saturday afternoon, and not only does each shoppe give out candy to trick or treaters, but the mall provides jugglers, scarecrows, complimentary pictures, goodie bags, apple cider, balloons, and well, you get the picture. It's very festive, gives you warm fuzzies just to be there. We usually run into several friends, as do the kids. Good times.

Each shoppe has an employee or two that stands outside the door with a large cauldron of candy - and generally a coupon and a brochure for Mom can't beat that - so the kids walk up, grin and say TRICK OR TREAT! get their candy, say thank you and then between that stop and the next one which is only twenty to thirty feet down, become distracted by seven critically interestingly things they find absolutely necessary to pay attention to. Now then. We have just finished with Swoozie's and are headed to Aveda, where two young (you know they always make the freshmen employees do this Halloween duty) employees are standing out front eagerly (yeah, right) awaiting the next precious trick or treaters. These two gals are dressed in black and white, because Aveda employees always are. They both have very dark hair, short, uber trendy, severely geometric hair cuts, one of them fairly spikey-ish. Both girls have smoky grey/black eye makeup and a fairly lot of it. One is wearing pointy toed black boots with her long black skirt. Anyone see where this is going yet? So. Handsome Hubby cranes his head around in the other direction and hollers Hey kids! Come back over here they had wandered over out of the direct trail from one storefront to the next in order to, Idunno, step on a bug er sumpin and get some candy from these weetches!

Ohhhhhh nnnnnnnnnewwww. Oh no oh no oh NO he didn't just DO that. Bless his heart did he. . . . he DID . . . I can't look at him I can't look at him is that him HIDING BEHIND ME???? From behind me I hear a small weak voice. They aren't dressed up, are they. *Giggle giggle*

We moved on swiftly and for the rest of the trip Mommy was the mouthpiece. OK it wasn't a stretch. No comments from the peanut gallery. Daddy sipped on his Starbucks Triple Skinny Short Soy and smiled at the kind employees giving out candy, waving and nodding thanks as they plunked candy in his childrens' pumpkin basket.

We've laughed about his poo-faux this week. It's destined to become a family classic in some measure, some phrase, some meaning. It hasn't found its niche yet, but it will. Sorta like the burnin' squirrel. ;- )

TTFN

WUUUP! M' SQUIRREL'S BURNIN'!

2007-10-21T18:10:00.001-04:00

There's a madly popular - cultish, really - show on, hmm the Discovery Channel I think, maybe Nat Geo, but no matter - name of the show's Survivor Man. Well. My brother introduced my children and my handsome husband to the show (along with another, similar one which I'll laugh with you about another time). Now the premise of the show is this. This Australian guy who used to be a, I dunno, Green Beret or Silent Operations Ninja or sunthin for the military, gets dumped from a helicopter with only a knife, a bottle of water and the clothes on his back, or suuuumthin like that (and his cameras to film the whole thing) in the middle of the wild, six days from NO-frackin-where. The object is for him to - drumroll please - SURVIVE - until he makes it back to civilization. My three (four, when brother's here) fellas could sit and watch this man eat bugs, McGyver stuff in the cruelest of natural environments, sleep under rock formations and kill wickedly weird and gross animals to cook over a fire and eat - (or just eat raw if he can't make a fire) for DAYS (because there are be still my heart Survivor Man marathons) and only get out of their chairs upon necessary callings.

Now then. At one point during a Survivor Man marathon weekend - and if it's not a true Survivor Man marathon weekend, the three/four of them are not past boasting a faux Survivor Man marathon weekend. Record back to back episodes and watch the DVD.... yep. Alright so now I decided at one point that if I was to spend any time at all with the dudes I'd have to ratchet myself right into the middle of 'em. So I took my book or my whatever I was doing and plopped myself down in the family room between a couple of them, and I might've even made some popcorn or some sammies or wraps, chips 'n dip, whatev, and brought it in so I'd be sure to be noticed upon my entrance. Otherwise, if I don't come bearing some kinda gifts I surely can't compete with an Aussie wearing all kinds of cool outfitters' clothing and shoes, who can hold a dead squirrel by the neck, give it a good fling and send all it's innards out it's ass end.

Speaking of that. It is that now innardless squirrel that makes me bring up this Survivor Man in the first of places. Be patient. There IS a point. So Survivor Man puts gutless squirrel on a stick spit and begins to roast him over a fire, and while he's doing that he's talking to us into his lil camera. Close up and personal, and he looks like who-dun-it. Course he does, bless his heart. His hair's greasy, nappy, his face is ruddy and he has bags under his eyes that even Princess Marchella Borghese concealer, good lighting and mebbe airbrushing wouldn't eliminate . He's telling us what his next move will be and why he won't drink the water in this lil pond over here, and why, in the morning he's going this direction instead of that, blah de blah blah BLAAAAHHH AHHAAAA AHHAAAAA, and suddenly, his eyes got HUGE, his head WHIPS around - those two things that happen instanTANeously when you remember something y'know?, and he says "WUUUP! M' SQUIRREL'S BURNIN!" and for suuuuuum reason, I dun know why, but I just LOST IT. It. was. just. the funniest thing I had heard come from a human's lips. That's all. And all four of the guys looked at me like I was dissin' a holy man or sumthin'. . . . . . and then slowly . . . . . one by one. . . . . . they started chuckling too, and in a minute. . . . . all of us were guffawing. Chortling. Shoulder-shakin'-tears-running-down-your-face laughing.

So ever since that night it is a family phrase. WUUUP! M' SQUIRREL'S BURNIN'! Can be used for a multitude of things, but it has a certain meaning. Just like any family phrase.

Wellllll, we went camping for several days last week, returned yesterday. It was a lovely trip . . . camping always is with handsome husband. It's second nature for him. He and I have been camping together for over twenty five years. My brother and his wife joined us after we'd been at the campsite for a day. It rained, ohhhhh it rained, and you can say oh it's just so great to be out here in nature it just doesn't maaaaaaadderrr and we had a tent city (that's another family phrase) set up, tarps over the campsite so we were dry, played games, cards, etc., but it's still miserable I mean come on. But after almost a full day and a half of solid rain, it stopped. Stopped. Sun came out, weather was beautiful. For another full day. Guys trout fished, we hiked, walked, enjoyed nature, sat around the fire, did all the stuff you do. Enjoyed each other instead of electronic things, interruptions..... But there'll be no pictures, cuzzzz I look worse when I camp than Survivor Man looks.

My guys were in their glory. They were in their element. They were in their "kitchen". Their "decorated house". Their "garden". YOU know the place. You know that place where you know where everything is, and you know how everything works, and you're comfortable with everything around you, and you enJOY everything that you can see, everything within your visual scope, love how it looks, how it's situated. They belonged. It belonged to them.

And I got a glimpse, or I had a sudden epiphany, understanding - ohhhhh ohhhhhkaaaayah maybe a reminder is a more accurate term, if I'm to be honest, darn it - why it's the other way around at home. I'm resisting the urge here to say they don't have to clean the tree if somebody pees all over it instead of just at the base. Pretend you din't read it.

Anyhow, I thought back to Survivor Man and the look of sheer joy on his ruddy, dirty, puffy face when he, in surprised shock yelled, "WUUUP! M' SQUIRREL'S BURNIN!" Now where would you EVER get a chance to say something like that, as my brother says..... but say it he did, and with sheer joy on his puffy lil red face even though his only dinner was charred beyond rodent recognition, and he ate it too, humming happily. He was in his element.

Now as much as I adore camping, the outdoors, nature, and this particular trip as a matter of fact, still I'm not able to place four days of primitive camping with no bath in the category of my element. On the way home from camping however, we stopped at

The Tomato House

I stood right in front of those baskets of potatoes and walked slowly down the aisle to the end where the cider and molasses are lined up like soldiers, turned on my heel and did it again, up and down that aisle. It's better than yoga, better than breathin' into a bag, better than classical music and a cup of tea.

On the left wall past that column on the top shelf, almost to the end, is Paula Deen's new line of marinades:

They were so proud to have them, too....one of the first, they said. You won't see 'em nowhurs ayulse. We's one a th' furstuns. Yew better grayub a cuuple, thayza flyin awfan the shevvs.

And they were, too.
You know they sell a lot of boiled peanuts when this much space and organization is dedicated to the effort. Can't recall at the moment how many pounds or gallons or whatever the measurement would be they sell per day, but it made handsome husband's jaw drop. Not much does that.

Out the back door of The Tomato House. Just makes me smile, even looking at the picture. It's sweet, the setting, the location, the place, the people. Feels good. And here's the thing. They didn't try, it's not DONE. It's not set up, there aren't vignettes (I'm beginning to not like that word). These folks are folks, the old faded country chairs that are full of pumpkins and scarecrows and aluminum pans and mums are that way because well they're that way, they're short on space so someone shoved stuff in there and maybe they have an eye for how to shove stuff in, but that's about the extent of it. It's rural Georgia. The extent of how "fixed" they get is they front the shelves and keep stacks neat and straight, and check inventory often cauz the place was jam packed. It's the old timey farm/country ethic. It allows me to breathe big, deep breaths from waaaaaay down.

Now you know the boys couldn't hack being there for long, so we took them to

The Fish Hatchery
They were thrilled. This place is an incredible resource, and there are childrens' ponds for fishing, all kinds of educational material for parents to teach their kids all about Georgia and our natural resources. Do you see a single soul there besides us? Nnnnnnnewp.

My favorite stop on the way home. Just look at this place. No words needed.

Upon our return home we were all fulfilled, mostly with having spent time with each other but also satisfied by filling whatever needed filled with nature and natural things, country and the countryside. Most satisfying to me was that of all the places we visited, we only brought home memories, we didn't purchase anything with the exception of a couple of teacher gifts the boys picked out - from The Tomato House. ;- )

TODAY'S THE DAY.! IT'S BLOG ACTION DAY, FOLKS. Well, it's a commitment....

2007-10-15T10:10:00.002-04:00

Sorta like leaving only your footsteps when you walk in the woods. Unless that is, you find a bunch of garbage. Then you bring that out with you, along with the joy of the walk, and the memories.

My handsome husband loves to go metal detecting. It's a hobby he's been enjoying ever since he was a kid. He and his Dad would go to the land around Kennesaw Mountain, Lost Mountain, and listen for that beep beep that would let them know they had a find, something from the war they just KNEW - a piece of a soldier's belt, gun, hunk off a cannon, a mini ball. More often than not however, it was a nail. A coke top. Something someone had carelessly thrown down. Know what my father in law did? He put it in his pocket. My handsome husband does it to this day, and he's taught our children to do the same. Saving the environment isn't new. It isn't trendy. It's whatever you want it to be, whatever part you can play.

Here are two pictures of a male and a female ruby throated hummingbird. I like to think they're in love. ;- ) They've been coming back to my sister-in-law's home every year for several years now, because she and her husband (the artist) take care of them.

This is St. Thomas right at dusk. You won't find a more peaceful place. The animal life is allowed to roam the streets and sidewalks, the lush plant life is taken care of before the streets (gotta have your priorities). . .

More St. Thomas. The picture of the stairway is one of my favorites, and I can't really say why. We went up and down that set of stairs countless times while we were there and I never was able to get a good count of the different types of plants along the way.
Heck I dunno whether it was because of the incredible variety of plant life or because that stairway was the way to the partyboat. *hiccup*

My garden. May not look like much, but that's because I employ the "plant everything I can all scooched up" method, for several reasons.

Leaves more room for the kids to play, thus they don't trample my garden.
Leaves less room for weeds to grow, so I don't have to pluck - or spray or use ACK chemmies.
If I plant the runner beans at the base of the corn, I don't have to stake the beans. (laziness is the mother of . . . you get the jist.)
Less square footage for handsome hubby to plow at the beginning of the season and less to mow down at the end.
Less compost and fertilizer to have to deal with.

I could go on and on, but everyone knows the advantages of doing this kind of stuff. Here's the thing. I hate it. I hate it because I like beautiful, straight, airy, open rows and I LOVVVVVVVE Round Up oh my gosh it's my favorite stuff in the WORLD. So it's a struggle for me to do this, it's a - it's not a sacrifice that sounds like I'm well you know - but anyway I hate it. Big whuup. Not easy for anyone that's not the point. Not easy to remember to turn off the water when you brush the first seven times, but the eighth time you do it without thinking. Not easy to bend over and pick up the piece of trash yeah you could walk by it but don't. Costs more to buy environmentally sound, green cleaners and other products and you can't just do it all at once and you can't throw away all your stuff wouldn't be environmentally a great idea to do it anyhootiepo you just do what your heart and your head tells you to, not what anybody else tells you. It's your planet.

Enjoy this beautiful day on it.

STEAMY

2007-10-14T08:43:00.000-04:00

I took the plunge. Bought another appliance but I did clean out my appliance cabinet today and got rid of a few I haven't used in three years. Came out to the good, square inch wise. That's my story and I'm stickin..........ehh you know the rest.

I had consulted friends, cyber and real life about whether it was the thing to do, buying one of these things that is. I had a heavy feeling in my stomach and I got sweaty palms every time I looked at one of them. Big, heavy bubbly appliances with a footprint. Can't like 'em. I don't like leaving them on my countertop, and I don't like to have to get them out every time I want to use them. And I don't like conundrums either. And I don't have an appliance garage, so that's the only solution to that, right?

Here's the pic from the website. The front of mine doesn't look exactly like this, mine has a couple more buttons, but it's made like this one. Not bad, huh?

But as I read the box and all the features, and I thought about our lifestyle, our diet, and the amount of time I have to prepare dinner and - here's the straw that broke the camel's back - how both my steamer and cooking rice sputters all over my cooktop and makes a huge mess - I blinked my eyes and that rice cooker just jumped right in my buggy!

Here's what the box says:

Cooks a variety of white, brown, or wild rice to perfection
Steams a variety of food while cooking rice
Non-stick cooking pot
Prepares up to 12 cups of cooked rice
Easy 1 touch operation

But there are a couple of additional neat things it does too which might've been deal clinchers. It has a delay timer. Delay timers are in my top five favorite things. They make me twice as efficient. They sort of allow me to be in two places at once, which is almost a turn on, maaaaan I love efficiency . . . and at the very least a necessity around here. At any rate it's what I do.
The other thing is that it keeps the food warm, which is also a pretty cool feature. Supposedly it does so without drying it out, and since it's a steamer, I'm assuming so. We shall see.

My idea is going to be to cook the largest portion - or perhaps all - of our meal in this contraption. Throw it all in there, hit the delay button, then go. I guess I'll have to put rice, broccoli, and fish in at three different times but that's OK. That'll take three different trips into the kitchen but only a few seconds each time. I can run in from a yard soccer game with the kids, cleaning out the garage, or planting fall flowers and gardens. Can you tell I'm thinking about the coming week?

So I'm off to look for great recipes for steamed stuff.....

TTFN

YYYYEEAAUUUUUP. HERE'S PROOF, IF YOU NEED IT.

2007-10-13T11:35:00.001-04:00

We're rednecks. Crackahs. From the cy-oth. Where the women swarr annna menr . . . well, mostly named Bubba.

We do all have guns. Yes. In fact, there's a quaint little burb very closeby that reQUIRES you to do so. Not a prollem, Mayor. I never did understand why they made such a big honkin' ta-do about it. Everbody around there had a piece anyhow. Duh. But the media got aholt of it, and there it went. Well there's dumber thangs. Remember Ross Perot?

Ok so anyhow when your life is The South and you were born in it raised in it live it and breathe it and thrive on it, and it's rich beyond your wildest dreams, then you get to make fun of it. Just like when you vote you can complain.

This is my brother and my son in my brother's basement. I may've described my brother's basement before in a previous post. It's a 1970's home and what they're doing is working on a computer but more importantly what they're leaning on is a black leather bar. Note the print in the background. It's my brother's favorite,and one of mine.

I'll resist the urge to use the "You may be a redneck if...." schtick. I think sumbunny with the initials Jeff Foxworthy already thunk up that one but nevertheless my brother and I have always joked about loving that print so much. Clearly there's an appropriate environment for it and his basement is the perfect one. It's absolutely in it's spot right there behind that black leather bar and really there's not another print that would look any better, one that I'd rather look up there and see. . . . . still. You have to have the redneck in ya.

And you know what? Redneck has nothin' to do with intelligence either. This is a common misnomer with folks who aren't familiar with the club. The redneck club that is. Mebbe is cause rednecks sound so goofy or some of the behaviors or slang appear or sound a little less than intelligent but just lemme tell you whut's the truuuuth. (See now that's a perfect example right there.) I know a VP of Corporate Communications with a large cable network and a research scientist at the CDC that both use that expression regularly actually truth be known I know beaucoup folks that use it iss just that those are the two with the best titles to make my point at this particular juncture.

This young man is going to be a doctor. Dontcha just hope he's YOURS? Har. This is my nephew, the seventeen year old son of my husband's brother. He really was just clowning around at a party at my house (he's wearing a used up, empty car pinata on his head) but it illustrates another of my points, which is that us'n rednecks have NO SHAME. We don't care. We just don't! This kid - who by the way made something like a 180,000,000 on his SAT's and is the most pleasant, most respectful, most responsible kid EVVVer, (just had to get that in) - picked up the pinata after the candy-frenzy pile-up was over to help his Uncle clean up - that would be my handsome husband - and took a look at it and up it went! onto his head! without a thought! what a personality....but there it is. Now to his right that half face you see is his Aunt Donna, my handsome husband and this child's daddy's sister. See that smile on her face? She's proud of that baby walkin' around like at. Rednecks. All-un-us.

You gotta be proud of your kids. All of your kids, I mean, not just your own, see? Down here we boss each other's kids around and brag on 'em like we raised 'em our very own selves, which actually we sorta do. It's not uncommon at a family gathering for a Mama to bark at a child that doesn't belong to her, but my gosh if we tried to stop long enough to figure out what kid it was that was doing wrong before we barked the dang biscuits'd burn or the mimosas wouldn't get mixed right and priorites do have to be established, deah.

Here's one of handsome husband at one of our kids' birthday party. The deal was our kid wanted to have water battles in the back yard, and Daddy was supposed to manage the event. Do you see who has on the largest water weapon?
Weapons and southern men. Well. We've already had that conversation.

This is the future of the South. Right here before you. Now we're done with redneckville and just onto silly boys I think. I dunno. I guess boys all over the world do stuff like this. But as I uploaded this picture, and as I was waving bye to my boys this morning when the three of them left to go on their Cub Scout camping trip, they looked so grown up with all their gear and their Daddy The Den Leader was discussing with them how much fun they were going to have with the hiking and the campfire and the woodchopping and the BB gun
and archery practice and the marshmallows and I thought what if they're NOT the future of The South? What if they grow up and move away? Settle in California? Idaho? New York?

How do I enjoy The South then? How do you get joy how are you joyful in your heart when your heart leaves you? Goes to another state? Another part of the country? Oh! What if they go TO another country? The two right there with the buckets on their head. Yeah those two. So I - in my first minutes of Mommy freedom which I'd been looking forward to for weeks - sat with tears in my eyes and my heart feeling as though rubber bands were squeezing it, and grieved over my children leaving me on airplanes and boats and taking all their possessions and making a wonderful life in parts thousands of miles away.

Then a couple of the rubber bands broke and I heard in my head the one word I was neglecting to comprehend. Wonderful. Yeah, I guess you can make a wonderful life somewhere besides The South. Was that why I couldn't hear it in my head, because it wasn't in The South, or because it was just far from me. Three guesses. South shmouth. And their leaving is about them, not me, and besides that, it's not happening this weekend. Or this year. Or this decade you numnuts. So I won't think about it today. I can't. I'll think about that tomorrow.

Right now I'm going to buy some new shoooooooes!!! Then I'm goin' for an RC and a moon pie.

Ta.

ZEE COLLAGE

2007-10-12T06:50:00.000-04:00

Yes, tis fineeee. That word collage just makes me feel so verrrrry Fraiinch. And no my dear handsome husband if you read this I am NOT wearing the french maid costume. Anyway thank you friends for the comments, compliments, words of encouragement. My children and I worked on this together and it turned into the most enjoyable of projects. I guess you never know what's gonna work itself into a memory builder and somehow the header of my cyber journal ended in a tousel in the kitchen floor between an old broad and her two sweet boys well that's not true, that's just what happened when we needed a break. After that, we brushed ourselves off (boy did I realize just how much I needed to mop!) and got back after it. At the next break time I fixed graham crackers and peanut butter and hot chocolate with mini marshmallows floating on top just the way they like it.

The thing about letting someone else work with you on a project is that you lose some ownership of the end product, although the positives of my oops our lil group project far outweighed what I missed in having a collage that represented exactly what I saw in my initial vision, in this case. The pics scattered throughout this post are ones that ended up on the cyber cutting room floor. I couldn't let them go, so here they are. There are more yet, ones I love but didn't belong in the collage, ones I ran into while looking, so they'll go in the next post or the next. Thank goodness for this outlet to show off the pics I love. Blogs, huh. What'd we do without 'em.

The thing about letting your children work with you on a project is that hmmm they have their own brains and well, while most of the time you nurture that and celebrate that, give them their heads when you can and go to bed happy they've developed grey matter of their own, sometimes this being one of them you just wanna

QUASH IT. Like when they take the mouse left instead of right, click before asking why, keep clicking, click click click CLICK clicky clickidy double click click some more...... get the idea? My kids. Buffalo clickers. Click then ask. POOF! Where'd the pikshur go? wOopsie. Then click on the eraser, What's THAT? THAT's coowull Mom. Hey let's slash that thing across the whole collage we've worked on for a half hour and haven't saved. K? What'r these colors down at the bottom? Hey y'know what? If you click on this spray can and then the blue you can WHOAAAAAA lookie! Granny's face.......... brother looooook, it looks like Granny's smuutherin, man! Blue, she's baaaluuuuuue!

HEY MOM???? Mom, mom mom mom MoMOmOMomom caaaaaaan you make me a big ol blow up of this picture of Granny, please? Liiiiiiiiike, how big can you make it? hhhhheeeeeee hheeeeeeeee bruuuther cmmmeere.

And so. The upshot is this. The collage, after the collaberative effort of my two random clickers and myself, turned out to be something ever so much more representative of our family and the message this blog was created to convey. So as usual I was taught a lesson in letting go.

Just wait'll Weezie sees herself in Smurf.

GET FUNKY WITH IT! Hands on your kneeeees . . . .

2007-10-11T08:31:00.000-04:00

Don't tell me you won't enjoy it. Ahhhh, come on. Let loose. Give it a chance. Look around, make sure nobody's lookin' and go WILD. Oh before you know it you will just be laughing out LOUD. This is contagious.

STOMP! Left foot. Four stomps.

Here's how this came about. We have the coolest coaches in the WORLD at our elementary school, and a few years ago I walked into (actually I just walked BY) the gym on the way to the front door and I heard this - the Cha Cha Slide (it's in the music playlist at the top of my blog) - bbbbblaring such that the gym was sort of orbing, pulsing, bubbling with the beat. It stopped me in my tracks and I looked at the gym and thought ok that HAS to be the coolest thing that I've come across today, that my kid is in there doing suuuuumfink to THAT, and not doing sit ups. To a whistle.

So I walked in I couldn't help it it drew me in like chocolate strawberries draw me I was helpless to stay away. Surely the rhythm gods would be on my side and my child would not be amongst the little people moving and bopping to the beat but alas no there he was stomping three times to the left. Maybe I can scooch in behind him but hmmm priorities . . . *sigh*

Well, the upshot - I asked Coach to burn me a CD. At the time, nobody knew who this artist was and the Cha Cha Slide wasn't really popular, but the Assistant Coach had been on a cruise with her daughter and they had done this as a line dance, so she came back with the idea to do it with the kids as an exercise. It has clean lyrics but also it's 'hip' and updated and something the kids go wild WILD I say when they're allowed to have Cha Cha time in PE.

So. Get Funky With It! My kids requested that I change up the music and add some that they like, which reminds me of skating rink music. Well actually that's prolly zakkly what it is, so here it is. They've also requested that I spice up the format. I've no clue how to do that, and I s'pose they think I'm made of time (ha, you thought I was gonna say money - well that's usually what comes out of Moms' mouths, ittn it.....) but I'll be making the effort in the near future. I reckon. Gads.

HANDS ON YOUR KNEES!!! ;- )

....AND HEEEEEERE'S WHY THEY NEED US......among other reasons

2007-10-10T14:47:00.000-04:00

I met handsome husband at Sweet Tomatoes for lunch. Outlook calls it a "recurring event". I call it my every Wednesday lunch date with my very own hunk meister. So we're talking about Cub Scouts - ain't THAT a kick in the head. I have him to myself and whadda we talk about? Crrrrrimany.

I talked to Mark last night, says he. Mark's his Assistant Den Leader. Our den is in charge of bringing the Halloween lollipop tree for the Pack Meeting Friday night. So Mark's got a two by four and he's-

Wait. A two by whuuuu?

A two by four. Youuuu know, lumber. So he's gonna make a cross-base for it and then use a drill to drill holes for the loll-

Hold up there Bubba. How's that gonna look like a tree? In fact how's that gonna look like anything but a 2x4 with lollees stuck in it?

Blank stare.

And another thing. Before you tell me you're gonna use duct tape for any portion of this lollipop tree, can you tell me if there's any particular reeeeeezun you're a-doin it this-a way? Is this the Cub Scout method or sunthin?

Nnnneeeewwwww, you got a better idea?

Smatter a fact, I dewwwww.

OH MY GAWSH, IT'S A READY MADE LOLLIPOP TREE! AND IT'S NOT EVEN WOOD! Well that's entirely too easy. Who knew? Mark won't even get to use a saw or wood glue or nuthin.

No, but on the upside, it'll look like a lollipop tree. Well. When you stick lollees in it. Tell Mark he can get one at Walmart. Tell him to get a green one.

Why green?

You're kidding. Right?

MARIO PATRICK AND 4999 OTHERS. . . . .

2007-10-04T13:07:00.000-04:00

Here's an excerpt from the website 5000 orphans. Please go there and sign the petition.

You could sign it for my cyber nephew Mario Patrick, who hasn't gotten to come home yet with his Mom Jill, or you could sign it for the 4999 others who are waiting patiently for their parents. Doesn't matter. . . . just sign.

http://www.5000orphans.com/

There is currently political unrest within Guatemala. The outgoing Guatemalan administration intends to shut down Intercountry adoptions.

There are approximately 5000 pending American adoptions in Guatemala right now. The Department of State (DOS) has announced that these cases may not go through. Why?

UNICEF is dangling several millions of $$ in front of outgoing Guatemalan President Berger. He gets the money, if Guatemala gets "Hague compliant", which will effectively shut down adoptions. Berger announced on 09/26/07 that ALL CASES, including the pipeline (5000 cases) would NOT be grandfathered in after January 1st 2008.

The Media has not been helping this cause. Many media outlets have been ignorant and slanted regarding this issue. Most recently NPR aired a clueless piece with false and biased information provided by an under informed Unicef representative. Many media outlets are producing articles and television pieces without clarifying the FACTS.

Update: On 10/3/2007, it has been reported that Guatemala has passed the Ortega bill (#3217). This is disappointing news to families that support intercountry adoptions through Guatemala. More news to follow over the next week.

This is a crisis waiting to happen.

Guatemala has NO WELFARE SYSTEM, NO INFRASTRUCTURE and a weak economy. So what is going to happen to the 5000 children? We don't have an answer to that.

Seems that the children are the losers in all of this.

What are our government, the media, UNICEF and other child welfare agencies doing to help these children and us as citizens, taxpayers, consumers and waiting families?

We don't know. But we need to find out. Today. Now.

AND HEEEEEEERE THEY ARE.........my shining lights

2007-10-02T14:13:00.000-04:00

This is last year's cub scout caving trip. My three lovelies. Now they're getting ready to go on a camping trip. . . . oooooOOoOoOOoooh right around Halloween. BOO! The big boo is that Mommy gets to spend the weekend alone. Is that booooo-tilicious, or WHAT???!!! Oh, I can't even just wait to PLAN it. Wow.

Aoooouuuuu, focus woman. The guys. Camping. Anyhooptie, they're doing their gathering thing. Every time I go somewhere it's a personal victory for their trip. "Can you git me a can of corn or two? Has to be Green Giant'cha know. Niblets. NIBLETS, k? N-I-B-L-E-T-S!!!"

Got it, babe. Niblets. *sigh*

Screwed up and mentioned I was going to Walmart. "Oh! Scream through the sporting goods department for me, wouldja? See what's on sale in the camping aisle. We need some light sticks, coleman fuel, mantles, and our air mattress has a hole in it somewhere. OH! And pick up a couple roles of duck tape. Uuuuuh you know the camo kinduud be guud but jes any ol' ell do."

*sigh*

And yes. I know how to spell duct tape. Ask me if my hunky husband knows how to SAY it. ;- \

Saying duct tape the proper way in The South if you're a man would be tantamount to admitting you're a real wuss or a Yankee schmoe* or something pwiiiiiiiity howwible. Whyyyyyy, I have seen Southern men in custom made suits wearing $1000 Italian shoes with two personal assistants use duct tape to fix something and act like it was exactly the thing to do. Right out in the open!! Only in The South.

So then the weekend after they return from their Cub Scout camping trip, the family is taking a camping trip to the mountains to camp by a North Georgia stream in a location that we have called "our" camping spot for over ohhhhhhh twelve or fifteen years I guess. Other family members are meeting us there. We'll have a camping COMPOUND. It's a sight to behold. Ropes strung from one tent to another with wet clothes flung over them, firewood stacked up ready for the evening campfires and overnight fire for warmth, coolers full of food, big water bladders hanging from trees, canteens hanging from limbs here and there, fishing rods stored in tree limb V's, but the best part of the whole campsite ALWAYS is my lawn chair sitting by the mountain stream with the fleece blanket in it. When we first started camping hunky husband complained a little that lawn chairs didn't belong on camping trips. They don't look right he said. Well he's either given up, realized it's part of my camping experience, or he's decided he likes to look over and see it. I hope it's the latter. I think so because for the past twenty years every time we go camping he's packed the sucker for me before I have a chance to ask.

TTFN

*Nothing wrong with being a Yankee you understand, but a Yankee schmoe is a Yankee who has not learned the Southern colloquialisms. Now THAT is a prollem because it either means said Yank a. doan ketch on too fast, er 2. doan keer. Needer's guud.

FUNNEL CAKES AND JUMPIE THINGS

2007-09-28T08:58:00.001-04:00

The North Georgia Fair is in town. Our Friday night is booked baby. I got ta hunt up the sh*t kickers. Haven't worn 'em yet this season. Traditionally the fair is the first time to pull out the cowboy boots. The boys, all three of them - one big and two littles - will have to wear camo on some part of their body, else people on the midway'll thank we're uppity. Cain't have nunn uv it.

Naayow the exhibits'll be first, eeeeein aaaaaawl the fleurs'll be hunkered over dayedd beeins its the third day of the competishun. The leaves'll be crispy and brown, an all the first and second place ribbons will-a been yanked off the winnin' displays by the monster no-count yung-uns what their monster no-count parents is off drinkin' at the nickel-suds ring toss. Where'dja winnat ribbon, Chesterjunior? At the whuuuut? The PETTIN zoo?!!! They give 'em for whuuut? They do not. Do not. Do NOT! Ches Ter Ju UHhhh They do NOT. Give ribbons. For ridin'. A dayum GOAT backers now go git me another Buuuuuuuuuud gooseneckkkk.

Fortunately for us our kids have taken field trips in school earlier in the week to see the exhibit hall and the petting zoo. We can skip that side of the fair tonight and go STRAIGHT for the animal shows, the funnel cakes, corn dogs, cotton candy, and various and sundry other delights known only at the fall county fair. We'll come home coated with a film of fair dirt, sticky midway ashphalt, overstimulated, smelling of beer, overfilled garbage cans, and totally thrilled with the whole experience. It's a once a year experience. That's a good thing. ;- )

I DON'T CARE, cuz - LOOOOOKIE, I HAVE NEW SHOOOOOOOOES!!!!!

2007-09-18T12:52:00.000-04:00

Great icebreaker when there's a looming, imminent or critical problem and no one knows what to say, do, think. I say it in my Marilyn Monroe voice. Used to use the Anna Nicole voice but now, as you may imagine. . . . not humorous.

That trick requires the physical comedy that would accompany such a Marilyn comment in order to make it funny. To make it work. Something like, ohhhhh, maybe a little back foot kick - just from the knee, simultaneously with a 'throw your hands up, palms open' gesture, elbows tight to your bod, as if you were surprised or something. The cherry on top is to roll your eyes up and to the left while cocking your head the same direction and fairly sing the last word (shooooooooooes!) about an octave higher than you spoke the rest of the trick icebreaking sentence.

Guaranteed for a huge laugh. Totally relieves the tension of the moment with its inappropriateness. Used to use it when I worked - sometimes I would come back from lunch and immediately get pulled into a meeting (really - pulled) that had reached critical mass in a short period of time, fueled also by the fact that no one in the meeting had eaten, but had meeting-marathoned from 8:00am until ohhhhhhh 1:00pm and still . . . customer(or boss, take your pick)-not-happy. So I get dragged in. More ways than one.

Here's the problem!!!

I still have bags in both hands from shopping at lunch. My LUNCH is actually in one hand. Haven't eaten it yet. Guess whut's in the other hand. Yup.

Ohhhhhh nnnnnnnooooooo. Well. Hmm. I don't care, cuz - LOOKIE, I HAVE NNNNNNEWWWWWWWW SHOOOOOOOOOES!! whereupon I would fling open the top of my new shoe box to reveal the most luscious new pair of Bruno Maglis, which were ALL the rage at the time. Women gasped. Men froze. There was a pregnant pause, then laughter broke out. My job was done.

Remember in psychology class, a hundred or so years ago, when you had to learn about fight or flight and whether we were the type personality that dealt with issues straight on or ran away from them? That's laying it out on the table, but that's about the size of it, ittn it? Guess which one I am.....doh!!
So anywaysidoats, I'm noticing more and more that my kids are learning the careful and cheezy art of diversion. Now whether this means they're flights, in the fight or flight choice, or whether it just means they're trying to dupe their ol' goofy Mom and make life easier on themselves remains to be seen but I have my idears.

Hey Pooh Bear, weren't you s'posed to vacuum the car out before you went outside to play?

"What? I couldn't hear you. Oh hey Mom guess what! The homework from yesterday? Every SINGLE one correct. Hey you helped me with that, 'member? Cool, huh. 'Kay, you're comin' to eat lunch with me tomorrow, right? Cuz the Brother QUIT! other kids were askin'. And OH by the way, I have to STOP IT! I'M GONNA HURT YOU. have $14 for the Performing Arts field trip next week. MmmmmMmMMMMmm, that's GOOD. What is it? Is that dinner? Anyway, ok, I'm goin' outside now."

Uhhhhh, Button, nice try, but go vacuum the car then you can go outside.

Huh? Can't hear you, I'm outside!

This would go on for hours if I let it, presumably. I call it brain drain. Starts the second their feet hit the ground off the school bus in the afternoon and I'm convinced it wouldn't stop until they're asleep at night. And I have to admit that sometimes I get duped! They're soooooo proud when they pull one over on me, but here's the irony. It takes more energy and time on their parts (and more angst all around) for them to go to all this trouble to get out of stuff, then if they'd just go ahead and get the job done.

Now how long have mothers been saying that? Which just goes to show that it's not just the job they're trying to get out of - it's us they're trying to get the better of. So good for them when they win one every now and then.

Ohhhhhhh, well. Some days you get the bear, some days the bear gets you. I don't care - cuz I got new SHOOOOOOOOOES!!!!!

ttfn

IT'S HIS PARTY AND I'LL CRY CAUZ I NEED TO. . . .

2007-09-04T10:13:00.000-04:00

Cry cauz I need to,
CRY-YY cauz I need to,
You would cry too if this baby grew up on youuuu!!!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

He's not a baby anymorrrreee, look at himmmmm oh my gosh he might as well be a MAN but look how happy.

I'm a big bag of whiny mush. He's turning double digits. Ten. Ten years old. He's been practicing how to say it.

I'm ten.

I'm ten years old.

Ten.

Ten years.

Ummmmm, ten? Yeah.

Hmm? Oh. Ten.

Here's what his heart is saying.

I AM TEN YEARS OLD, WOOOO HOOOOOO!!!!

He's one of the oldest kids in his class. Usually THE oldest but this year one kid beat him to the punch. It's one of his big deals, and this year? the kid that beat him out? GIRL. Oh yeah. He's suffering. Well. Mom's coming with Toll House Cookies at lunchtime. That'll kick him up a k-notch-ie or three, so he thinks. Last night at bedtime we're lying in his bed he has the best bed in the house I said Pook how many kids in your class now? and he said twenty, do you think you could make twenty THREE cookies? I said what are you KIDDING me I'm making sixty three. Turned to him and winked and gave him a squeezie. He turned over and we spooned a minute before I kissed him and turned off his lamp and snuck out of his bedroom. He was already snoring.