BLOOD KIN, BRANCH KIN, FAMILY

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

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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

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......

.....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

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

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

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

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.....

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?

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 : - '

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

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

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!

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

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*