THIS ONE'S FOR ME

When I joined a message board several years ago it was for ideas - it was an interior decorating board on a wildly popular decorating site. I developed some friendly relationships with a few of the posters such that as we posted about decorating threads we also inquired of each others' health, family, etc. The site administrators didn't care for that. It's called "off-topic", in message board terminology. The group of us that had a hard time staying completely 100% on-topic with people we had come to care about left that message board and went to another one where we have the ability to discuss anything we please, within reason.

This new message board is still an interior decorating board. Well I say new. I guess it's been over two years since we moved to this one which by the way is phenomenal, and the best kept secret on the net (and guess whut I'm keepin' it thataway neener neener) but anyhootiepoo here's the reason for this whole backstory.

Recently we had a death in the family - on my handsome husband's side of the fambly. When you've been married twenty five almost twenty six years, in some means or manners it begins to not matter anymore which side of the fambly the death is on, it's just about all the same, but someways not. This one was hard on handsome husband because he grew up with this cousin and because the cousin was the same age as handsome husband.

It was hard on my precious mother in law because it was her brother's oldest son, and one of her first nephews. The memories from forty four years ago when that baby came grieved her and just about broke her heart. I could see it in her face when I watched her at the cemetary.

My Mother and Daddy went to the visitation. My Mama, bless her heart, has so much going on I don't know how she keeps going. Her own Mother will be 100 years old in two months, her best friend of 20 years has stage 3 breast cancer, her brother has stage four esophageal cancer that has spread to his liver and he can't handle any more chemo or radiation.

Barry's death hurt my heart deeply. He has a child the same age as my oldest. He left a loving wife that will now go on without him, be lonely and miss him deeply, miss his company, miss sitting beside him, talking with him, holding his hand, cuddling with his feet and legs in the night, winking at him, eating off of his plate, sitting beside him in church, and dreaming about growing old with him. But of course my sweet, handsome husband would never think to ask me how I was doing, over the death of someone in his family. It would never occur. And why would it? But then. Men don't comprehend that women work through death in such a very, very deeply intensely personal way.

My Mother is very caring, very nurturing. Hovering even. But with her closest loved ones in such crisis, she can't possibly remember to tie her shoelaces, much less ask me how I might "feel" about the death of a cousin in law.

My sister has her shoulder in a sling, bound to her body for six more weeks, and two young girls she can't even feed or bathe. She can't even warm fishsticks for dinner or wash her own hair. Guess who's helping HER. MY MOTHER. Think she can ask me, at this moment, Ohhhhh, hunee, how do you feel about your husband's first cousin's death??????

My friends, galpals, buds ask but we generally have kids in tow, forty things going, etc., and get interrupted twice during any given conversation by a cell phone or Blackberry. Or the guy at Starbucks yelling "Tiedye's short skinny double latte!"

So. All that to say this. The interior decorating stuff is fringe anymore, for what I have found is that this message board import has shifted, and the critical impact of it now is that there is always concern for me there. These folks are mine, they ask after me, they pay attention to me, they know and remember things about me and projects I have done and paint colors I have used and pieces of furniture I have and headboards I have inherited and what pieces of furniture of THEIRS I love and lust after.

You have the ability to concentrate more when you converse on a computer, it's true, but there are still (most, I'd say) message boards that are lacking the compassion and human signature that ours has.


TTFN

HEAD SCRATCHERS

Had some time and space the past week or so. Used it to ponder. The things I ponder - oh there's such a wide berth up there in the pea brain. That's where the 'space' is, I guess. Har.

Anyhoo, if you're not a Gray's Anatomy fan, skip on to the next ponderance. It occurs to me, appropo of (perhaps) nothing but I (seriously) doubt it, that of all the characters in that show, all of them are sexually what I would call promiscuous and just nearly without the most terrific of morals of the sexual kind - to some varying degree...... with the exception of FOUR. Here they are:


Burke
Bailey
Christina Yang
and the Chief (currently). Yes, I do remember that he has a past history with a long term affair. Since the show began however, there's been no bed hopping going on.

Anybody notice any unifying element about these four, and the absence of that similarity in the remaining others?

Powerful statement, Shonda. Deeeeeeeep. Meaningful. THAT's what I think. She's tired of normal roles TV and movies portray. That's what I think.


Alright. Ponderance number twaaaahhh. I got the teensiest tinesiest glimmer last night of a compliment from my nine year old son, well not a compliment at all really, an admittance really, a nod. . . just part of a discussion that came so naturally that I almost drove off the road when it found its way off of his lips and into my ears. And if it had been a compliment it wouldn'tve been to me but to my handsome husband AND me, btw. . . . just a weetle clarification thar. OK here it is.
My oldest son and I took a trip to Tarjay, the two of us. We only had four things on our list but the four things all were him. All about him. It was a number one son trip. Not only that but purposefully the trip was arranged to extend ever so slightly past his bedtime. Now get this. Here were the four things: underwear, socks, a wall calendar, and (looking at) a bookcase. Not even like we were buying toys and electronics and CDs and software, right? Regardless. Between those two slight, insignificant facts; 1) just him, and 2) Mom kept him out a little late on a school night, he felt so 'given to', that he wanted to 'give back'. The kid started talking.

"Mom?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nick wanted to know why I was grounded this week."

"Ju tell him?"

"Oh sure."

"Well?"

"He thinks it's weird that I have chores. So does Rachel."

Here it comes, I thought. Wait for it.......wait for it........brace yourself......

"In fact Mom, the other day Rachel's Mom cleaned up the toy room before we could even start cleaning it up ourselves."

BOOM! There it was. "Really? What do you think about that?"

"Welllll, I think we should've cleaned it up."

Wait. This was not what I expected. Be cool. "Mmmmm, that's a good thought. Does Rachel's Mom always clean up after her?"

"Yep. Nick's too. But then, they don't get a payday" (that's what they call their allowance) "like Jared and I do either. They think it's pretty awesome I get money every Friday no matter whether I'm great or whether I mess up big time, in an envelope that says Love Mom and Dad." And then. The awesome finale~~~~~~~ "I like our family's way better."

Wow. And yes. He was grounded for NOT doing his chores. Ironic?

Funny, I said to handsome hubby, that it's so hard for us to realize that our children are so darn easy to please. If you give, you get. It's not brain surgery.

TTFN

V-DAY

When it's 4:30 in the afternoon the day before Valentines Day and all you can think about is the fact that you've forgotten to get your neighbor's Grandbaby a Valentines gift and you have to run back out and get that baby something (she's a precious baby she really is and they're the best neighbors you could ever have and you can just bet they'll have Valentines gifts for my boys they ALLLLLLLLways do) I did manage to procure alllll teachers' gifts, get them wrapped, DH and children are taken care of, but just anyhooteepo it's just almost the same feeling I get a few days before Christmas, but cept the feeling I get a few days before Christmas is deeper because Christmas is a spiritual holiday and when this happens at Christmas well then the point I'm missing is a big fat important one no THE big fat important one well maybe not missing just misplaced or displaced but here at Valentines now I'm missing or dissing. . . . . . well.... the meaning of the holiday, which whatever it is, is never gifts, in my book. There. Whew. I been trying to get that out for days and there, I did it ~ all in one sentence, too. Heh. Sorry but there are more gifts to get yet. Aaaacckkk! The neighbor grandbebby.

So. The meaning of Valentines day. Your Valentines! Whoever they are, I guess you're supposed to really let them know how much you cherish them on this special day. Diamond companies make you think the way to do that is by giving a big sparklie. Chocolate manufacturers want you to think it's by giving lots of choc-o-latt-aye. DSW was kind enough to send my handsome hubby a reminder that a gift card would be a great idea. Key word in all those sentences is GIFT.

Hurts me. Cuz a gift is the last thing that tells me that someone loves me. It just tells me they ran by the store. Clicked a mouse button. Handed a sales clerk the Visa. That it's a day they're supposed to give me a gift. What tells me I'm loved is the way they treat me all the time, with the gifts God gave them.

TTFN

THE VAN IS ROCKIN'

It doan mean what it used ta. This morning my kids are eating breakfast, and they decide it's prudent to pick at each other. One shamelessly makes fun of the other. That one pinches the first one. And the games begin. . . . .

By the time it's time to take #1 son to school, we've reached a crescendo. Their faces are so contorted that it makes them appear to despise each other, which at the moment is probably fairly accurate, but being that they're so young and live in the moment, is, well, momentary - or maybe morningtary. Fortunately breakfast has already been consumed. There's no food to fly. By the time we get in the car an amazing thing has occurred. Jr. Mint has found a way to outsmart #1. Jr. Mint is 4. #1 is 9.

"Is everyone buckled?"

"I'm not gonna buckle."

Ah-haaaaaaaa.

"YOU HAVE TO BUCKLE, NUM NUTS, OR I'LL BE LATE TO SCHOOL!"

Ohhhhhhh, #1. You tipped your hand. Baaaaaaad move. One point for Jr. Mint. Think he knows it?

"Well, I'm NOT buckling. You can't make me, eeeder. Just TRY."

Yep, he knows it.

And still. The nine year old doesn't catch on.

"WELL I'M YOUR BIG BROTHER AND YOU'RE GONNA DO WHAT I SAY!" and with that pounced on him like a buzzard on rotten meat.

This was gonna be a great show. I pulled over, threw the van in park and turned around to watch. They fought until Jr. Mint wore #1 out. Breathing hard, he plopped back down into his seat, and in a weak, small voice, said,

"I'm gonna be late. I can't get him to buckle."

Jr. Mint was whimpering, but still had victory in his eyes and was free from the shackles of a belt buckle.

"I'm not gonna wisten to you, bruddah."

I took my opportunity to sneak in a little comment.

"Son?"

"*snivvle* Whut. *snivvle*"

"I'm so sorry you're gonna be late, but I'll love you whether you're late to school or not. And you know what?"

"*snort* Whut."

"Don't worry. Cuz tomorrow you'll have another chance to make your morning run muuuuuch smoother. In the meanwhile, wanna know what might work?"

"*snarfle" I guess."

"Well, since brother's got his hands over his ears, let's explore this. You know his birthday's in two days, huh. You have a great gift for him, don't you. Are you going to want to give it to him if he doesn't cooperate with you?........ Should you mention that to him?........ How would that work for you, do you think?......"

We were on our way in twenty seconds. It was a light bulb moment for #1 son. I don't think we had any bloodshed. Maybe one pair of glasses got bent in the battle. I'm anxious to see if anyone learned anything.

We'll see tomorrow morning, I s'pose.

MORE THAN I SHOULD KNOW

My #1 son and his friends have a band. They're nine. Third grade. Title of their first song? I'VE GOT MORE THAN I SHOULD KNOW.

I was scared. More WHAT? Euuwwwwwww nnnneewwwww.

"Oh kewell! Son?"

"Hmmm?"

"Who wrote your song?"

"Emma."

Emma is a sweet girl who has been #1 son's buddy since kindergarten. Not only has she been in his class every year, she's in Light Bulb class with him too. They're close buds, they have similar unruffleable personalities, the wisdom of an old person in a kid's shell, and they each have a skip for their third step. #1 son gave Emma his first science project when it was all over. It was a volcano. That's equal to a friendship ring in pre-teen language, or a bottle of Cristal and a box of Valrhona to us.

"Our Emma?"

"Yeah. She wrote four of 'em, but there'zz only three of 'em here cauz she had to look up and see whether devilish had one L or two. I'll get that one tomorrow."

It was about then my eye began to twitch. The right one. I put my first two fingers firmly on my closed eyelid.

"Son?"

"Hmm? Hey! Who ate all the mini vanilla wafers??? DANG!"

"Son."

"Hmm? Yeah! I said what! I mean, yes ma'am? Oh by the way. Can you type 'em for us?"

Can I!!

"Oh. Wellllll, I guess. I mean I have a lot going on this afternoon but I think I can make time for that."

"Goodie. I'll work on the logo while you type. You'll love the songs, Mommy er Mom."

I bet. Devilish huh. More than I should know indeed.

We got our chores done and migrated upstairs to the office. #1 son sat behind me with his markers drawing a logo while I typed. After the second line of the song, the edges of my lips curled upwards in a smile. After the refrain, I nearly let out a chuckle but sucked it back up quickly, for here is the MORE than my delicious third grader and his friends and our Emma want to know:

Homework, a test, a sister, a brother, my parents, and all my teachers.
I got an F on my test,
I had to babysit my brother.
I missed my bus,
I got sent to detention.
Will this day ever end?
Will this happen again?
Can it get any worse?
But I know one thing
I got more than I should know
I got more than I should know
Homework, a test, a sister, a brother, my parents, and all my teachers.

A FLOWERDY COUCH - AIN'T GONNA HEP YA HIL

Ohhhhhh Hilary honey. Are flowers the way you want ta go?

The couch tells me a lot. I'm shakin' my head watchin' ol' Hillary try to use a flowery sofa cushion to persuade us (during a campaign commercial, no less) that she's not - well, who she is. Gimme breakage. Fleurs???? I can't watch her anyway for long lest I become nauseous, but cabbage roses behind her back and her smiling at me too? Blech.

My handsome husband looked at me the other night in the kitchen when I was watching TV cooking dinner overseeing homework and ignoring a temper tantrum (not husband's or Hilary the Democrat's - the four-year old's) I may've been paying bills too can't recall, anyway - Cokie's reporting on Hil's plea, well, first he stopped in his tracks which might've been a giveaway that whatever question he was ready to fire was immense, to him. Unusual for the limbs that are attached to the man to come to a halt. At ANY TIME. So he stops. Turns his handsome head, wicked sparkle in his eye maybe because my head is shaking without my knowing.

He says, "Do you want her to run?"

"What?"

"Hillary. DO you WANT her to RUN?"

"I don't care if she runs."

I care loads in twelve directions but I had too much going on already. He knew it. Swhy he asked.

"Yes you do. And by the way. When did you start watching this hooey? You're becoming your Grandmother."

It's not hooey. Cokie is FAR from hooey. Sam Donaldson? Hooey. MASTER of hooey. Hooeyhead, he is.

"Thank you."

"So. Do you want her to win?"

"Are you MAD?"

"Ha. I KNEW you cared if she ran."

Alright. Here's the thing. We have a woman and an African American man as the two front runners in the Democratic primary. Thennnnn, we have a hispanic man thrown in the mix to complicate matters even more. God bless the U.S. that that can happen. Peeps are acting as if this is the first time it's happened. Have we forgotten Geraldine? Shirley? Jesse? Yyyyyes, they walked quietly into the night, but they RAN. I digress. But. (You know there's always a big but.) Narrow minded humans will go for the one that's NOT THAT, not all that, no matter who or what that person is. It's a stalemate. Our female, our black male, our hispanic male, whatever and whoever they are and whatever abilities they may possess or lack I'm 'fraid they won't get the chance, for what their collective hat-throwing into the ring has accomplished is to diffuse the vote. Who's left on the ticket that's whitest and has the most testosterone (after Hilary that is....) may become "our man", regardless. That's a dangerous regardless, isn't it. His greatest accomplishment may be that he invented the internet!

I hope I'm wrong. I hope that three minorities on the ticket making the minority the majority of the ticket might mean we have turned the corner. So far in our country it's only taken one white man to take down three (or ______ more, choose your number) of a minority. Let's see. My children's future will change if it's so. My future will change if it's so. Even my husband's, maybe, even if only as a result of the fact that he lives with three minorities.

Think he could've stood still for that?

HOW LUCKY ARE YA. . . .

. . . .when this is the kind of email you get from your Daddy:

Hey Honey,

Just a couple of notes.  First, this chair you and
Ron brought me is just perfect.  I have always liked
to be higher than the keyboard with a back that would
keep me sitting up straight and, together with just
about every adjustment imaginable, this chair fills
the bill.  Mom is using the one you gave me some years
ago.  But this chair figures into a kind of dumb ass
epiphany I seem to have had a few days after the first
of the year.  I didn't get a burst of bright light or
anything of the sort.  But somehow I have recognized
that, no matter how much I vent frustrations  and
mutter imprecations against folks who would have trouble
driving nails into snowbanks, nothing, and I mean
absolutely nothing, is going to change.  Too bad,
you might mutter, that it came when you are within
spitting distance of your seventy fifth year, and I
couldn't agree more.  But there it is.  So I no longer
invent new descriptions for drivers who don't pay
attention to what they're doing nor for cashiers in
stores who talk to one customer for fifteen minutes
about her aunt's operation while the line waits.
But where the chair comes in is that, along with
the realization that my stewing and fuming won't
change anything, also came a very mysterious settlement
in my mind about how to write the novel "______________
_________" that I started in the utility room of the
house on Wyoming Avenue in Fort Pierce.   Same thoughts
occur: why did it take so long? Damned if I know.  But
it did happen, and one of the cardinal rules of
practicality in the writin' game is that you have to
apply your rear end to a chair in front of a keyboard
for large chunks of time. So that's what I've started
to do, and the chair fit right into the sequence of
events.  I have told the other two chillen about this
in a much abbreviated form. Also, I have determined
that, when I finish with the manuscript, whenever that
is, I'm going to go the Print-On-Demand route to
publication, largely because about 99% of book
publishers will not look at a manuscript unless it
comes from an agent.  Think what I might have
been able to do if I had been creative.

Stay loose.

Dad

=================================================

That last statement about being creative is a little
joke between my Daddy and my siblings and at the same
time, a tribute to my Mama.  Yeah, yeah, it's a
paradox.  We're a weird fambly.

Okay here's the sitchyeeashun.  My Mama and my Daddy
were sitting in their great room discussing their
three (most wonderful) children -you can vomit here
if you wish - and my Mama says to my Daddy, who is an
accomplished published writer, mind you, "Honey, I just
marvel at our children and all they can do.  I can't
figure out where they GOT all this creativity.  THEY
MUST'VE GOTTEN THAT FROM ME." :-O

ITBS - (Irritible Bowel Syndrome??) Bubble Testing

Could you pass it?...and just exactly what wouldja pass, do ya think? Ewwwwww. Alright. It's not irritable bowel syndrome, it's the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. But I can't even tell you how similar . . . .

OK here's the thing. Not a year has yet passed in my #1 son's educational career that he has not had the indistinct pleasure of taking at LEAST one standardized test. He's in the third grade. It's that time of year. Spring - when we look for dogwood blooms, chirping birds, tulips and jonquils popping out of the ground, white patent shoes, and - standardized testing.

Here's the way this will go. Initially chapping my derriere will be the hunk of hooey we'll be handed about the testing being given (at great sacrifice of time, money, etc.) for the benefit of the students. However, shortly behind THAT memo will come another one, which will follow through and serve as secondary rumpus chapping and communicate (for our convenience) an online website where we can study - and, get this - practice test - our children, so that we can improve - IMPROVE??!! their scores.


WHOSE scores - the children's - or GASP- the school's???????



There I said it.

It's p-o-l-i-t-i-c-a-l, friends. Sure, I can use the results to give me indications of where my son is in his Lexile framework, particularly since AR star testing is such a joke. It gives me a good basis for how much extra stimulation he needs at home and in what areas, and I appreciate having that information, but lets be honest about the purpose of this testing. It is not given for my child's benefit. It is our SCHOOLs that are being tested, and the students are just the pawns.

Now then. Having said that and registered how burnt my butt is, (isn't THAT ladylike!!) I'll report that no more than I like it, what lights me up so dang much is that they (the classic THEY) think I'm such a dumb crackah. I don't MIND that my son has to TAKE these tests - I mean it IS good test taking practice - if his school is going to continue to be as incredibly stupendously superb as it is. Just come on out and say, (ok I know this'll never happen because not only am I not a DUMB crackah, but I'm not a naive one either) "We're doing standardized testing this week so that we can determine how well the school is doing percentage wise within the state. Please study your kids like CRAZY so that we get good scores, we rate great, and this school continues to be able to get good funding, good teachers, a nice extra county stipend for their paycheck, blah blah blah." I would appreciate that honesty.

On the subject of school, today I am wearing, for the first time, my amythyst teardrop pendant that I got for Christmas. Well. I got it set for Christmas. The amythyst was a gift from #1 son last year. Second grade year. He won it for me. In a contest. A writing contest. Essay. They were given a title to write about. Here's the title:

WHY MY MOM DESERVES A DIAMOND

Here's the way it went. The whole thing went down without my knowledge. Several weeks before Mother's day, a local jewelry store sponsored this contest. It was many elementary schools wide but by grade so that only same age children were competing with each other. Anyway, when #1 son won second place, his teacher called handsome husband to come pick up the certificate and essay so it could be my mother's day gift. Handsome husband goes to school, picks up packet, brings it home, and #1 son gives it to me for my mother's day gift. I read the essay, then handsome husband explains what has transpired during the past few weeks, and tells me that #1 son has won the second place in this essay contest of 1200 students. When I told my Mama that story, she said that was HER mother's day gift.

So now #1 son and I go to the jewelry store to pick out our stone. I wanted him to choose it since he won it for me. We knew since he won second prize it would be something other than a diamond and I felt as though there would be several choices. There were - the owner of the jewelry store brought out a tray of beautiful loose stones and told us to choose whichever one we wanted. There were many stones, and many shapes and sizes, and my son chose the most lusciously divine oval amythyst for me.

It sat in the jewelry box until the beginning of December, when handsome husband asked what I wanted for Christmas from the boys.

"I would luuuuuve to have my mother's day amythyst set into a pendant. I'll even show you some pictures of ones I like. How's that?"

So he and our jeweler designed one just for me. There's not another amythyst pendant just like this. First the stone was won for me, then the pendant was designed for me. I feel so very special today with it on. I guess it's couture jewelry - better than Harry Winston!!!

TTFN

METRO ATLANTA - GOTTA LOVE IT! ROBBERS TEARING DOWN WALLS AND TY BUILDING NEW ONES

It seems that robbers in Kennesaw, a suburb of Atlanta, have thought up a brilliant new way to break into houses with security systems. I was listening to the news tonight while cooking dinner. As I'm putting chicken into the oven I hear Monica Pearson telling me that two men broke into a home by literally tearing the vinyl siding off of the home and going through the wall!!! WHAT??? Come on. I heard it wrong. I'll listen again when it comes on at six. By then I'll be finished cooking dinner, the kids will be finished eating and everything will be quiet because the two of them, along with their Daddy, will be in the basement. working on Pinewood Derby cars, just in case you wondered. :-) At six o'clock Monica smiles at me, rolls her eyes and tells me that two men broke into a home by literally tearing THE VINYL SIDING OFF A HOME AND GOING THROUGH THE WALL. I heard the woman right. :-O

It works because the sensors are usually on doors and windows. There's nothing to keep someone from going in THE WALL. People don't usually use their motion detectors, particularly if they have pets.

You gotta want to steal somebody's stuff pretty doggone badly to want to go to that much trouble. They did it in bright daylight too. . . in a subdivision!! What's next, I ask ya.......


On the other hand and not too far away, Ty Pennington and his crowd is with us. Today they unveiled the house they just built for a family in Cherokee County, just north of Kennesaw. Tragic story. Take a look:

http://www.wsbtv.com/news/10750379/detail.html

Walls comin' down, walls goin' up.

PINEWOOD DERBY CARS, WOOD FILES AND AN AUDIOFILE

It's the time of year for my three guys to be holed up down in their wood shop, sawing and sanding and filing and gluing and painting on what they hope will be a first place winner in the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby race, which will be held January 20th.

The past week or so my handsome husband and our two yummy sons have hit Hobbytown hard. They love the trip. It's a tradition and I, I'll just tell you, stay far far away from it. I let them have their car part buying trip just like I would want them to let me have a shoe shopping trip. No pressure, no hurry up I'm ready to go. It's their trip.

Now, I'm two floors away, not just one. They're in the basement, and I'm on the second floor. Okay? So. In order for me to get to them I would have to descend TWO flights of stairs. Got it? The dishwasher is on. The washing machine is going. The dryer is going. The TV downstairs is on, and the TV up here is on. #1 son has his tower fan going in his room. Ceiling fans on all over the house. Over all that, not only occasionally can I hear the music that my handsome husband has crankin' in the basement, but I can feel it through the floor in my feet!

If I walked down there and peeped around the corner, the two larger of them would be concentrating on their Pinewood Derby cars with their heads hunkered over their work. They might be tapping their toe, and #1 son will be irritated at the volume, that's my guess, but I can just about guarantee that my little Jr. Mint would be doin' the salsa while he's sanding his.

During the work session I bet they listen to approximately 100 songs at a minimum. He turns it down to background volume at times, changes it up, but always there's music. My children won't know it but they'll hear music from many genres and I don't even know if my hunky hubby will know that he's teaching them. When there is a really great part that he wants them to hear for some reason he turns it up loud. When he turns it back down sometimes I hear him talking to them about instruments, musical artists, names of musical groups, bands, and so on. When children learn and don't know they're learning it's a great thing but when parents teach great things and they don't even know they're doing it THAT's serendipity.

I guess I should either teach them sign language or mention to him at some point that he might want to think about lowering the volume. Well no one's perfect.

TTFN

MIZZIZZ NAN-SHE PELO-SHE

Shock Story: Nancy Pelosi Is A Woman!

Ben Shapiro

Apparently, Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco) is a woman. Coming on the heels of other shocking revelations, such as John Kerry's service in Vietnam and Barack Obama's racial background, Pelosi's womanhood is a true stunner. Next we'll be hearing that Hillary Clinton has a famous husband. On January 4, Pelosi took the gavel as speaker of the House of Representatives. She was escorted to the podium by her six grandchildren, including a sleeping baby she carried with her. After thanking her family for helping her move from the "kitchen to the Congress," Pelosi humbly chortled over her own achievement. "For our daughters and granddaughters, today we have broken the marble ceiling," she crowed. "For our daughters and our granddaughters, today the sky is the limit." The media would hammer any Republican congresswoman who dragged her grandchildren with her to work; it would rightly be considered a political ploy with children as props. Nancy Pelosi, however, could breastfeed on the speaker's podium and receive the plaudits of the mainstream media. "It seemed the ultimate in multitasking: taking care of the children and the country," fawned Charlie Gibson of ABC News. The paternalism of the left has reached new lows -- taking care of children and taking care of Americans are now two sides of the same coin. No woman in the history of politics has used her womb like Nancy Pelosi. According to Pelosi, the power of childbearing gives her extra-special abilities when it comes to recognizing national security threats. When asked on CBS's "60 Minutes" what qualified her for leadership on national security, she answered: "I, as a mother and a grandmother, 14 years on the intelligence committee. Don't tell me I have any underestimation of what the threat is to our country." Obviously, cleaning up spit-up prepared Pelosi to clean up terrorism. In defending herself from charges of San Francisco liberalism, Pelosi relies once again on her ovaries. On September 21, 2006, Jim Lehrer interviewed Pelosi. "Finally, as you know -- I'm sure you know -- the Republicans running in these congressional races in November, you're a target of a lot of this -- speaking of focus -- and they say, 'Do you really want to turn the House of Representatives over to a liberal Democrat from San Francisco?' How do you respond to that sort of thing?" he asked. "An Italian Catholic mother of five, grandmother of five, going on six," Pelosi quickly responded. Pelosi is ardently pro-abortion, pro-homosexuality, soft on crime, soft on drugs, soft on illegal immigration, anti-gun rights, anti-religion and anti-welfare reform. She wants to dramatically escalate taxes and doesn't believe that we're currently engaged in a war on Islamism. But she used the Lamaze method, so don't you dare call her a San Francisco liberal! How will Pelosi control the House? With her "mother-of-five voice." How will she bully others into doing her will? The same way she clubbed Republicans over the head about the Mark Foley scandal -- by invoking her super-duper authority as "a mother and grandmother and the leader of the House Democrats." This is absurd. There are literally billions of mothers in the world. I love motherhood as much as the next fellow, but it has absolutely nothing to do with running the House of Representatives. Lady Macbeth had a child (Act I, Scene 7), but she wouldn't be my first choice to run a country. It is no less offensive for Pelosi to run based on her uterus than it would be for a man to campaign based on his working prostate. When Nancy Pelosi uses her womanhood and motherhood as a gimmick, it insults both women and men. It insults women by stating that their special qualification for inclusion in politics springs from their genitalia. It insults men by stating that estrogen makes for superior political know-how. It insults children by making them pawns to be used for Nancy Pelosi's political machinations. And it insults voters: only babbling idiots would buy such claptrap. Politics is politics.It is not changing diapers, burping the baby or driving to soccer practice.

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On the subject in the last paragraph of using her grandchildren as pawns (I guess that's what Ben meant) when Nanshe hauled all her offspring up with her to be sworn in I heartily disagree. Any Grandmother worth her salt would do the same. Most mothers would as well, but that your career would go clockwise down the toilet unless you were south of the equator. Then it would go down the toilet still, just in a counter clockwise direction. At any rate it's the only thing Nanshe has done so far that has made points with me until today when she banned smoking on the legislation floor. Another point or two. Go Nance. We don't even smoke in public places down here in cracker land.

OK now. Nanshe's proud of her status as the first woman speaker. I get it. I feeeeeeeel it. The priiiide of womanhood abounds, and all that hoo hoo. Get OVER it Nance, let's just get to work honey. Don't embarrass the whole sector of people you're representing sooooooo proudly. You'll tarnish the frickin' tiara.

TTFN

LOTSA MUTHAS

I tell my kids most frequently about multiple mothers. I have many, you have many, everyone has a multiplicity of mothers. The conversation usually comes up because at the age of my children presently they stay confused with regard to the dynamic of who belongs to which. For example, Jr. Mint on a regular basis says from the back seat of the car,

"Mommy, who is your mommy?"

Now he knew it last week but since that time we have visited or been visited four times, told seven various old family stories, and looked at a photo album or three. I look in the rearview and he's scratching his head as he asks. He's flummoxed, bless his heart. #1 son is dissolved in laughter.

"Mama. Mama is my mother, hootie poo."

"But. But. Ohhhh. But. . . . but WE call her Mama!"

"Yes you do. That's because your older brother heard ME calling her that when he was tee tiny and before Mama could decide what name she wished to be called by her grandson, he decided for her by out-of-the-blue one day hollering "MAAAAAAMA where aaaaaare youuuuuuu?". Then once you came along and heard your brudder calling her Mama you called her the same thing, naturally. Understand?"

"Mmm hmm."

We got three miles.

"Mommy?"

"Yeesssssss?"

"Who is Daddy's Mommy?"

I thought #1 son might wet his pants. I hadn't seen him laugh so hard since his Dad got inline skates. That's not exactly true. Since his Dad stood UP on his new. inline. skates.

So we went through this same converstation with everybody's Mama - after mine and Daddy's then it was Mama's mama, Granny's mama, cousins' mamas, yada yada mama yada blah dee mada blama yama.

Fortunately it was only a four mile trip home. By the time we pulled into the garage #1 son had hyperventilated and Jr. Mint was so thoroughly contused that when we got inside I perched him on the kitchen barstool, thrust a smoothie under his nose and said OK let's make a list of Mamas. (At this point I thought one big list might be the best way to go. Diffuse the issue?)

My ONE statement about parenting is that, in the end, it's a learning experience that's list is longer for the parent than the child if the parent lives long enough and this was one exercise that was a testament to that theory. We started out just Jared and myself and after the first thirteen Mamas the gales of laughter and conversation lured Cole to join us. Well. It may've been that or the smoothie then the popsicles, I dunno. Eeeeenyway.

Besides Grandmothers, Godmothers, Great Grandmothers, Birthmothers, Birth Grandmothers, cousins that have Step-mothers, Ex-Step-mothers, we have Room mothers, Party moms, I even have a Weatha Mutha which is particularly appropriate to mention today.

In the end the conversation wasn't at all about Mamas but about responsibility and caring and opening your arms and your heart, and how it had nothing to do with whether you were related to someone or not. I have a dear friend whom I've never met who has the same ethnic background as one of my sons, and her husband has a different ethnic background (same as my other son) and his family does not accept her. Or her children. It's tragic. The reason it's tragic - besides how she grieves and hurts over it, and how hurtful it is or will be at some point to her children - is that her in-laws don't have one fat clue what they're missing. Their lives have a hole in it they aren't even aware of, and that mutha-in-law hasn't yet. become. a. Mama.

TODAY IS THE DAY IN THE DAY

Leetle feet . . . appropo of nuttin'. Just like the pic.

We were fortunate enough to have my brother and his wife spend a couple of days with us over the holidays. When my brother describes the way something was back when he was a kid he calls it "back in the day".

My kids wear Heelies. #1 son doesn't walk at all anymore unless the situation presents itself that he isn't able to roll. He pops out his wheels and puts in the plugs for school but the minute he comes in in the afternoons those plugs come out and in go the wheels. Loves going to the grocery with me now. I can send him waaaaaaaay far down to the other end of the aisle for something. He's into it. There's Heelie etiquette, boundaries. It's a big deal.

I've already told you about handsome husband's ipod. Apparently you're supposed to capitalize the i, but i refuse.

I have a Motorola Q which I sync to Outlook and it is email, calendar (the holder of my entire family's schedule when I'm away from the laptop), plus it's my phone, address book, contact list, and I understand it could be the source for my music too but I ent got that far yet. I have an issue with plugs in my ears. See previous post.

Today as I was talking on the Q, watching TV in the kitchen cooking dinner (greens and black-eyed peas etc.) I caught a glance of #1 son outside riding his bike with his Heelies on and he gets off the bike and starts rolling right along. That's sort of like emailing on the laptop while text messaging I think.

I wondered, while I was tearing stems out of turnip green leaves, thirty years from today where we will be in our world that we will say "back in the day we only had smartphones to do that with", and "back in the day, we had these archaic tennis shoes with a wheel in the bottom called Heelies," and "back in the dayyyyy, Apple had these things called ipods that were HUGE and you could only fit 20,000 songs on them." "and you had to stick earbuds in your ears......"

So today is the first day of 2007 and we are in the day. Welcome to the day.



Given that it's the first day of the year and my family has been rolling around in my head all of this day, here's my little list of 2006 angels:

My handsome husband
My children
My Mama & Daddy
My sister and her husband
My three nieces
My brother and his wife
My niece and nephew
My Grandmother
My Mother-in-law and her husband
My brother-in-law and his wife
My sister-in-law and her husband
My two nieces and three nephews

Yes there are more. Of course there are. These are just the ones I have to put my hands on frequently or else life's not good. Have to look at 'em, have to talk to them, have to know about them. Some more often than others, some not as often as I wish, but there it is.

This is an awesome list. For a person to have a list this long is fabulous and to end one year and begin another with THIS M-A-N-Y people in your life on a regular basis and this isn't even a fraction of the folks that I come in contact with on a regular basis and just lemme tell you, the folks ON this list are ALL phenomenal people. The ones that aren't even repreSENted here - aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, cyber friends, PTA committee peers, neighbors. . . . ohh.

There can not be a day in 2007 that would POSSIBLY top 2006 if it does I may possibly exPLODE from the sheer perfection of that day. (as in back in the . . .) Have a good one. Day that is.

TTFN

NEW YEAR OLD LOVEES

A new year is upon us. Time for my traditions, packing up static stuff for donation, wrapping up loose ends, unfinished projects, blah blah dee yada yada.

My favorite tradition after I get all the chores done that make me feel new and clean and clear and minimal and right-great-straight to start, is to close my eyes and place my open palms on my chest and picture first the faces who brought me here. And. Not only their faces. My Mama's smile, my Dad's hands, my Grandparents' . . . . .my ohhhh here we go. They each have their own signatures.

Here's a pic of my handsome husband, his brother, and our nephew (handsome husband's sister's son). This picture makes me feel -uh- something like pride but with humility mixed in - whaddya call that??? I don't know what it is but it's just the pleasure of having been a member of something for such a long period of time that makes me feel as if I know every loving thing about everyone. Even though clearly I don't. It was taken by my brother in law on my back deck and I swoon every time I gaze at it. I don't look at it. I gaaaaaaze at it. I have a hard time believing it because this person in the middle was a couple of months old when I came into the picture. I rocked him, I babysat him, and now HIS child is MY son's buddy. Wowzers. I was a great aunt years and years before I was a Mom. Did he have a baby early or did I have my babies late??? YES. That's the answer to THAT question.

I can't think of anything critically urgently spiritually transiently important that will begin in 2007. Perhaps it means I can't think or either it means there may be nothing particularly spectacular about the year 2007, but what's spectacular is inherent in our family, our head, our heart, our lives, our loves, our homes. I dunno. Maybe I'll use less butter. Walk more. Smile more. Spend less (nahhhhhh......). WHUTever. After many years the resolutions begin to all sound so evermore like babble, same ol' babble dee gook. Resolutions, lists, call 'em what you will. You know yourself. You know how you react to 'em. Do it so you succeed, man. Write your script.

Happy happy.

RIPS ME A NEW ONE

Burns me a new one, rips me a new one. Know the meaning when it leaves my lips? Betcha do. Mmm-hmm. Howsomever, I thought, for some bizarrrrrre reason, that it would be a grrrrrrrreat idea to get my handsome husband an ipod for Christmas. Between his ipod, the computer, and the DVD thingie he's rippin' and burnin' music and schtuff all over the hoose and damn if he ainta got earbuds in his horns every time I look at him. I'm thinking now that an ipod would be an appropriate gift for a wife to give a husband if he were all up in her space and she wanted him to quietly disappear into another dimension. Just for the record, I wasn't in that sad predicament. But the hunkity hunk is enjoying the thang and that's just da bomb. So, I s'pose my mission is accomplished although it sure doesn't feel like it when the only thing around here to talk to is the guinea pig.....

Aaaaaand speaking of new ones, Happy New Year to us all. Black eyed peas and greens tomorrow, and a day of rest. There'll be a fire in the fireplace, games with the kids, maybe a leisurely ride in the country. The first day of the new year should be spent as we hope the entire year shall go, and so my tomorrow will be spent with my family, and in touch with my friends.

TTFN

PRETTY IN PINK

I'm happy now. Reporting. I like this format better, and even if I didn't, it would stay for awhile. I can't fiddle with it any more.

Formatting is EASY PEASY NOW!!! WAY TO GO PEOPLES!!

Here's a little pic of my baby asking the girl behind him in the Santa line to hold hands.

TTFN.

CAN'T LIKE IT

I don't like my new format. I have tried to like it but I'm having no success. Mainly I've tried liking it so diligently because I don't wanna take the time to go back and choose another one. It's sooooooo harrrrrrrd. It's sorta like picking a ding dang paint color, not something I can do quickly, and so I drag my feet even going to that screen because it's like the little pebble that initiates the avalanche. . . the first domino . . . the first HA in the HA HA game. But do it I must, because this new format ith not me. Too dahhhk, dahhhlink. It's preeeeety but ith just not me.

While we're on the can't like it jag, I'll just mention that I'm not liking these folks going out in the freezing cold wilderness for sport. I don't CARE if they're experienced mountain climber whatever they are's, I demand they all stop. Can't we all get the HINT now that so many have lost lives in the cold? If we have the wanderlust for this sport is there a virtual one that would suffice please? Geezle pete.

That's all I have not to like at this moment. Otherwise I'm good.

One thing I found out this weekend I doooo like verra verra much. Grapefruit juice and vodka. Thank you sister-in-law.

REDNECK KENNEDYS

When I was a kid I used to spend time with my Grandmother, who was interested in both fashion and politics. This presented a lethal combination in the day and even now mockeries are made but I digress and digress a little more I must for I just remembered something my cousin that my cousin gave me shared with me awhile back. I'll get back to my primary point in a minute. Mebbe more.

I have always enjoyed beautifying my surroundings for when my family's home environment is pleasing to the eye, attention given to the specifics, the details, and the function of our home and the rooms in it, it becomes a comfortable, peaceful place to be. Same thing works for fashion and since I live with three male humans, I dress them in much the same way . . . pleasing to the eye, attention given to the specifics, the details, and their function so they can be comfortable and peaceful. Purty darned simple, it's not rocket science, but the point is there's no reason NOT to look good, and there's no reason your home shouldn't look good eeder.

Now back to cousin, who's an interior decorator. She'd been telling her husband that YES, decorating the house WAS necessary and then she ran across an article. Oooooh, yeah. Proof. The article said that kids who are raised in homes that are decorated, that have color on the walls, that have art in the homes, that have a parent who is in tune to the aesthetic presence of the home do better in school, are more interested in extra curricular activities, are more connected socially, and are more prone to be self-starters.

Been more than a minute but back to Grandmother. She had subscriptions to every fashion magazine of the day, and every news magazine as well. A small footstool in her living room held a foot high stack of magazines and defied to be touched lest the mountain of mags slide off the side like lava. There was another stack on the brick hearth, another one in the front bedroom in the nightstand, and yet another in the . . . er, . . ok the bathroom. So.

While scouring through every single one of these rags to find pics of current fashion, I unwittingly learned more than I ever dreamed or wanted to know about politics. Well there it is. And in the meanwhile I just developed a lifelong yearning to look at Jacqueline Kennedy. I can't call her Onassis, sorry. Doesn't work for me. Anyway Grandmother had books about the family, about her, about her doings while she was in the White House. I had the magnifying glass out, man. I was looking at her necklines. Her sleeve length. Skirt length. Heel height. Her pearls, her hats, her gloves, the way she stood, and especially the way that she put her left hand on top of yours when she shook your hand.

Over the years there have been seven thousand and one movies made of the Kennedys' lives, scandals, family secrets, assasinations, and political journeys, and I have watched them ALL for one - OK two - reasons. A. so I could see the obligatory shot of the yard football in khakis, and 2. so I could see that many beautiful people in one family.

Well this week while my boys had strep and I was stuck at home, I was going through old photographs of my parents and my handsome husband's parents. And guess what? My eyes began to glaze over. I laid them all out in front of me at one time and I made a decision right then and there. Sometimes it takes until you're forty seven years old to realize that you have what you've been looking at dreamily all your life.

Our parents are drop-dead gorgeous people. I've always known it independently of each other, but when you put them all together, they're almost too pretty to look at at once.

My sister is beautiful, my brother is a huge hunky athlete. They're both tall, lanky, gorgeous people. On top of that they're both smart as whips. . . and they're smart in such different WAYS, too!

My sister-in-law is an enormously talented writer and storyteller and can pick up many musical instruments and just begin to play. My brother-in-law is a civil engineer that builds the most important bridges in the city of Atlanta and he's a handsome devil too (looks exACTLY like my hubby). My handsome husband can play a half dozen musical instruments too, has forgotten more information about just anything you would want to ask him than I'll ever know.

Many of the above have made the most beautiful babies you'll ever see. They're polite, they mind, they're successful in school, they're motivated, kind, continue to enjoy being with family as they grow into their teens and adulthood . .


Nope. The Kennedys have nothin' on this family. Look at the stock we came from! I don't know what I did to get to be a part of my family and a part of handsome husband's but I'm here baby and I'm enjoying it.

Now I just have to perfect the Jackie wave.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND OTHER WHORE HOUSE STORIES - or Aunt Donna and the Cousins

***Our Christmas gift in 2002***
This was taken on a playground in Denver, Colorado, where we went to get him

Santa and boys Christmas 2004. The pic above is Uncle Lee Lee and #1 son Christmas 2001. My brother became Uncle Lee Lee, we don't know why. #1 son named him that when he was 20 months old. His name's Dan. This is one of my favorite shots, and one of #1 son's favorite spots to be.

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

My sister in law, the very one that kvetched last week about my Christmas shopping being completed at such an early date, is the life of the Christmas eve party for handsome husband's family. My boys have googlezillion family traditions they cherish but one of the most fun is when Aunt Donna grabs them along with all their cousins and makes them her cohorts in crime as she recites 'Twas the Night Before Christmas', right just exactly pre prior to immediately before present opening time. Aunt Donna's no dummy. You get complete cooperation . . . . before. . . . gift opening time.

Aunt Donna is a master storyteller and a great southern writer. The talent in this family that my husband gave me is most amazing and worthy of a blog entry of its own, and lest I stray too far from my original story here, I'll leave that subject and go back to 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' and Aunt Donna and the Cousins. Ayter-lay on the ahlent-tay *wink* *wink*. Another day.

Now then where was I...... oh yeah. So several years ago, my kids were about ohhhhhh six and 22 months, and it's Christmas Eve, and Aunt Donna (as always) has procured some sort of fabulously silly headgear for she and the cousins to wear while relating their story. Then she passes out candy canes to each. Jingle bells maybe, things just keep coming out of a bag with Aunt Donna for the kids to wear or hold so I get the years confused unless I look at a pic. Anyway the picture can't get any more perfect - cause you KNOW these children are the most beautiful in the world already, and here they stand between the fireplace and the Christmas tree, pretty as a picture, ready to recite a Christmas poem that the older ones at least almost know by heart, they've been doing it for so many years with their Aunt. So here we go:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

OKAY. It's a LONNNNNNNNNNG poem, and in the particular verse that begins with AS DRY LEAVES THAT BEFORE THE WILD HURRICANE FLY, (you'll notice that's six verses in - seven if you count the calling of the reindeer), Aunt Donna's tongue got twisted in the MOST unfortunate spot and the house-top became the whore house.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the whore house the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

Makes you wonder about the kinda toys, doan it. Hmm.

Aaaaaaaanyhoosie, that's a favorite Christmas memory for the adults. Went right over the kids' heads, but I'm looking forward to the day my boys are old enough to share it with them.



TTFN

YES I DO THANK YOU DOO

doodles said...

May I say that I know you go to bed each and every nite and say "Dear Lord I have a wonderful life and it's just fun!".

8:56 AM

Yes maam. I do - thank you - go to bed saying man this is too good to be true. I should do it more often so thank you for the reminder. And I'm so glad you mentioned this because I've been thinking about this very subject for quite some time. Seems I always write about good things - er - well - maybe MOST of the time. It's more fun. BUT. You know there's always a big but.

Every so often however I think about ol' Kathy Lee Gifford. Anybody remember her? 'Member how she always made out like her life was soooo perfect and everything was so great? THEN it all went ten toes up in a BIG. BAD. WAY. Well truly she boils up in the back of my mind in a terribly twisted way more often than I wish, not for the reason you might think, but because I just want THE WORLD AT LARGE to know the reason I write about the good stuff is because it's more uplifting and more fun. . . .also very much because I always believe no one wants to hear the ook about me because everyone has their own ook. No one even like their own ook. WHY would they want to listen to mine??? READ mine? This is what I've discovered about myself. It's not a KLG-esque-ism-ittude. SO. In the interest of the aforementioned, let me share with you the following horrible-grotesque-esses regarding yours truly:*

1. My house generally does not get cleaned if my children want me to play with them (I could use any number of other, less substantial excuses but let's go with that one).
   
2. I will skip a trip to the grocery store to stay home and organize something cuz it makes me feel better. (That's sick.)
3. I am not a flexible person. I'm working on it, but not very hard. I try, but not very often.
4. I think I know lots more than I really do. On the other hand I know what I don't know. I do know, yes, it's a paradox. Welcome to my husband's world, bless his heart.
   
5. I'm not willing to even try to learn some things. There are lots of brick walls in my noggin. It's a darn shame. Again. Welcome to my husband's world, bless his heart.
   
6. I have a short fuse, I overthink everything, and I expect way too much from everyone, including and especially myself. I am working on that. HARD.
7. I still don't like it when my Mama tells me what to do. I'm forty seven. WHAT a baby.
   

OK, that's enough. But anyhoodiepo, the point is this. I was thinking back to the first six months or so after we brought our #1 son home, and I wrote letters to his birthmother, after the first several letters I reviewed them one day and realized that everything in the letters was positive, beautiful, wonderful, perfect. Great news, good things, blah blah blah yada yada. She must think I'm making all this hoo-hoo up, I thought. NOBODY's life is THIS PERFECT!!! So I started putting in some of the yucky stuff. . . the real stuff about life with baby. Handsome hubby thought I was nuts. But our adoption counselor (whom the letters still had to go through for the first year) thought it was a great idea, and in fact, she and birthmother read the letters together and birthmother was so thankful to finally read a 'bumps in the road'. Duh. Of course! NOW she knew the letters were REAL. It was then that we began a real relationship. Eight years later we're very close.

So. I hope to always share the wonderful things just because they are so wonderful, not because our lives are so perfect. I hope they bring about the responses like my friend Doo had. Those responses give me a bump in the butt too. Yes I should go to bed every single night saying exactly that Doo.

DEAR LORD I HAVE A WONDERFUL LIFE AND IT IS JUST FUN!!!









* I won't share those of my family members. THAT's truly grotesque.