DAD

I was talking to my Dad the other day, and he was frittering away some time for some inexplicable reason. I don't ask. On this particular occasion of time frittering he had two questions for me . . . well, one question really, and one that may've truly been more of a statement, if we are to be authentic. His question was simple, really. He wondered if a destitute prostitute was the same thing as a po' ho'. On that point I could see no bit of difference so I simply answered in the positive and we moved on. Number two question, as I said, more of a - well, you can decide. He had come across a billboard driving down the road which read "Prior Fitz for Commissioner" and he wondered if there would likely be a billboard constructed in the near future which would read "Subsequent Seizures for Senator".

Now you know why I'm not quite right.

TTFN.

SISTERS

My sister is having shoulder surgery on Friday. The surgery is similiar to the surgery I had - she's younger and the damage is not quite as far along, but on the other hand her arthritis is worse than mine. I can't be there. She and I used to be there for all of each others' life events, but no longer can we do that, for we have reached a place in our current lifestyle where our responsibilities prevent us from picking up and going. Kids in school for the most part, but other things as well keep us from being at each others' side when we're having surgeries, babies, emergencies, crises, or other "sister is the one" times. It sucks.

That's about all I have to say about that. And if that sounds like Forrest Gump, well that's who I feel like on the subject. Life's like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. And on Friday I'm not gonna get to be with my sweet sister, who is a grown woman and can do perfectly fine without me, but I don't want her to do without me, I want to be there for her. But instead I want to be here more for my two children and my husband because I'm grown up too. Yes sir. If I keep telling myself that until Friday mebbe it'll sink in. Dammit.

HEROES

I was cleaning out my file cabinet this morning and I ran across a letter my Dad wrote to his uncles, who were both like his brothers, in age and relationship, and who both served in WWII and at least one of them went back for more in Korea - maybe both of them, I'm not sure. He wrote it on May 30, 1999. Thought I'd share it.

Dear Paul and Ralph,

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

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

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

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

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

STARBUCKS DOUBLESHOT AND ALLEGRA-D

Don't ever do them both on the same day. Ask me how I know. Now it's not as stupid as you are most likely thinking. After all, Allegra-D is time release, and a Doubleshot is only about four good gulps worth. I had the Allegra at 6:30 this morning, and didn't have the Doubleshot until about 1:30pm. Howsomever my body still protested. And I knew better, it was up there in my head, I guess I just didn't find it at the moment that I grabbed the doubleshot. Clearly. Lesson learned. The flutterly, flittery have to lie down and breathe BIG and SLOW way.

Speaking of Allegra my friend Risa the pharmacist tells of a coworker who filled Viagra instead of Allegra on a call-in and the (male) patient called from his car not understanding what was going on....he had taken (what he thought was) his decongestant on the way to work in the morning, and so now he's driving around the block and has been for two hours waiting for . . . er, things to calm down . . . finally it dawns on him that the pill he took was not the same color as usual so he calls his pharmacist wanting to know what the heck's going on, and when he's going to be able to get out from behind the steering wheel, so to speak, and go to work. Pharmacist suggested he call in sick, drive home and take advantage of the situation but oh this just keeps on getting better and better he has a wreck on the way home. Hard times. AAAAAAAAA HA HA HA. No one harmed in the wreck but it seriously did make the problem go away.

On Friday if Risa comes by my house before going home she can't bend her hands. She says she fills so many Viagra prescriptions her hands stay stiff until Saturday morning. Hee hee hee hee hee hee.

Gotta go put Jr. Mint in the bath. TTFN.

A MULLIGAN AND A DOVE SPECIAL DARK

Last week my oldest son had ITBS standardized testing all week. It was administered in the mornings, beginning at about 9:00am. Tuesday morning as #1 son's getting ready for school I say to him, "Where are your glasses, huneee bunches?"

"Mmbmlfls"

"Where, poocheekins? Finish your banana and peanut butter and drink some orange juice."

"MmmbldleQUITITBROTHERdunnowhurtheyr."

"Well, I dunno where they are either boo boo. Go brush your teeth. Where'd you leave them last night? Are you only wearing that one sock today?"

"Daddy made me take them off on the way home from karate and he took them I can't find my other sock BROTHER COME BACK HERE WITH MY OTHER SOCK - MOMMMMMY!

So I call handsome hubby at work. It's 7:00am. He's getting ready to leave work with a bunch of co-workers for a golf tournament. "Know where your #1 son's glasses are by chance?"

"No. I gotta go. The guys are getting ready to leave and we're all riding together. Have a great day honey."

"Uh, yeah, you too. But your son thinks he remembers you taking his glasses last night and they don't seem to be in the house. Mind takin' a quick peek in your car?"

"Whut? Oh. Ohhhhhhhhh. and there is a long, pregnant pause. Well, he'll just have to do without 'em today. I've got to go play golf!" Now there's another lonnnnnnng pause cuz I'm just not believing I have just heard these words come out of this man's yap hole, BUT. You know there's always a big ol' but. A man's perspective is always quite a large chunk different than a woman's, and he just thought it was no big whoop for #1 son to hippity hop through one day without his specs. So I said, just as if I thought he had made a perfectly normal, acceptable decision, "Okay, well here, here he is, I'm gonna put him on the phone so you can tell him."

Just let me tell you this. I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth but what he yelled "Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

"Whaaaaaaaat?" I purred. "What's wrong, baybee?" I had a powerful visual image of him standing on the other side of the phone receiver, looking down with his right hand in his pocket and scruffing his heel with remorse. Or some such emotion.

"I'll just drive down to the country club by mySELF, and I'll drop his glasses off at school on the way."

"Oh! Alright, if that's what you think you should do. I guess you're right, 'specially since he has testing today and everything. You're so smart honey, to think of that. What a thoughtful Daddy you are."

That day when handsome hubby got home, both boys ran and greeted him with hugs and kisses as usual, but then #1 son said "Daddy close your eyes and hold your hand out!" Daddy did. #1 son place a Dove special dark bar in his hand and closed his Daddy's fingers around it and said, "Okay, open your eyes!" Daddy opened his eyes and #1 son said, "Thank you for putting me ahead of your golf game."

The idea of a treat for his Dad was his. The words were mine. It was a collaborative effort. So sue me. ;-) It was verrrrry effective.........

AGE

I'm giving a birthday party tomorrow for my #1 son, who's just turned nine, my mother in law, who's just turned seventy four, and my baby brother, who's just turned thirty three. I say I. I should say my husband and I. He's giving the yard a haircut and policing around the outside of the house. He'll be the grill meister during the event. He'll be doing heavy duty party clean-up afterwards too. These are his contributions. The M-A-N stuff.

It's one of those family events. I've described them before here, in other posts. Several generations, mixing of my family and husband's, the very young to the very senior. Lots and lots of laughter, too many conversations to even hear, lot of hugging, holding of hands, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, criss-cross applesauce, start-up baseball, tag, jump rope, romper stompers, sidewalk chalk, photo albums, medical advice, catching up, blah blah just you name it. I hear, just so no one thinks (that I believe) we are a family per-fect-o, that there have been a disagreement or two between family members at these parties. I don't doubt it. I hope so. When you get this many of us together I pray we all are close enough that at least two of us have something to disagree about.

This year, for the first time my Grandmother won't be making the trip to my house for the party. It's an hour and forty five minute trip, and she's ninety nine years old. She rides with Mama and Daddy. She made the trip back in May when I had a party for her birthday/Mothers' day. It was too much for her. Not the party - the car trip. It hurt her back. She was sore. Her tummy is not good anymore and she's afraid . . . just afraid. Afraid she won't be comfortable, afraid she'll be sore, afraid her tummy won't be happy to make the trip, just too tired and afraid. At ninety nine, who can blame her?

Ran into my cousin the other day and his kids were afraid they weren't gonna get to come. Don't worry, their Dad reassured them. We're going.

My uncle, Grandmother's son, who has esophageal cancer, is seventy seven (I think). Maybe seventy eight. Going through chemo. Picture of energy. He's coming to the party.

It's going to be a different party this year in more ways than one. Age, and time, does strange things to the dynamic of a party. And a family.

THE FALL ORDER

Fall is my second absolutely very favoritest time of the year. It fails to make #1 through no fault of its own, but by default (git it?? huh? huh? the fault?) of its neighbor, ol' man winter. Spring is in the top slot because while I enjoy the beautiful breezy coolish warm weather and the flowers and leaves budding out, I also am blissfully aware that hot weather is coming. Not so with fall. All during the terrizmoterrifico breezish warmy cool time, while I enjoy the most gorgeous leaf-turnings in the United States (we have those here in North Georgia. . . .), even though my family can take hikes, ride bikes, go on picnics, sit in the yard, eat on the deck, or run in the yard and enjoy the lower humidity and temperatures instead of turning into one large ball of sweat as we have all summer, in the back of my mind, I still know what's coming. . . . WINTERTIME. Blech. My least favorite season.

But here's the thing about Fall of the year. For the past few years, I dunno how many because I have just reached this epiphany and lemme tell ya it's not liberating as epiphanies are posa be. Well it is and it isn't. So maybe epiphany izza wrong woid. Annnnnnnyhoodipo, Fall just, it has come to me, not been right. Just not . . . right. Not deeply, spiritually wrong, not disturbingly wrong, wrong's not even the right word, seems I'm having vocab probs today, just not . . . . arranged properly. Yeah, that's it. Not arranged properly. Things are outa whack. But I hadn't put my finger on it. Hadn't wrapped my head around it. Hadn't even recognized that there was something out of whack, just that I was not right with my Fall of the years anymore.

NOW HERE COMES THE PART WHERE YOU'RE GONNA THINK I'M DRIVIN' THE SHORT BUS.

Here's whut it is. When Fall comes, several things are posedta happen in one fluid stream. It's a tall order. After all, this is whut makes it Fall. Apparently. To me. Which is whyyyyyyy I ent been right the past I dunno how many years - at this time of the year.

Labor Day comes, the new Fall TV shows begin, school starts, and it is cool enough to begin wearing Fall clothing.


And that's the way it's supposed to go.

But. You know there's always a big but. Life in the Fall of the year doesn't follow that track NO MO. School starts the first week in August. Fall TV shows don't begin until darn near October. And who just ever KNOWS when you're gonna wear Fall clothing, from one day to the next. Ozone ~ who knew?

So I'm such a sharp tack it only took me oh, how many years? to figure out that's why I'm so discombobulated and undone during the Fall.

Or during "Back to School" season I'm going to call it now. Cuz it ain't Fall. Perhaps if I can separate it into two distinct times, I'll enjoy both. Back to School time, and a new Fall of the year. Yeah. That'll do it.

Boy it's hell growing up.


Watched two movies this weekend. #1 son, DH and I watched Akeelah and the Bee. I would absolutely recommend that movie to ANY parent to watch with their child over 9 or 10 or so. It's such a valuable movie, and even though it has more than one 'hell' and 'ass' in it, believe it or not, I would watch it with him again, and MAY, before we send it back. What he learned from that movie. . . . indescribable.

Also saw The Family Stone. Great movie. Super great.

AND THERE IS LIGHT

I had electricians today. Alllll day. I'm beginning to know them rather well, for this is not the first time they've been with me here at-da-hoose. They arrived at 8:00am and left shortly after my handsome husband got home from work this afternoon. I had a fleeting thought when I started preparing dinner that maybe I oughter throw a couple extra kielbasa stuffed chicken breasts on the grill. Yeeeeeeeeeikes! But then when I paid them I decided maybe they oughter take us out fer vittles.

But. You know there's always a big but. This house has lighting issues. As of this evening it has fewer lighting issues, yet still there are some to be dealt with. Soooooo I will have electricians again in the near future. Well. When the pocketbook recovers. Perhaps in the fairly near future. Two electricians. Eight hours, eighty dollars per hour, ouchee oochee, but I have LIGHTS, baby!!!!!! And my electricians are precision measurers. They don't bark my walls. They don't track in dirt or mud. They aren't satisfied until it looks just right. They don't waste time. They'e kind to my children. Wished my #1 son happy birthday . . . thank you Doo, I told him so did you. :-) They pick up after themselves. I love them. One of 'em ent too hard on the eyeballs needer.

The nicest thing is that I can leave the house to drop the kids off at school, run errands, pick Jr. Mint up from preschool, just whatever, and leave them here. They contract electrical work for handsome husband at his work. He knows them well, trusts them. It's the perfect situation.

Here's my theory. This perfect situation that I have the pleasure of enjoying with my hot wire dudes makes up for aaaaaaaall the other VILE, ROTTEN, UNETHICAL, MESSY, UNACCEPTABLY NEGLIGENT, SMARMY, DON'T-GIVE-A-RIP, SHMOE contractors in the past and yet to come in my life. There. Want me to tell you how I really feel? ;o)

THE "C" WORD

It's not what you think. At least probably not. I have an uncle with cancer. The C word is what my Dad calls it. Cancer, I mean. When he first started calling it that I thought it was a little too, I dunno, rough, not gentle enough, sumthin. It felt a tiny bit like a sniff of ammonia from too close. Jussssssss made me wince a little smidgey. But now I think it's better than hearing the word itself nineteen times when you're having a conversation about it. It's bad enough knowing it's there, in his body. My uncle's. Started in his esophagus. They chemo-d and radiated it out of there. Drip, drip, drip. Zzzzzzzzzzz. Gone. It was eight weeks during which the world stopped but yet kept moving. Maybe it didn't go away. Maybe it just picked up house and moved. Showed up in his lungs and liver. So now he's having treatments a-g-a-i-n.

Meanwhile, a dear friend of mine whom I have never met, is mourning because her dear friend passed away of leukemia today. I guess that's The "L" word. I didn't know the lady that passed away but I have mourned and cried this morning for my friend's loss and for the loss of a life from a disease like The "L" word or The "C" word that does what it does to a person and their family and friends for sometimes lonnnnnng periods of time.

For the eight weeks that my uncle went through his first round of treatment, knowing what I went through, I was effectively at the bottom of the barrel. Above me there's my Mama (his sister), my Grandmother (his mother), my cousins (his children), and my Aunt (his wife). What were they going through? Then there's HIM. What was he dealing with? I can't wrap my head around it. I don't know how he sat still. I don't know how he thought a complete thought. Spoke a complete sentence. Kept from screaming. How did he sleep?

When my handsome husband's Daddy died seven years ago, I know how much I grieved. He was my Daddy for nineteen years. What in the world was he dealing with? How could he possibly think? Work? Smile? Laugh? He didn't laugh much. It took a long time. How do you read to your kids when you miss your father with every single cell in your body?

My dear friend (whom I've never met) is trying to take care of her elderly parents, far away from her own home, while she's mourning the death of her dear dear friend. How can she concentrate?

I know the real answer to any of these questions. It's the same answer I would give if anyone asked me. "Well, you do what you have to do." "Well, you just do it." "When you have responsibilities you just get it done. Sometimes you don't even remember doing it, but you do." "Oh, people heal." "Oh, time heals all wounds."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I think sometimes you ought to get a free "Crumble In a Lumpy Heap" card. . . . or a "Can't Function Today" card . . . Why can't we go away and mourn? Shut down for a little while? People used to do that. A year. Longer in some cultures, shorter in some, but a block of TIME, nonetheless, carved out for mourning. The "M" word.

HAPPY BUFFDAY TO BRUDDA CHA CHA CHA!

Today is the anniversary of my #1 son's birthday. He is nine years old. He woke up with a smile on his face, like a kid with the knowing that gifts were forthcoming tonight. Gifts, fettucini alfredo, kielbasa, garlic toast, pound cake, and ice cream. Oh and plums. He added plums to his birthday meal request. Okay, I said. And plums. You get whatabsolutelyever you want for your birthday meal as always. You will notice the total absence of vegetables. During the meal and the opening of gifts the procession of telephone calls will begin. The entire evening will be dotted, spotted, and interrupted with them. Generally we don't answer the phone during a family meal but for birthdays we make the traditional exception. These interruptions are terrific ones. Then we sing Happy Birthday to him, but his four year old brother will end the song "HAPY BUFFDAY BRUDDA, CHA CHA CHA!". By the time #1 gets tucked into bed the smile'll be so broad and so infectious I'll be teary. Probably only a mother would understand that.

My brother's birthday is the 12th. The big family birthday party is the following weekend, and he will not get to attend, due to an emergency in his wife's family. She's out of the country tending to that emergency, and my brother, my baby brother, will spend the anniversary of his birth by himself. He is now thirty three years of age, fully grown, fully mature, and totally able, I am certain, to handle this unfortunate circumstance, but I'm not sure I am. I don't want to visualize the image of my baby brother sitting in his home alone watching TV on his birthday. I was thirteen years old when he was born and even though he's a married man with his own business, it breaks my heart that he won't have loved ones around him making him smile from ear to ear on the anniversary of his birthday. Happy buffday brudda indeed. Cha cha cha.

WHAT'S A CAREGIVER, ANYWAY?

I can't breathe through my nose. Nor can my sons . . . . we seem to have picked up a devastating summer cold from handsome husband who caught it, brought it home, coughed three times, sniveled once, shared it with his family, and then sloughed it off. The rest of us haven't fared as well.

Jr. Mint developed croup. From thence nosebleeds arrived in profusion. A wallopin' case of the ornerys followed. #1 son joined in the form of laryngitis, coughing spasms and a stuffy, runny nose. #1 doesn't do the ornerys as a rule. Pitiful puppy dog is his gig. I have a mix of symptoms too lengthy to list. Suffice to say we's all oooooookey. But cep' handsome husband, who caught it, brought it home, coughed three times, sniveled once, shared it with his family, and then SLOUGHED IT OFF.

He is not a caregiver. He tries, so he says. But if that's tryin', I'm Cindy Crawford. Or maaaaayyyyybe, he's just not tryin' like a woman would. Yeah, that's it. He does insist we lay around all day and watch movies. Hmm. Not bad. Even brought home a couple of good ones to watch. With a pint of Ben & Jerrys. And a couple of magazines. (the ones I like. . . .) Mm hmmmm. But then he turns around and asks me what's for dinner. Grrrr. As I lie there in a thick-headed Nyquil induced stupor, with a snivveling child on each side of me, a humidifier blowing lovely plumes of Vicks enhanced steam over our germ riddled heads, it occurs to me perhaps it's not because he wants me to prepare it, but because he doesn't know what there is to prepare. The thought of looking through the pantry, the freezer, and the fridge and then putting all that information together in his haid to come up with a meal to prepare makes his extremities begin to quiver. Aaaaaaaand, to have to grab a COOKBOOK and look something UP????? Aaaaaarghhhh!!!! He wants some direction. Yeaaaahhhh, that's it!!! Men. Can't live with 'em and you can't shoot 'em.

In closing, I would like to say we're praying without ceasing for the wife and small child of The Crocodile Hunter. My three guys are big fans.

AMSTER- DAMN!

My niece is moving back to Amsterdam next Tuesday. I say moving, but that doesn't seem to be the right word when the thing you do is to hop on an airplane to go back to where you lived for a year. Moving is when you pack boxes and haul boxes and unpack boxes and well, that's not what Beanie's doing, but she's definately moving. Most definately moving.

Amanda goes by several names. She's the first niece my husband gave me. My sister in law's first child. She has an IQ that's off the charts, a heart the size of all of Europe and doesn't know it but she's not Ok in her own body. Not sure she's Ok in her own world but she seems to be more Ok in Amsterdam than here. Thriving, actually. Scares me that she walks around by herself sometimes, because I'm not entirely sure that although she can speak to anyone about just nearly anything and is empathetic on any level with every kind of human, that she knows or cares which direction her bicycle is pointed. Beanie has such bigger fish to paint.

About her names. Her brother, who came (entirely by surprise) eighteen months after she did, could not say Amanda, and so she became Ma. Sort of pronounced Maw. Thus she was until she protested. At the age of seventeen. Along comes my youngest son four years ago and when he spoke took one look at her and dubbed her Beanie. No one knows why but that is her current name and she is now old enough not to mind it, being nearly thirty years of age and enjoying a four year old cousin's endearing nicky-sweetie-names.

So Beanie came home from Amsterdam in the spring and has been here for the summer, and is now going back for what seems to be EVER. Permanently. The signs are there. The huge yard sale at which she sold everything, including all things most meaningful. When Beanie sells her hats, ohhhhhhh. Furniture, clothes, sold it all. Well you can't drive a moving truck to Amsterdam.

The hats, I can't tell you wow maybe 75% of Amanda's life I have seen her in hats and the theory is that because she was a preemie and back then they kept them in toboggans pulled tightly down over their heads and ears whenever Amanda in her life has felt insecure, or sick, she puts on a toboggan. And just likes vintage, retro hats besides that. She is the original bohemian.

She was in my wedding. She was three. Well, she wasn't in the wedding really. She was all geared up to be, and then at the last minute she chickened out. But she WANTED to be . . . .There oughta be a law that anyone that's in your wedding can't leave the United States. That'd do it. Well, that'd fix it for me, and for her Mama, and her Granny, her brother and best friend. But if I had to guess I would say Amsterdam is where Beanie is most comfortable. Dammit. Tuesday's gonna be a bitch for some Mamas.

THE EASY BUTTON

I had one of those trips home this morning from the church preschool that you don't remember. My general statement about those is that I'm guessing I'm a better driver at those times than when I pay attention to what I'm doing. Who knows. It's an educated guess because when I look back upon those trips I've never wreacked havoc, and I've always taken the proper steps in my line of fire. All I know is that suddenly I found myself in the garage. (In proof of my point, the garage door was closed, the sideview mirrors were tucked in, and the headlights were turned off). Back to sitting in the garage . . . tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to Pat Benitar.

So there's too much going through me pea brain. When the car stops and my brain doesn't, rhythms are clearly askew. Same as the old joke what's the last thing that goes through a fly's mind when he hits the windshield? His butt. Well. There's a parallel there but I will not draw it.

Good thing I'm doing small repetitive tasks this morning. It'll give me time to clear out the discombobulation.

Funny thing is the overwhelm-ination usually stems from not too many big things on my to-do list, but on the contrary, too many ticky-leetle-beety things to do. They pile up like little crumbled up receipts in your handbag, crumbs in the floorboard, or hot wheels on the carpet. I can handle large tasks, because they're nice and clean and clear. Do one. Ha. DONE. Vvvvvvvp. Mark it offffah the list..... But these little $*^)#@$*% buggers, maaaaaan. They're MESSSSSSYYYYYYYYY. I do not WANT to call the insurance guy. I do not WANT to file that. Don't wanna go to the bank. Noooooooo, I do not WANT to bend over and pick up this. . whut the heck izzzz zat. . . . . now whut did I come upstairs for, anywayzzzzz?

My galpal said yesterday, "You need an easy button." The remark came because I'm planning an upcoming annual birthday bash for my son, my brother, and my mother in law that grows in attendees every year. It has already grown out of bounds for my home, but continues to grow at not an alarming rate, but at a steady pace, with the addition of two or three people each year. Last year we were forty something I think. I should cut the invitation list off somewhere, but I can't. Maybe I should say no when someone asks "Can I bring great aunt Mary?" But why would I? Whasss the point? So what if we bump into each other? So the kids sit on the floor to eat. No one's complained yet. In fact there's an abundance of laughter. Soooooo much laughter. Everyone always wants to come back, and clearly some want to bring more. It's not because I give a good party. I don't do anything but cook and set the food out. It's our families. My family and my husband's family together make a dynamic duo that is something to be witnessed. It is a combination that was planned by God (no kiddin'). It's a party waiting to happen. Somebody has to get the two groups together, it'd be a sin not to. If you don't think you marry your spouse's fambly, we are the poster children by crackey. Last week my neighbor asked when the big birthday bash would be. He wanted to make sure he wasn't going to be out of town.

Last year we had water balloon fights. It was my 8 year old son's idea, and mostly the children participated, but. . . . my 50 year old sister in law turned to my 3o year old brother afterwards and said "Well - should we have the wet t-shirt contest now?"

The year before it was pie throwing contests. The children play baseball or monkey-in-the-middle in the yard, their parents sit on the deck, their parents sit in the kitchen, and their parents sit in the family room or the dining room.

Why would I need an easy button for that? Besides. That's just more clutter. Where would I put it??!!!

A MASSAGE AND A LOCK-IN

"What are we gonna do for the Labor Day weekend????" Both sons and my husband have asked me the question more than once. Everybody asks ME the question. Why? Because I'm the only one in this fambly that plans anything. DH is taking Friday off as a comp day for going to Canada last week, so we have an extra day, making it a four day weekend instead of a three day weekend. Gosh that sounds sooooo much better. But. You know there's always a big but. The day before school started, my three male humanoids came at me with a leetle Aveda card worth an aqua/stone massage and a facial that was a gift "for all the hard work this summer". I scheduled it for Thursday night. That's how MY Labor Day weekend will kick off. I dunno 'bout dem.

Friday the shortest two males are in school and I'm spending the day with the tallest one. ;-)

Friday night we're camping out in the back yard. There were rumblings about taking a camping trip over this long weekend. I heard 'em. They didn't think I heard 'em, but I did. I heard 'em. So I'm nipping it in the bud. NIP IT. Ya gotta NIP IT in the buuud.

Saturday we're going to see a movie, then I'm putting hubbers to work. The honey-do list is lonnnnnnnnng.

Sunday is church. Sunday afternoon we try not to plan.

And Monday? My plan for Monday is to let them plan it.

That's the extent of my planning. I'm calling it a lock-in, because the entire four days is gonna be spent at home. We're not going out of town, we're not planning a trip, we're not inviting anyone to spend the weekend with us, no big party, no entertaining, nuttin'. Just us'ns. What a novel idea.

TTFN

FORE!!!!!

My Jr. Mint started school today. He was ready. Reeeeeeally ready. Nine o'clock couldn't come fast enough for him. He got out of the bed unassisted ~~~ this, a feat on its own merit. I was ready for a little hesitation to hit him from out of nowhere on the way to school, but newwwwwp. He was anxious. The dropoff line was moving at a snail's pace, the kids being dropped off in front of us were moving in slomo, the Mamas were taking their own sweet time driving away. Finally, finally it was Jr. Mint's turn to leap out of the magic bus and onto the concrete that would set him free for three glorious hours of school, and since today's Monday, two more of Lunch Bunch. Five hours total. His chest swelled up like Superman's and he swiveled around on his heel and hollered "BYE MOM - gotta run!" Gotta run. Gotta run? What is he, a corporate exec? HE'S FOUR!!

This is his last year at preschool. He loves the school, he's confident, it's his turf. He's a big fish in a small pond. Next year he'll go to kindergarten at his big brother's school. He thinks he can't wait. He thinks it'll be great. He thinks he'll be a biiiig boy. He'll think he's drowning in an ocean. I can't think about it today. I'll think about that tomorrow.

Right now I have a whole house to meseff for the first time since May 26th.

CONSIGNMENT SALE BONANZA

"Y'all know I'm not a shopper." This is what comes out of my yap when a girlfriend invites me on a girl shopping day. "I'll meet you for lunch." And it's true. I don't shop often, I don't shop socially, I don't enjoy shopping, for the most part I don't shop mainstream spots, I surely don't shop more than necessary and actually, the accurate term for what I do is not shopping, it's gathering. Plucking even. arrrrrighttah. . . . unless it's shoes. . . .

But. You know there's always a big but. I am direly, dearly, deliciously head over 4" heels in LOVE with consignment sales. They are the absolute PERFECT form of shopping for childrens' things. PERFECT. perfect. Let me say it again. PERFECT. Their attributes are too many to name. It's the perfect set-up for all. It gives me chills.

I buy clothes, shoes, toys, books, videos, DVDs, games, costumes, coats, and sporting goods for the boys. Occasionally I find clothes for myself on the junior's rack. A good washing in hot water with the extra addition of a capful of Lysol and a triple rinse takes care of everything including my peace of mind.

They're twice a year. Spring and Fall. Well. Tis the season, tis the season. Happy shopping.

THE DIRT

Getting dirt this morning. Four square cubic yards of it. Just learned that term. I was so proud that I had accomplished the purchase and arrangement of delivery of it. Wasn't even gonna tell handsome hubby 'til the deed was done. He struggles with the old southern "I have to do everything, it isn't right to hire anything out" mentality. "Iss jess not raaahhhhht." You know the one. Have pickup will travel. Never mind there aren't but fourteen spare minutes in each weekday. For someone so busy he can't remember to take out the kitchen garbage or lock the doors at night but four nights out of seven it's odd baggage to carry. Old habits die hard.

So for weeks - no, months - I've been saying, "You know honey, this sinkhole is gonna make the walkway crack if we don't get some topsoil in here."

"I know," he replies. "I saw a construction site that has some at a good price if you haul it. I'll go by there on the way home from work."

"How you plan on hauling it?"

He wrecked his truck in March. Well. He got it wrecked for him by an idiot driving like a banshee - a banshee with no insurance and- oh, that's just another story for another day. So now he drives a Volvo. Can't haul dirt in a Volvo.

"Well when I weld a bottom and sides onto the trailer. . ."

Crrrrrrrrrrrrap.

So last night kids are asleep, we're getting ready to prop up in the bed and watch "Monster-in-Law" and handsome husband, remote in hand says, "so what's on the agenda for you and Jr. Mint tomorrow?"

Ruh-roh.

"Welllllllll, weeeeeeee're gonna do some yardwork. What about you?"

"Meetings. What kind of yardwork?"

Nuts. "We're having some dirt delivered to fill that big ol' hole. "

"Oh good. Thanks for doin' that. Is it screened topsoil? What size dump truck is he comin' in? Is it safe for the driveway? Are you gonna have him move around in the yard and dump it in all the places in the yard, not just that one spot? It is dark topsoil or that light stuff? Screened to what size chunks?"

Did I mention my handsome husband is a tad passive aggresive?

"You're welcome sweetie. Yes it's screened. No, it's not safe for the driveway I remember you teaching me that so he's driving up the yard and he has a light enough truck that it won't get stuck. No he's not gonna drive around in the yard and drop little blops of dirt here there and everywhere I'm focusing on that one HUNORMOUS hole. It's the goooooood rich soil, and here's his phone number if you wanna talk chunks with him."

Did you know that passive aggressive only works if you notice it?

"You gonna turn that movie on or what?"

Monster In Law was a very funny movie. Jane Fonda and Jennifer Lopez. Good pair. I dunno who the guy was, I've seen him in sumfink. Cute but clueless. Wonder if he'd care if Jennifer Lopez ordered four cubic yards of dirt to fill a big hole. Hell. She'd prolly push her mother in law in there first, then fill it up. Why does Jennifer Lopez always play a sweet Cinderelly victim that gets stomped on???

So movie's over, lights out, minutes go by. Hubby says, in such a sheepish, disconnected voice that I'm (still) not sure if he was even awake, or just embarrassed, "Thank you for ordering up that dirt. I don't have time to haul dirt, do I."

Duh. Let goooooooo of the pasttttttt, Mr. Man................

EARS

Last night handsome hubby got home from Canada. Yay. Both boys were in bed, asleep. Yay again. He was exhausted. By the time he hauled all his schtuff in from the car, just about all he could do was shove the leftover dinner I'd saved for him down his piehole, brush his teeth and fall into the bed, yakking the whole time about customs forms, airport security, and Montreal's weather. So after getting eyesful of his two sleeping boys he crawls into the bed, props up and says "What'd I miss?".

"Thought you were sleepy," I returned. "You've been gone two days and we have two boys. This could take hours." He knew I was kidding.

I threw him a bone. In his heart he didn't want to hear mundane goings on from the days he was gone. He wanted to hear comfort, he wanted a couple of warm fuzzies to fill up his ears before he went to sleep and he wanted me to know he cared what happened while he was gone. For someone who can't hear well, he hears better than most.

I have a dear friend in Texas whom I've never met. She's the same way. Can't hear with her ears but my my my she listens better than most of us whose ears work just fine.

SLEEPING SINGLE IN A DOUBLE BED

aka Mary Ann Cracker :-}

I don't like it. That's all I wanted to report. Well it IS roomier, quieter (no 10.9 decibel snorage) and there's no cover stealing going on. . . . the house isn't a meat locker. . . .got to watch whatever I wanted on TV. Still. Can't like it. Roomier isn't always good. No snoring IS always good but I'll take the noise. Did I say that??? The trade-off on TV is he watches what he wants and tickles my hair. It's a gooooooood thing. Unfortunately it's usually the History Channel. Blech. He needs TV at night more than I do anyway. I remember working.

I imagine Barbara Mandrell would approve.


I have to say I'm liking this bloggie thing. Enjoying the creative outlet, and thanks Diva for the kind words. Visit anytime, comment often ;-) not just with compliments but anything that comes to mind.

Speaking of Barbara Mandrell (well this is how my mind works anywaysssss be very charitable with your thoughts) I was listening to Dixie Chicks on the way home yesterday and a thought plunks itself right smack center stage in my little brain. My sister-in-law and I are Mary Ann and Wanda. Well arrright let me clarify we have NOT murdered Earl uh or anyone else I should hastily blurt. And we didn't go to high school together. We weren't members of 4H or the FFA but I was Mary Ann and she was Wanda and although let me just right now pause this story to assure you her toxic ex-husband is still kickin', my sister in law didn't shed her Earl as quickly as did Wanda, God love 'er. Life ain't a 4:18 minute hit song, needer.

Sometime if you're cruisin' through Georgia and you see two ol' broads sellin' Tennessee ham and strawberry jam on a roadside stand stop and say hey.

LISTS, MUSSELS AND OTHER APHRODISIACS

Handsome Hubby and his brother (and brother's daughter)

This morning at 8:01am I watched my handsome husband finish packing for a flight for which he's meeting his travelling companion at the airport at 9:30am. I became acutely aware that I was shaking my head and tsking softly to myself, clenching and unclenching my fists and tapping my toe. HE on the other hand was totally calm, humming even. "What time does your flight leave?" I asked him, knowing full well to the minute what time his flight leaves. I have his itinerary loaded in Outlook and synched to my handheld. "Can't remember," he singsongs. "Soon." I had to leave the room.

Speaking of handsome husband humming. Wow, he has a great voice - very peaceful but strong, much like James Taylor's. He doesn't sing much on cue, never in front of anyone else solo, but when he's relaxed sometimes I can convince him to sing for me. Friday night after we left the funeral home Ronny's brother and his wife went with us to eat at the family owned Italian restaurant on the square. Love to go there because they DON'T have grilled-chee-sammys and my kids will eat ee-gondo-nomo plates of authentic spaghetti, also because when I say family owned I mean Italian family right off the boat. Back on track - so I order up the mussels sauteed in marinara over whatever pasta who cares all I want is the mussels. Meanwhile sister-in-law is ordering the reserve wine remember she's the wine expert. Husband and his brother who look soooooo much alike that SIL and I have learned not to put our arms around who we THINK are our husbands from the back side are discussing something that MUST be critical to life forms as we know it because they're kicked back on the back two legs of their chair (I wonder if Italian Mamas get as pissed off about that as I do at home. . .), their arms are crossed, and in front of them sit Corona lights like rockets at the ready. The waitress expressed shock when they didn't want them poured, but preferred the bottle but hey hello they're Southern. My kids are coloring placemats. I'm the DD. Well well well. Somebody's gotta do it. I drew the short straw.
So on the way home I'm driving and handsome hubby's humming and after two Corona lights I take my cue and put in Paul Simon Still Crazy After All These Years. It worked. Got mussels and hubby singing to me all in one night. How lucky can one girl get?

So now he's on an airplane and I have made four lists already. Only one is on paper - the other three are paperless on Outlook and synched to my Q, but lists nonetheless. Upon completion of each list I notice I breathe better. Have more energy. Could this room be lighter? ? ? . . . brighter??

Maybe it's that bodacious goodbye kiss handsome husband planted on me before he hopped in the car to cruise, list-less, to the airport.