It was strangely like the day after Christmas. DSW had sent me (only me you understand, not the general public, their Rewards Customers, or their email customer list in toto) a personal email to inform me that there would be a Summer Clearance Sale which would allow me to purchase shoes that were already on sale for 20% of their SALE price. IT WAS AN 80% OFF SALE. Now let me do that math for you. That means that shoes marked down to $100.00 are $20.00. Shoes marked down to $50.00 are $10.00. $40.00 ones are $8.00. $30.00 ones are $6.00. But here's the clincher. One pair of Donald Pliners left. My size. ON SALE for $149.95. Most gorgeous. Classic black. Stretch micro. Pump. Pointed toe. High heel. Sexy cut out on the sides with skinny straps. I walked out of there with them clinched in my arms for $30.00. donald pliners donald pliners donald pliners donald pliners one can hardly get a good pair of flip flops for that people.
Those were the priiiiiiize. There were three other pairs I'll have to admit, but the total STILL was well under $100.00, and in my bag was a pair of Kenneth Cole jesus sandals, a pair of funky BCBG flesh colored rocker sandals with buckles, and a pair of Doc Martin powdered leather flip flops for my handsome honey hubby.
After the shoe shopping whirlwind, the guys, who had gone on their own version of a shoe shopping trip - a trip to the discount tool store and the batting cages - called my SIL and me and requested that we meet them at the Indian restaurant. Now they serve a buffet at lunch and JUST HOW HUNGRY DO YOU THINK WE WERE after shoe shopping????? So after tandoori chicken, naans, butter chicken, basmati rice, fried zucchini, and more, more, and more more MORE, what do you think we did???
We went back to DSW.
Can't get enough of a good thing. I walked away with a sweet pair of Kenzie tooled leather slides with teardrop cutouts the second time......
When we got home we all compared our spoils. The kids (that would be all four of the male humans.....) had purchased new tools, then practiced batting at the batting cages and played arcade games - well, you HAVE to play them if they're THERE.
After I changed clothes, sat down and spent a little time with me baybees, I called my Mom.
"How are you today?"
"I'm fine honey, how 'bout you?"
"Well I'm OK. Did you sleep OK? Sleep up at Grandmother's? Get any sleep?"
"We did. We actually slept well. We were exhausted. I only woke up once, and Mother didn't even know it."
"Mmmm, how is she today?"
"She has too much time to think. . . not that it would be any easier to lose a child if she didn't have time to think, but today she said she was imagining that David was sitting here beside her."
So we talked for awhile, and when I got off the phone with her, I looked at my four pair of new shoes and thought about my little Grandmother squenching her eyes tight and pretending her son was alive and sitting in the rocker beside her.
Took the fireworks right out of my four pair of new thrills. I just would give every pair of shoes I ever had and the pleasure of shoe shopping trips, to give her back her baby, and it would be a small token to pay. The things you'd give up to make your loved ones happy.......
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
DISCOMBOBULATION, ROOT CANALS, AND FIREWORKS
Oh. And new, fabulous sheets. FABulous I say.
My uncle passed away on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning I had a root canal. Be careful what you ask for, you just may get it. I don't use this example in disrespect but rather as a perfect example of how God can keep me in check.....remind me of something literally and figuratively at the same time. WHO is a better joker than God, anyway, has a better sense of humor, to use my own cliche on me and then wait until I figure it out myself. I stopped in my tracks. Laughed out loud. Tooooo perfect. What a good joke on myself and a lesson in relativity. Good one, God. Comic relief during a time of morbid grief. You are the Master.
Monday evening, being rather without focus, I performed regular dinner/kid-bath-bed duties by rote and for a large part with a phone attached to my ear. At some point I dropped into the bed more than somewhat like a felled tree. During the night I prayed for, among soooo many other things, the strength and guidance to "live the interim". In other words, to have the ability to pay attention to what I'm supposed to be doing between now and the funeral at the end of the week, to do my job well, focus on the focus, for after all, nothing's as horrific as what my cousins, my Mother, my Grandmother are going through right now. Yes, I lost my Uncle but others are hurting much worse. What, that I'm dealing with, could be that bad?
OK. Got up Tuesday morning. Good morning God, it's me! Looked at my Palm. Ohhhh ho hooo hhhooooo. 9:00am. ROOT CANAL.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Welllll, well well WELL well well. Talk about a disTRACtion! What do you bet it's a long, long, loooooong time before lil miss smartypants (that'd be me) says "I'd rather have a root canal" again............
And tonight? No fireworks because of the dry spells we've had, so only sparklers in the cul de sac. It will be a low key evening, how wonderful will that be, just the four of us, celebrating Independence Day, family time, chicken on the grill, and a nice calm positive day, then handsome hubby and I can crawl into nice, new, soft, blue sheets and cuddle up, before a couple of days that will be hard on our hearts.
TTFN
My uncle passed away on Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning I had a root canal. Be careful what you ask for, you just may get it. I don't use this example in disrespect but rather as a perfect example of how God can keep me in check.....remind me of something literally and figuratively at the same time. WHO is a better joker than God, anyway, has a better sense of humor, to use my own cliche on me and then wait until I figure it out myself. I stopped in my tracks. Laughed out loud. Tooooo perfect. What a good joke on myself and a lesson in relativity. Good one, God. Comic relief during a time of morbid grief. You are the Master.
Monday evening, being rather without focus, I performed regular dinner/kid-bath-bed duties by rote and for a large part with a phone attached to my ear. At some point I dropped into the bed more than somewhat like a felled tree. During the night I prayed for, among soooo many other things, the strength and guidance to "live the interim". In other words, to have the ability to pay attention to what I'm supposed to be doing between now and the funeral at the end of the week, to do my job well, focus on the focus, for after all, nothing's as horrific as what my cousins, my Mother, my Grandmother are going through right now. Yes, I lost my Uncle but others are hurting much worse. What, that I'm dealing with, could be that bad?
OK. Got up Tuesday morning. Good morning God, it's me! Looked at my Palm. Ohhhh ho hooo hhhooooo. 9:00am. ROOT CANAL.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Welllll, well well WELL well well. Talk about a disTRACtion! What do you bet it's a long, long, loooooong time before lil miss smartypants (that'd be me) says "I'd rather have a root canal" again............
And tonight? No fireworks because of the dry spells we've had, so only sparklers in the cul de sac. It will be a low key evening, how wonderful will that be, just the four of us, celebrating Independence Day, family time, chicken on the grill, and a nice calm positive day, then handsome hubby and I can crawl into nice, new, soft, blue sheets and cuddle up, before a couple of days that will be hard on our hearts.
TTFN
Friday, June 29, 2007
IT GOES DOWNHILL
Rather, it's supposed to. Things that occur naturally occur in a downhill trickle. I can't think of anything that occurs without interference or force that travels UPhill. It's a battle. It's hard. It's not, well, natural. Family's like that too. Rather, it's supposed to be. Happens that way naturally. There are parents, then children, then their children, and so on. Goes from senior to junior. Old to young. Big to little. Life goes on and the grand circle of life is that more children come and our seniors' leave our earth and we don't get to see them, visit with them. For awhile. A lonnnnnnnnng while, it will seem, to us.
So. My Uncle David, who is seventy five years of age, will die within the weekend, says his hospice worker. He has been my uncle for forty seven years. My only one. He's been Daddy to my cousins for 49, 45, and 42 years respectively, Daddy in law to their spouses, and Grandaddy for 19 years 7 times over.
He has been a husband for 51 years, and a brother for 74 years.
But he has been his Mama's boy for 75 years. And she is 101 years old.
Throughout his illness I can't even count the times I've heard You're not supposed to bury your son...., and now I can't remember how many of those times someone else was saying it and how many I was just feeling it, repeating it, hearing it in my own heart. It's a battle. It's hard. It's not, well, natural.
Grief is a selfish emotion, for the most part. Rather, if you believe in my God that's the case. There'll be a hole where my Uncle David was. On the earth, in my heart, at the table, in the family, just - sort of - in the air. World's not the same. Can't call him. Not that I would've. Right then. Can't hear his voice if I want to. Not that I would've wanted to. Right then. I just . . . . . can't. My whole world, family, * e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g* dynamic will be always different, and I won't ever get it back. Notice how many I's there are in there? Selfish. Selfish emotion.
For the part that's not the most part, I guess what's left is sorrow for the loss of my Uncle David's life. . . that he's losing it, that he's going through what the disease has put him through, that his dignity has been robbed, if he knows that it has, that his immediate family is in such unbearable pain, that his death won't be the end of the pain but the beginning of a different kind of pain for them, that his grandchildren will grow the rest of their years without their "Pa".
That my Mama is losing her brother.
So I have a couple of coping mechanisms for dealing with grief. Wanna hear 'em? Here they are. I write. (Duh.) I clean, move stuff around, I cook, and I clothes shop (this one has always seemed strange to me but I think I've figured it out. Clothes shopping isn't something I do recreationally; it is enjoyable but takes extreme concentration for me and so - TAH DAH! - guess what I push to the back of me pea brain).
When each visit with your uncle may be your last you remember every nano-second of it. I do. I remember when he lifts his finger. Twitches his leg. Opens his eyes. Turns his head toward me, away from me- the reason I remember THAT so well is because I think OK, he's gonna know me this onnnnnnneeee last time.
This isn't a downhill trickle. We're pushing this one up the mountain.
So. My Uncle David, who is seventy five years of age, will die within the weekend, says his hospice worker. He has been my uncle for forty seven years. My only one. He's been Daddy to my cousins for 49, 45, and 42 years respectively, Daddy in law to their spouses, and Grandaddy for 19 years 7 times over.
He has been a husband for 51 years, and a brother for 74 years.
But he has been his Mama's boy for 75 years. And she is 101 years old.
Throughout his illness I can't even count the times I've heard You're not supposed to bury your son...., and now I can't remember how many of those times someone else was saying it and how many I was just feeling it, repeating it, hearing it in my own heart. It's a battle. It's hard. It's not, well, natural.
Grief is a selfish emotion, for the most part. Rather, if you believe in my God that's the case. There'll be a hole where my Uncle David was. On the earth, in my heart, at the table, in the family, just - sort of - in the air. World's not the same. Can't call him. Not that I would've. Right then. Can't hear his voice if I want to. Not that I would've wanted to. Right then. I just . . . . . can't. My whole world, family, * e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g* dynamic will be always different, and I won't ever get it back. Notice how many I's there are in there? Selfish. Selfish emotion.
For the part that's not the most part, I guess what's left is sorrow for the loss of my Uncle David's life. . . that he's losing it, that he's going through what the disease has put him through, that his dignity has been robbed, if he knows that it has, that his immediate family is in such unbearable pain, that his death won't be the end of the pain but the beginning of a different kind of pain for them, that his grandchildren will grow the rest of their years without their "Pa".
That my Mama is losing her brother.
So I have a couple of coping mechanisms for dealing with grief. Wanna hear 'em? Here they are. I write. (Duh.) I clean, move stuff around, I cook, and I clothes shop (this one has always seemed strange to me but I think I've figured it out. Clothes shopping isn't something I do recreationally; it is enjoyable but takes extreme concentration for me and so - TAH DAH! - guess what I push to the back of me pea brain).
When each visit with your uncle may be your last you remember every nano-second of it. I do. I remember when he lifts his finger. Twitches his leg. Opens his eyes. Turns his head toward me, away from me- the reason I remember THAT so well is because I think OK, he's gonna know me this onnnnnnneeee last time.
This isn't a downhill trickle. We're pushing this one up the mountain.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
OHHHHHHH THE WISDOM OF MEN
This evening as my handsome husband was going in and out of the house to cut wood for the hardwood floors he's installing, he was besieged by all manner of insects - mosquitos and no-see 'ums mainly but others joined the party here and there. He was quite flusterated, as my Aunt Pearl used to say, and so as he passed through the kitchen mumbling ugly words under his breath and scratching, I stuck a Bounce dryer sheet in his back shorts pocket, explaining that it would keep the bugs away and he wouldn't have to apply bug spray (which bothers his skin).
So Mr. Fixit trots back outside and saws a few more planks in half, comes in and installs them, does it all again, then doubles back into the kitchen and pulls the Bounce sheet out of his pocket with a wild, dramatic flair, pinching his nose up with the other hand, and says, I can't handle this thing...it STINKS.
"That's what makes it work honey," I said. "Don't you think it's better than having to spray that bug spray all over your skin?"
"Well, I guess so, but.. but..well, can't we get them in unscented or something?"
DOH!!!
So Mr. Fixit trots back outside and saws a few more planks in half, comes in and installs them, does it all again, then doubles back into the kitchen and pulls the Bounce sheet out of his pocket with a wild, dramatic flair, pinching his nose up with the other hand, and says, I can't handle this thing...it STINKS.
"That's what makes it work honey," I said. "Don't you think it's better than having to spray that bug spray all over your skin?"
"Well, I guess so, but.. but..well, can't we get them in unscented or something?"
DOH!!!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
SOME DAYS, or, THE GIRLFRIEND GODS
Some days are gifts. Technically each day is a gift but some days, more than your regular days, . . . . . . . . . . ok this ain't goin' where I want.
Every now and again I get a day, sandwiched between two "get up and do it all again" days, where it seems the Girlfriend Goddesses have looked down, waved their wands and tilted their tiaras my direction. Slipped a Glorious Girlfriend Day in just for me.
I got one of those today. And I'm getting another one tomorrow. My #1 son's mantra is "treasure your time". He began saying it when we had a discussion about how he would get gloomy when it was close to time to leave Jumpits or Pump it Up or American Adventures or the pool or (insert any fun place here) and all he could think about was how pitiful he was because it would soon be time to leave, instead of how much fun he was having and how glad he was he'd gotten to go. I would tell him to treasure the time he got to spend and make every minute count instead of being gloomy about the time we had to leave.
So I'm treasuring my time. Can't believe I'm getting two girlie days in a row. Must be living right. Sumthin.
Every now and again I get a day, sandwiched between two "get up and do it all again" days, where it seems the Girlfriend Goddesses have looked down, waved their wands and tilted their tiaras my direction. Slipped a Glorious Girlfriend Day in just for me.
I got one of those today. And I'm getting another one tomorrow. My #1 son's mantra is "treasure your time". He began saying it when we had a discussion about how he would get gloomy when it was close to time to leave Jumpits or Pump it Up or American Adventures or the pool or (insert any fun place here) and all he could think about was how pitiful he was because it would soon be time to leave, instead of how much fun he was having and how glad he was he'd gotten to go. I would tell him to treasure the time he got to spend and make every minute count instead of being gloomy about the time we had to leave.
So I'm treasuring my time. Can't believe I'm getting two girlie days in a row. Must be living right. Sumthin.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
BEEN TOO LONG
Wow, I have missed THIS. I have a friend who says Life Is What Happens While You're Making Plans. Sometimes I think (I wouldn't give my handsome husband the satisfaction of telling him but) my hubby lives by this credo because he flies by the seat of his pants Holy SMOKES I don't know how he skins by or whether it's that he's perked it down to something that's an oiled engine for him or whether the Sprytes are awatchin' over him, but somehow he slides through life with a minimum of late fees, lost keys, and missed appointments. As for the oiled engine it's plausible as an simile-esque example only but in reality no. I think the "add windsheid solution" blinkie has been blinking on the Volvo for two years. We won't travel there today.
He's never forgotten our kids anywhere. that i know of
The point is I make plans. I plan for time to make plans. It soothes me, it makes me happy, calm, eeeeeasy. Gives me a peaceful easy feelin'. (Yep I'm that old and I AM a fan.....) I want to know by Wednesday what I'm doing on Friday night. Saturday night. Vacation this summer. RETIREMENT. The funeral. Eternity. (Well I already know that, praise God.) Anyhoosie, you get the drifffff. In Ronny terms, I have a corncob up --------ok. When we first got married, (well you know you appreciate your differences then) the Ronny term for my corncob-ed-ness was "she likes to plan ahead which is good because I - well, I really - sort of - don't".
Now. The key there is "I - sort of - don't." I heard it. But I was so blinded by his incredible beauty and OH OH OHHHHuHuHuhhhhho those legs and that hiney *sigh* well and that thick back and wiiiiiiiide shoulders well who just cared? Plan shman. I was twenty. Plus, and, also, it was cute when he said it then. He cocked his head a little and sucked in one corner of a lip and that dimple got deeper, his big brown cow eyes glistened, then he stood hipshod and all that unbeknownst to himself. See he dint even plan his own sexiness. THAT........ is such a frackin' turn on. Big ol' lug.
So now we're twenty six years later, the first seventeen years just the two of us. Inseparable but independant. When you're two, both work, big delicious careers, each others' baby, go your own way during the day, do things your own way, come together after work enjoy each other, respect each others' independence have courtesy for the others' preferences, yada yada.
Then you have babies and you're not each other's baby anymore.
Schedules matter planning matters communicate work it out write it down make a list copy the list it takes Outlook Palm Pilots SmartPhones Pocket PCs Synching Laptops Thumbdrives Charts meetings reconoiter IT TAKES A VILLAGE, PEOPLE!!!!
says me.
says Ronny and the sprytes . . . it'll be fine. I'll find out the schedule a few minutes before I need to know it I'm doing something else right now can't stop. And I'll meetcha there. I'll bring the cooler and the Powerade, be there by the bottom of the second, and if he forgets his jockstrap I prolly have one under the backseat somewhere. No worries baybee.
Fffffffffphft. What do you say to that? There just isn't a response no response atall. As my #1 son said one time to his little brother who had just rubbed his last nerve, "just pack your toopcase and go on your own journey." Definately on his own journey, my handsome husband.
Here's the thing. I appreciated that journey when I met him. The two of us are so constantly reinventing our dynamic, our relationship, and now we're reinventing that part, so that's what I'm working on - re-appreciating that part of my handsome husband. I keep thinking about Madonna and other artists that reinvent themselves frequently. Always appreciated them for the ability to do that, and of all the couples we know who seem to have a 'constant' relationship where nothing seems to change, things seem to always be so static over the years, I feel so sorry and worried. (You thought I was gonna say envious didncha!) But how can it happen!?? Things change, times change, everything changes - - - -
OK so. Where did things shake out. What fell to the bottom. Here's where I am. I was watching Barack Obama's wife - Michelle, I think - being interviewed by Robin Roberts the other day. This was NOT an accident. This comment that she made was for my ears and my ears only. If you heard it more the better for you, but it was intended for moi. She was discussing their life, she and Barack, and their differences and their busy schedules and how she was the stable influence, the planner in their relationship, that liked repetition and schedules, and he was always the one that was never afraid to try something new, risky, different. So she said, "If I wanted to be able to have family dinner around the table at six o'clock every night, I should've married someone else. But I wanted Barack more."
That's profound. Simple. But profound.
So that's life! And that's what's happening while I'm making plans..... maybe. Still love my plans, but guess what. I can take my pocket pc with me anywhere - or leave it at home. One planner plus one free spirit with a great derriere makes a great balance I say. Gives two kids a great scope.
So I have to go. I'm watching the free spirit swing a hammer. Ooooooooh. Turning the Smart phone off now.........
He's never forgotten our kids anywhere. that i know of
The point is I make plans. I plan for time to make plans. It soothes me, it makes me happy, calm, eeeeeasy. Gives me a peaceful easy feelin'. (Yep I'm that old and I AM a fan.....) I want to know by Wednesday what I'm doing on Friday night. Saturday night. Vacation this summer. RETIREMENT. The funeral. Eternity. (Well I already know that, praise God.) Anyhoosie, you get the drifffff. In Ronny terms, I have a corncob up --------ok. When we first got married, (well you know you appreciate your differences then) the Ronny term for my corncob-ed-ness was "she likes to plan ahead which is good because I - well, I really - sort of - don't".
Now. The key there is "I - sort of - don't." I heard it. But I was so blinded by his incredible beauty and OH OH OHHHHuHuHuhhhhho those legs and that hiney *sigh* well and that thick back and wiiiiiiiide shoulders well who just cared? Plan shman. I was twenty. Plus, and, also, it was cute when he said it then. He cocked his head a little and sucked in one corner of a lip and that dimple got deeper, his big brown cow eyes glistened, then he stood hipshod and all that unbeknownst to himself. See he dint even plan his own sexiness. THAT........ is such a frackin' turn on. Big ol' lug.
So now we're twenty six years later, the first seventeen years just the two of us. Inseparable but independant. When you're two, both work, big delicious careers, each others' baby, go your own way during the day, do things your own way, come together after work enjoy each other, respect each others' independence have courtesy for the others' preferences, yada yada.
Then you have babies and you're not each other's baby anymore.
Oops.
Schedules matter planning matters communicate work it out write it down make a list copy the list it takes Outlook Palm Pilots SmartPhones Pocket PCs Synching Laptops Thumbdrives Charts meetings reconoiter IT TAKES A VILLAGE, PEOPLE!!!!
says me.
says Ronny and the sprytes . . . it'll be fine. I'll find out the schedule a few minutes before I need to know it I'm doing something else right now can't stop. And I'll meetcha there. I'll bring the cooler and the Powerade, be there by the bottom of the second, and if he forgets his jockstrap I prolly have one under the backseat somewhere. No worries baybee.
Fffffffffphft. What do you say to that? There just isn't a response no response atall. As my #1 son said one time to his little brother who had just rubbed his last nerve, "just pack your toopcase and go on your own journey." Definately on his own journey, my handsome husband.
Here's the thing. I appreciated that journey when I met him. The two of us are so constantly reinventing our dynamic, our relationship, and now we're reinventing that part, so that's what I'm working on - re-appreciating that part of my handsome husband. I keep thinking about Madonna and other artists that reinvent themselves frequently. Always appreciated them for the ability to do that, and of all the couples we know who seem to have a 'constant' relationship where nothing seems to change, things seem to always be so static over the years, I feel so sorry and worried. (You thought I was gonna say envious didncha!) But how can it happen!?? Things change, times change, everything changes - - - -
OK so. Where did things shake out. What fell to the bottom. Here's where I am. I was watching Barack Obama's wife - Michelle, I think - being interviewed by Robin Roberts the other day. This was NOT an accident. This comment that she made was for my ears and my ears only. If you heard it more the better for you, but it was intended for moi. She was discussing their life, she and Barack, and their differences and their busy schedules and how she was the stable influence, the planner in their relationship, that liked repetition and schedules, and he was always the one that was never afraid to try something new, risky, different. So she said, "If I wanted to be able to have family dinner around the table at six o'clock every night, I should've married someone else. But I wanted Barack more."
That's profound. Simple. But profound.
So that's life! And that's what's happening while I'm making plans..... maybe. Still love my plans, but guess what. I can take my pocket pc with me anywhere - or leave it at home. One planner plus one free spirit with a great derriere makes a great balance I say. Gives two kids a great scope.
So I have to go. I'm watching the free spirit swing a hammer. Ooooooooh. Turning the Smart phone off now.........
Saturday, April 28, 2007
THE PARRRTAYYY
What a bunch a crackers and a salad bowl mix to boot. We're the mesclun of famblies.
The party was held at my sister in law's house. Now her house is a 50's rancher with a one car carport on the end, which she has converted into a porch. Not many people could pull that off but there we sit every time as weather permits, at trash-art cafe tables and wrought iron patio sets. A breeze blows through from front to back and trinkles wind chimes that have been purchased with delight, packed with care and brought home from some kitchsy art village. Half a dozen thriving orchids in as many colors sit on an antique table with chipping paint and just behind those, off the porch in the grass, is a turkey tail fern hanging on a shepherd hook plant hanger. There are beverage buckets around the perimeter here and there and a off the back side of the porch is a small patio vegetable and herb garden with a bluebird feeder and a finch feeder taking center stage. The kitchen door opens from the porch into the house and has cafe curtains hanging on the window that swing & the breeze sorta brushes past your nose & smells like fresh cotton when you open the door to go in. There's metal yard art shaped like a goony bird, toys for the grandkids (and my kids) in one corner, but for the most part, there are people laughing, smiling, eating, drinking, embroiled in conversation, kids running through, and never do you feel you are sitting in a carport.
So. SIL has writer's block and she feels like if she reads us a chapter maybe she'll get unblocked. One character didn't like her name, another didn't want to do what SIL wanted her to. They were not cooperating.
"UNBLOCKED!" says BIL - her own brother, we're speaking of now. "I doan wanna be read tooooo, dayuhm!"
"DAVID, SHIT! QUIT CUSSING, my KIDS are around SOMEwhere!" This is the OTHER brother we're speaking of NOW, who, unfortunately, happens to belong to ME. Well, not unfortunately, but I'm not quite proud to be sharing this particular convo. although it is purty dang funny......
And the worst part is BOTH of these men are in their FORTIES. Jiminy crickets. Meanwhile, sister in law, who has cooked corned beef, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, a ham, a turkey, carrot salad, broccoli slaw, and rolls, and FED these two ungrateful heathens, sits patiently waiting for them to zip up so that she may continue. . . . to unblock. It's like the writer's form of Milk of Magnesia or something.
And sooooo the reading begins. She gets out three sentences and BIL - this is SIL the writer's huuuuusband I'm speaking of this time walks in, "Huneeeeeee, where's the club soda???? I can't find it and - oh gaaad - we need another round of vaadka racks- oy, I can't find nuttin."
So perhaps you've guessed he's not from around heah.
So Donna begins her story about a southern woman (shocker) who is from a long line of women that die before their 65th birthday. This woman is 64 and 10 months. She's planning her funeral. In this particular chapter she's at the beauty parlor having her hair and makeup done exactly like it will be done when she's dead so she can make sure it's gonna be done exactly right. When that's finished she's gonna march over to the funeral home and choose her casket. Just as she's choosing her casket, brother David jumps in-
"So so so how are you gonna market this book, anyhow... it's definately not a romance like that LAST one, whut IS it?"
Clearly it was an attempt to deflect, to redirect, to MAKE HER STOP READING. Didn't work.
SIL is a talented and entertaining southern writer and storyteller. The reading of the chapter ends, containers of tapanade and dip have been polished off, bottles clink into the garbage can, BIL has found his club soda and refreshed the vaadka drinkers. Everyone is still chuckling except brother David who has long since left the scene with a brew in each hand, mumbling some nonsense about audible reading being for kids at bedtime.
By the time we ate dinner it was after 8:00pm. No one noticed. The kids were covered in grass and sweat and I took one look at them and smiled because I knew when we left they'd be asleep before we ever got onto the main road. My sweet, lovin', stinky, sweaty babies.
So SIL and I are the clean-up matriarchs by now it's 10:30pm and I'm loading the dishwasher and SIL hands her son (who is 28) a pot with the turkey and ham grease and says, "Here. Go throw this out at the back corner of the yard. But not in our yard. In the neighbor's yard. But not the nice one. The one we don't like." Van Morrison's singing to us in the background and I can see my SIL's shoulders shaking as she sends her son on his chore. Hehe, I hear.
Minutes go by, we're singing and doing the bump even as we clean up. Mustang SALLY!!
"MOM!!!"
"WHAT!! What's wrong????? Son? WHAT??????"
"I had to run . . . *gasp* back *wheez* ! That big muscle Harley dude came out from that house and hollered Who's there? Who's there - what're you dumpin' in my damn yard??? Then he came after me with a frickin' SHOVEL!!! I had to throw the pot at him - I think it hit him in the head cuz he fell and hollered and now he's not movin - oh what do I DO, WHAT SHOULD WE DO???????"
"Oh my oh my oh my oh GAWD I was jesssss, I mean, ohhhh Caren lawww whadda I .....I.....I.... I should never have I can't believe I just yooooouuuuu nasty little puke you had better run fast cuz if I catch up to you on these arthritic feet yoooooouuuuu I can not beLIEVE I gave birth to such an ungrateful heathern you come back here like a good son and let me beat you senseless you just WAIT until I get my sore ol' hands on you oh if I laugh any harder I'm gonna need a damn Depends YOU - oh where did that boy go? Wah shit.
That twenty eight year old in hiding is my nephew, has a nine year old that's my #1's best bud and his first cousin once removed.
Twenty eight year old nephew's son's Mom's fiance is helping clean up the kitchen. Drops turnip greens on his shoe. MAN DOWN!!! he says. Har. "Wha, who, who's down!!" Brother in law is turning sixty five. Donna's husband. Couldn't be farther from Southern. Jewish. . . from Detroit. What a pair.
Neice turned fourteen. Sister in law (David's wife) turned eighteen with twenty two years of experience.
It was a wild ride, a peaceful slide, and a good time was had by all.
The party was held at my sister in law's house. Now her house is a 50's rancher with a one car carport on the end, which she has converted into a porch. Not many people could pull that off but there we sit every time as weather permits, at trash-art cafe tables and wrought iron patio sets. A breeze blows through from front to back and trinkles wind chimes that have been purchased with delight, packed with care and brought home from some kitchsy art village. Half a dozen thriving orchids in as many colors sit on an antique table with chipping paint and just behind those, off the porch in the grass, is a turkey tail fern hanging on a shepherd hook plant hanger. There are beverage buckets around the perimeter here and there and a off the back side of the porch is a small patio vegetable and herb garden with a bluebird feeder and a finch feeder taking center stage. The kitchen door opens from the porch into the house and has cafe curtains hanging on the window that swing & the breeze sorta brushes past your nose & smells like fresh cotton when you open the door to go in. There's metal yard art shaped like a goony bird, toys for the grandkids (and my kids) in one corner, but for the most part, there are people laughing, smiling, eating, drinking, embroiled in conversation, kids running through, and never do you feel you are sitting in a carport.
So. SIL has writer's block and she feels like if she reads us a chapter maybe she'll get unblocked. One character didn't like her name, another didn't want to do what SIL wanted her to. They were not cooperating.
"UNBLOCKED!" says BIL - her own brother, we're speaking of now. "I doan wanna be read tooooo, dayuhm!"
"DAVID, SHIT! QUIT CUSSING, my KIDS are around SOMEwhere!" This is the OTHER brother we're speaking of NOW, who, unfortunately, happens to belong to ME. Well, not unfortunately, but I'm not quite proud to be sharing this particular convo. although it is purty dang funny......
And the worst part is BOTH of these men are in their FORTIES. Jiminy crickets. Meanwhile, sister in law, who has cooked corned beef, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, a ham, a turkey, carrot salad, broccoli slaw, and rolls, and FED these two ungrateful heathens, sits patiently waiting for them to zip up so that she may continue. . . . to unblock. It's like the writer's form of Milk of Magnesia or something.
And sooooo the reading begins. She gets out three sentences and BIL - this is SIL the writer's huuuuusband I'm speaking of this time walks in, "Huneeeeeee, where's the club soda???? I can't find it and - oh gaaad - we need another round of vaadka racks- oy, I can't find nuttin."
So perhaps you've guessed he's not from around heah.
So Donna begins her story about a southern woman (shocker) who is from a long line of women that die before their 65th birthday. This woman is 64 and 10 months. She's planning her funeral. In this particular chapter she's at the beauty parlor having her hair and makeup done exactly like it will be done when she's dead so she can make sure it's gonna be done exactly right. When that's finished she's gonna march over to the funeral home and choose her casket. Just as she's choosing her casket, brother David jumps in-
"So so so how are you gonna market this book, anyhow... it's definately not a romance like that LAST one, whut IS it?"
Clearly it was an attempt to deflect, to redirect, to MAKE HER STOP READING. Didn't work.
SIL is a talented and entertaining southern writer and storyteller. The reading of the chapter ends, containers of tapanade and dip have been polished off, bottles clink into the garbage can, BIL has found his club soda and refreshed the vaadka drinkers. Everyone is still chuckling except brother David who has long since left the scene with a brew in each hand, mumbling some nonsense about audible reading being for kids at bedtime.
By the time we ate dinner it was after 8:00pm. No one noticed. The kids were covered in grass and sweat and I took one look at them and smiled because I knew when we left they'd be asleep before we ever got onto the main road. My sweet, lovin', stinky, sweaty babies.
So SIL and I are the clean-up matriarchs by now it's 10:30pm and I'm loading the dishwasher and SIL hands her son (who is 28) a pot with the turkey and ham grease and says, "Here. Go throw this out at the back corner of the yard. But not in our yard. In the neighbor's yard. But not the nice one. The one we don't like." Van Morrison's singing to us in the background and I can see my SIL's shoulders shaking as she sends her son on his chore. Hehe, I hear.
Minutes go by, we're singing and doing the bump even as we clean up. Mustang SALLY!!
"MOM!!!"
"WHAT!! What's wrong????? Son? WHAT??????"
"I had to run . . . *gasp* back *wheez* ! That big muscle Harley dude came out from that house and hollered Who's there? Who's there - what're you dumpin' in my damn yard??? Then he came after me with a frickin' SHOVEL!!! I had to throw the pot at him - I think it hit him in the head cuz he fell and hollered and now he's not movin - oh what do I DO, WHAT SHOULD WE DO???????"
"Oh my oh my oh my oh GAWD I was jesssss, I mean, ohhhh Caren lawww whadda I .....I.....I.... I should never have I can't believe I just yooooouuuuu nasty little puke you had better run fast cuz if I catch up to you on these arthritic feet yoooooouuuuu I can not beLIEVE I gave birth to such an ungrateful heathern you come back here like a good son and let me beat you senseless you just WAIT until I get my sore ol' hands on you oh if I laugh any harder I'm gonna need a damn Depends YOU - oh where did that boy go? Wah shit.
That twenty eight year old in hiding is my nephew, has a nine year old that's my #1's best bud and his first cousin once removed.
Twenty eight year old nephew's son's Mom's fiance is helping clean up the kitchen. Drops turnip greens on his shoe. MAN DOWN!!! he says. Har. "Wha, who, who's down!!" Brother in law is turning sixty five. Donna's husband. Couldn't be farther from Southern. Jewish. . . from Detroit. What a pair.
Neice turned fourteen. Sister in law (David's wife) turned eighteen with twenty two years of experience.
It was a wild ride, a peaceful slide, and a good time was had by all.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
THREE FOR THEM ONE FOR ME
Got to go birthday gift shopping tomorrow. BIL is easy, a great single malt scotch will be welcomed with open arms. SIL and neice are easy too I'll just head over to TJ Maxx and get candles and deliciously fab-o toiletries for SIL and cutesy handbags and teen jewelry for neice OOPS! TJ Maxx did I say???? Well well well well, while I'm there guess what. They're having their dress sale.....hmmmmmm. What a coinkidinkie. $19.99 I blieve I kin handle it. Bought a pair of shoes last week just because. . . well just because. No more. Anyshoesies, have not one stitch in my closet to wear with them. Now I ask you does that make the sense God gave a goat?
I think not.
But then I ent a goat. And thank goodness to because I'd hate to have to store the shoes.
Well, the birthday party IS tomorrow night. Gotta look great, that's the main thing. Oh oops I mean the second main thing. Hope I don't forget the gifts.
TTFN
I think not.
But then I ent a goat. And thank goodness to because I'd hate to have to store the shoes.
Well, the birthday party IS tomorrow night. Gotta look great, that's the main thing. Oh oops I mean the second main thing. Hope I don't forget the gifts.
TTFN
Friday, April 20, 2007
WELL WELCOME SOUTH BRUTHA
WSB's the Atlanta ABC affiliate, or just channel 3 I call it affectionately cawz I quit using Welcome South Brother when Lewis Grizzard (the President of the South, to you) passed away. This morning Monica Kaufman Pearson announced that they would not be showing video of the ramblings of the shooter that was aired over and OVER yesterday. I suspect it was due in great part to Dr. Michael Wellner's lil visit to Good Morning America yesterday, and his statement and ensuing explanation that the airing and re-airing of the shooter's video was a "social catastrophe".
Check him out
Dr. Michael Wellner's my new best friend. I'm so happy to watch and listen to someone who feels the strength of his convictions and speaks strongly and without reservation and even though he has the unpopular opinion, he states it. He explains it. He's passionate regarding it, he knows what he's talkin' about folks. He's got a fire in his belly 'bout it . He comes back on the following day and defends it. People listened, as they should've.
Thanks, Dr. Wellner. We needed you this week.
Check him out
Dr. Michael Wellner's my new best friend. I'm so happy to watch and listen to someone who feels the strength of his convictions and speaks strongly and without reservation and even though he has the unpopular opinion, he states it. He explains it. He's passionate regarding it, he knows what he's talkin' about folks. He's got a fire in his belly 'bout it . He comes back on the following day and defends it. People listened, as they should've.
Thanks, Dr. Wellner. We needed you this week.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
CAN'T TALK ABOUT IT SO LET'S TALK ABOUT SUNTHIN ELSE
You know what I mean. It's all anyone's thought about since yesterday morning. It's all any parent or grandparent or sister or brother, aunt, uncle, friend, teen, pre teen, college student and particularly - just - survivor - has been able to fit in the thinking feeling parts of their body so we'll move on until another day that's farther away, and we'll talk about it then.
Now then. Howzabout a $400 haircut, whatcha think about that??? Sort of pales, doesn't it. Not really a big deal now. In fact, when #1 is Va. Tech and #1 is the fact that his wife has cancer, who cares.
Alright, . . . let's see. Imus . . . oh I'm so sick of that I could YAK. The last time I was this sick of publicity was Rosie and Donald and look how THAT turned out good grief what a publicity stunt and now the hip hop dudes are excusing themsel...... oh crud I just don't care. Taken away the purity of the win GIVE me breakage. When #1 is Va. Tech, #2 is that Elizabeth Edwards has cancer and people focus on her husband's haircut, who cares.
Hmmm. Welll ell ell ell, we could talk about umm the fact that there appears to be no OTHER news today. Ever noticed how the news stations forget that other things happen in this world when there's a crisis of such proportions that they can milk it for their ENTIRE broadcast because if they don't the OTHER newscasts will grind them into the dirt in the ratings? The news anchors run out of legitimate questions to ask, so they start asking redundant questions, filabustering, lowering their voices and quietly asking fluff. Almost as if they're embarrased. Well. I would be. It all reminds me of Connie Chung's famous interview before her fall. Come on. You can tell me. It's just you and me. The camera crew runs out of new and interesting images so they rerun the same same images over and over and OVER again. ENOUGH! Run it once on the morning news. Run it once on the noon news. Run it as the lead story on the evening news. THEN DONE! Stream it on the website for anyone who wants to watch it over and over and over and over, good grief. But we can't do that, can we, noooooooo. So go ahead, Robin Roberts, ask the Professor if she feels responsible in any way for the shooter. Responsible? COME ONNNNNNNN. Gimme some REAL NEWS. Then let's make sure someone asks YOU if YOU and your network feels responsible as well. I've lost interest. When #1 is Va. Tech, #2 is that Elizabeth Edwards has cancer and people are focusing on her husband's haircut, and #3 is the prostitution of our newscasts, who cares.
By the way, friends. Here's some real news. #1. My friend Gail's daughter Susan is safe and sound. My God is good. #2. My #1 son is doing GREAT on his CRCTs this week. For a child who becomes apprehensive at the first sign of tests, parTICularly timed tests, he has been calm and peaceful. We're breathing great sighs of relief. #3. My handsome husband got up in front of a huge roomful of people yesterday at work and did NOT panic. This. People. IS. NEWS.
TTFN.
Now then. Howzabout a $400 haircut, whatcha think about that??? Sort of pales, doesn't it. Not really a big deal now. In fact, when #1 is Va. Tech and #1 is the fact that his wife has cancer, who cares.
Alright, . . . let's see. Imus . . . oh I'm so sick of that I could YAK. The last time I was this sick of publicity was Rosie and Donald and look how THAT turned out good grief what a publicity stunt and now the hip hop dudes are excusing themsel...... oh crud I just don't care. Taken away the purity of the win GIVE me breakage. When #1 is Va. Tech, #2 is that Elizabeth Edwards has cancer and people focus on her husband's haircut, who cares.
Hmmm. Welll ell ell ell, we could talk about umm the fact that there appears to be no OTHER news today. Ever noticed how the news stations forget that other things happen in this world when there's a crisis of such proportions that they can milk it for their ENTIRE broadcast because if they don't the OTHER newscasts will grind them into the dirt in the ratings? The news anchors run out of legitimate questions to ask, so they start asking redundant questions, filabustering, lowering their voices and quietly asking fluff. Almost as if they're embarrased. Well. I would be. It all reminds me of Connie Chung's famous interview before her fall. Come on. You can tell me. It's just you and me. The camera crew runs out of new and interesting images so they rerun the same same images over and over and OVER again. ENOUGH! Run it once on the morning news. Run it once on the noon news. Run it as the lead story on the evening news. THEN DONE! Stream it on the website for anyone who wants to watch it over and over and over and over, good grief. But we can't do that, can we, noooooooo. So go ahead, Robin Roberts, ask the Professor if she feels responsible in any way for the shooter. Responsible? COME ONNNNNNNN. Gimme some REAL NEWS. Then let's make sure someone asks YOU if YOU and your network feels responsible as well. I've lost interest. When #1 is Va. Tech, #2 is that Elizabeth Edwards has cancer and people are focusing on her husband's haircut, and #3 is the prostitution of our newscasts, who cares.
By the way, friends. Here's some real news. #1. My friend Gail's daughter Susan is safe and sound. My God is good. #2. My #1 son is doing GREAT on his CRCTs this week. For a child who becomes apprehensive at the first sign of tests, parTICularly timed tests, he has been calm and peaceful. We're breathing great sighs of relief. #3. My handsome husband got up in front of a huge roomful of people yesterday at work and did NOT panic. This. People. IS. NEWS.
TTFN.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
BYE BYE KURT, WE ENJOYED YOU
It can do a number on you. When a frequently read author from your past passes away, it's a surreal experience. Brings back floods of memories about things like paperbacks stuck in bookbags and dirty denim hobo bags that smell like weed and incense. This is an author, I guess you've surmised, from my waaaaaaaaay past. I haven't read any Vonnegut in years. I bet I will now. Right now I'm reading riveting stuff like The Red Tent (which I just can NOT get through, ugh) and Extraordinary Knowing which I talked about and drooled over and that's what I got for Easter. I was thrilled with it, and thrilled that my sweet handsome hubby remembered that I wanted it. It's a killer concept and very exciting, (truly) but Kurt . . . . ohhhh, Kurt. You gotta love an author that looks just like Mark Twain. That's just warm and fuzzy and a sign from above that you MUST read him right there. Then he goes and runs a close second in pessimism with Twain as well, or at least it always seemed so. That's just weird. Maybe he was our Twain for this lifetime. Whoa.
What an imagination this man allowed himself to grow - the Tralfamadorians twarnt no Aunt Polly. But I digress. Anyone who writes about a place - no - a utopia of sorts where everything in the universe fits neatly together. Mm. Mm, mmm, mmmmm. Truthfully that's not a utopia at all, is it, cause where's the fun in that if everything fits just right? But it's soothing to think on it. Peaceful even, especially when nothing has fit together in your day, or your week. And the name of his utopia alludes to what a utopia it's just NOT.... the chrono-synclastic infundibula. INFUNDIBULA? Sounds like one of those things a horse gets when they can't walk anymore, or something you have to go to the podiatrist about, or something the financial analyst needs to fix, or ---zzzzzowie, I dunno, but it's summpin I dun want fer sher.
Anyway prayers for Kurt Vonnegut's family and circle of loved ones. Boy I hope they know how many people he reached with his talent and his skill, what an impact he made on thousands and thousands of people, prolly millions.
Next time you're at Barnes, pick up something by Kurt Vonnegut and read a few pages. He wrote at least a dozen books, maybe more; you have a fairly wide choice, and between the dozen of them the scope is wide. You may learn a new word. May not be a real one, but it'll be a GREAT one. It'll zhuzh up your day.
TTFN
What an imagination this man allowed himself to grow - the Tralfamadorians twarnt no Aunt Polly. But I digress. Anyone who writes about a place - no - a utopia of sorts where everything in the universe fits neatly together. Mm. Mm, mmm, mmmmm. Truthfully that's not a utopia at all, is it, cause where's the fun in that if everything fits just right? But it's soothing to think on it. Peaceful even, especially when nothing has fit together in your day, or your week. And the name of his utopia alludes to what a utopia it's just NOT.... the chrono-synclastic infundibula. INFUNDIBULA? Sounds like one of those things a horse gets when they can't walk anymore, or something you have to go to the podiatrist about, or something the financial analyst needs to fix, or ---zzzzzowie, I dunno, but it's summpin I dun want fer sher.
Anyway prayers for Kurt Vonnegut's family and circle of loved ones. Boy I hope they know how many people he reached with his talent and his skill, what an impact he made on thousands and thousands of people, prolly millions.
Next time you're at Barnes, pick up something by Kurt Vonnegut and read a few pages. He wrote at least a dozen books, maybe more; you have a fairly wide choice, and between the dozen of them the scope is wide. You may learn a new word. May not be a real one, but it'll be a GREAT one. It'll zhuzh up your day.
TTFN
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
WINTER SPRING WINTER SPRING
Pick one.
Doesn't much matter spring lasts about a flickie around here. A flickie is a little longer than a nano-second but shorter than a 'lil bit'.
BUT. You know there's always a big but. Once spring gets here it'd be nice if IT WOULD STAY.
Who cares life's good. Not that big-a-deal ah reckon. Is jes weather. Round here weather puts dinner on our tahbleh so the more there is of it I guess the better off we is'ns.
So. Spring break's over. Mmmmm. What's next?
IMUS! Nappy headed WHUTS? Wow, Imus. Look atcher own head, pal.
Doesn't much matter spring lasts about a flickie around here. A flickie is a little longer than a nano-second but shorter than a 'lil bit'.
BUT. You know there's always a big but. Once spring gets here it'd be nice if IT WOULD STAY.
Who cares life's good. Not that big-a-deal ah reckon. Is jes weather. Round here weather puts dinner on our tahbleh so the more there is of it I guess the better off we is'ns.
So. Spring break's over. Mmmmm. What's next?
IMUS! Nappy headed WHUTS? Wow, Imus. Look atcher own head, pal.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
THE SPRINGBOARD OF SPRING BREAK
When I was in college we called it AEA. Sometimes it still slips out..... "Where ya goin' for AEA?" Sort of like "Have you taken your ACTs yet?" May as well wear a sandwich sign that says YES I'M FROM ALABAMA.
My kids will be under my feet for a whole week. Seven days. Twenty four hours a day. YEEEEEEEHAAAA!!! Let the games b-e-g-i-n. Doesn't get any better than this. Well maybe summertime.
The board games are ready. The fridge and the freezer are stocked. Books, DVDs, card games, bicycles, scooters, toys, paints, easels, crayons, water guns, nerf guns, sidewalk chalk, and skates are all on the ready.
That'll take care of Monday. ;- )
The gas tank is on full in the Magic Bus. I have our suitcases packed, my laptop, my Outlook synced to my Q, reservation confirmations for the cottage on the lake, a housesitter situated for the house, and two tubs and three coolers full of food and that'll take care of Tuesday through Friday. I ain't no dummy.
I'm taking my male humans to the water. I'm packing the golf clubs, the fishing poles, and the bicycles, and whatever you can do from a rocking chair on a screened porch, and that's IT.
I think what you're supposed to do with spring break is repair any springs you might have that are broken. My repair kit is easy to pack. My Bible goes with me, my family will (naturally) be with me, and of COURSE I'll have toe polish - GOSH. The cottage setting is just extra dressing. Natural valium. Eye candy. Second best thing to . . . to . . . to . . . hmmm, well, OH! a shoe store. Yeah, that's it. :- >
TTFN.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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
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
Friday, February 23, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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
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
Monday, February 12, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, February 02, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
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
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