tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51804529467538127412024-03-05T01:57:45.985-05:00Ya Just Gotta LaughI always ask my friends, "Am I crazy? Or is it them?" and they always say, "Well, yeah, you are crazy, but yeah, it's them." So I started this blog to ask the same question of anyone who takes the time to read it--Am I crazy or is it them??JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-58632972924094243322012-04-10T11:17:00.000-04:002012-04-10T11:24:43.100-04:00Lucky Seven, Fried Chicken, Bargain Shopping, and Construction This one is for my writing friends. One of them (Hi, Ruth!) tagged me for a Lucky Seven post. Sorry it took me so long, Ruth, but I've been up to my eyeballs with other obligations lately. The rules are:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: whitesmoke; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">1. Go to page 77 of your current WIP.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: whitesmoke; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">2. Go to line 7.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: whitesmoke; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">3. Copy down the next 7 lines, sentences, or paragraphs, and post them as they're written.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: whitesmoke; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">4. Tag seven authors.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: whitesmoke; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">5. Let them know.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Momma, Daddy dug up Uncle Herbert again. You have to talk to him.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Oh,” she said, sinking into a chair. “I wondered why Rae-Lynn didn’t stop by for coffee this morning. I assume she knows.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “She knows alright. She came by the store yesterday to tell me to talk to Daddy or there was going to be hell to pay. Not only did he dig him up, but he left a bucket of fried chicken in the grave. Right where the box of ashes should be! I fell in the grave trying to get it out before Aunt Rae-Lynn saw it, but I was too late.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Momma’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “A bucket of chicken. Oh, my. And Rae-Lynn saw it? You’re sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “I’m positive. What can Daddy possibly be thinking leaving something like that in a man’s final resting place? Has he lost his mind?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “No, Jill, he hasn’t lost his mind. He wasn’t leaving a bucket of chicken as much as he was leaving a message for Rae-Lynn. Get your bagel out of there before it burns; the lever on the toaster is broken again. I have to go talk to Rae-Lynn. I’ll see you later.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “But, Momma, wait—” It was too late. She was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I'm tagging (if they are interested, I won't be offended if you don't join in, but I'd love to read a bit of what you're working on)---</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">1. Mirka Breen at <a href="http://mirkabreen.blogspot.com/">Mirka Muse </a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">2. Terry Lynn Johnson at <a href="http://terrylynnjohnson.blogspot.com/">TerryLynnJohnson</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">3. Kelly Hashway at <a href="http://kellyhashway.blogspot.com/">kellyhashway</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;">4. Bryan W. Fields at <a href="http://froongafiles.blogspot.com/">The Froonga Files</a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;">5. Liz Straw at <a href="http://www.lizstrawwrites.com/">Gotta Write</a></span></div>
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And . . . that's all because I like to be different. Please visit these blogs because they are very enjoyable and some of my favorites. <br />
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In other news, I'm back in Florida and I put my in-laws and their friends on a plane back to PA this afternoon. I'm glad they had a wonderful vacation, but I have to be honest--I was a nervous wreck that one of them would "have a spell" or trip and fall while on my watch. I know my sisters-in law and the story would always and forever start with, "Remember when Judy took Mom and Dad to FL and (fill in disastrous health emergency here)." Mostly, I'm glad they didn't have any emergencies, but honestly, I'm especially glad it didn't happen when I was responsible for their well-being. I have enough black marks with this family already. </div>
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My mature guests went out of their way to put things ship-shape before they left, even though I asked, then begged, then threatened, to try to get them to sit and relax. I told them I would strip the beds, wash the sheets, and remake the beds, but they are stubborn women who have run their own homes for decades, so they ignored me. I had to wrench the big suitcase out of the guy with the cane's hand as he tried to get it and himself down the stairs. I wanted to make things as easy as possible for them, but I don't blame them for asserting themselves. It can't be easy when you've lived a full, independent life raising children and running businesses, and now no one trusts you to do anything for yourself. I tried to give them as much space as possible while being close by in case they needed me. We all survived and they said it was one of the best vacations they ever had, so it was a win. Whew.<br />
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I tried to show my MIL how to use the dishwasher and she told me that they wouldn't need it because "they were on vacation." That struck me as funny because, for me, more technology means less work for me and therefore, a more relaxing vacation, but for them, technology was stressful and a vacation meant a break from trying to figure out how to work things. They spent a lot of their time shopping or window-shopping, which is also the opposite of how I want to spend vacation time. I loath shopping and wait until I have a long list of absolutely necessary purchases so I can do it all in one fell swoop. I would much rather be hiking through the woods or walking on the beach looking at nature (or for animatronic dolphins and deer) than strolling along a boardwalk or through a shopping district peering into windows. They have my eternal gratitude for not making me go with them and I'm happy that they were able to find "bargains" that made them so happy they told me the stories of the purchases over and over again.<br />
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They also asked if they could stay at the house again, perhaps this fall.<br />
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I'm sending my husband with them next time. My nerves can't take it. </div>
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(I wrote this back when Ruth tagged me for Lucky Seven. I'm actually back in PA now working on wedding plans and getting the house in shape for the eventual wedding guests. I decided that planning a wedding wasn't stressful enough, so I've added construction workers and running around picking out wallpaper and tile to my to-do list. By this fall, when the wedding is over and my youngest daughter leaves for college, I will probably need to nap for two weeks straight.)<br />
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</div>JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-36955128885069574212012-03-22T17:43:00.000-04:002012-03-22T17:43:13.241-04:00The Cop Said, "Breathe Into This, I'm Checking Your Toothpaste Level."Things I sincerely believe-<br />
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When a male gynecologist is about to examine a woman, she should be allowed a firm grip on his testicles so that they can share in the "this may pinch a bit" experience. This practice should also be in effect for male dentists or anyone else who asks you to open wide.<br />
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God should have given women a hook on the base of their spines and a loop on the top of each butt cheek so that when we hit fifty, we can bustle them up like the dragging train on a wedding gown.<br />
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Dogs are smart and only play dumb so they can nap all day. Some husbands have perfected the same trick.<br />
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There is someone standing at a utility sink in a Aquafina factory filling bottles from the tap before they are sealed. Evian costs more, so they probably use a garden hose. Don't get me wrong, I buy bottled water by the case, but every time I do, I feel like I've been snookered somehow.<br />
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The happiness and joy my dogs give me is not worth picking up warm poo with a thin plastic bag and carrying it through the neighborhood. It's hard to convince the neighbors to come over for dinner when you are standing with a pile of poo in the hand that touches the food.<br />
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There is someone watching through the black plastic square on the back of "automatic flush" toilets. They decide when to flush and when not to depending on how much they are enjoying watching you dance in front of the toilet in an attempt to activate the "automatic sensor" on the back.<br />
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The weather channel should only be allowed to show you the weather in areas where they are having worse weather than you are. Showing you the temps in Florida and Hawaii when you can't get to your car unless you have a rope stretching from your porch to the driver's door to guide you through the blizzard is just mean.<br />
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Making two trips when you can strain your back, strangulate your hernia, and dislocate your shoulder carrying all the grocery bags at once is for sissies. Don't tell my surgeon, my physical therapist, or Blue Cross I said that.<br />
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The secret to a happy marriage is marrying an orphan.<br />
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It is always a bad idea to brush your teeth while operating a motor vehicle going seventy miles an hour. I'm not sure why the man I saw on Sunday needed to brush his teeth so badly that he couldn't wait until he was parked somewhere. Maybe he'd been drinking and didn't want his wife to smell something on his breath or maybe he was late for a hot date. I have no idea, but I knew I didn't want to be around when he had to steer with his knees so he could use both hands to floss.<br />
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Real estate agents in beach towns have animatronic dolphins that they share with each other to sucker in buyers. When you are considering buying a property near the ocean, you will always see happy dolphins jumping out of the water to entertain you, but once you own the property, you will never see a dolphin again. Coincidence? I think not. Those real estate agents are all in on the conspiracy. The ones in mountain locales probably share robot deer that scamper playfully across the lawn.<br />
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The scales in doctors' offices are rigged. I can't be the only one who always weighs five pounds more at the doctor's office than on any other scale. Not just one doctor's office. All of them. On a similar topic, no male doctor with a big beer belly should ever scold a pregnant woman for gaining weight. Ever.<br />
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Salads may be good for your heart, but a banana cream pie heals all wounds.<br />
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And finally, I firmly believe that all future photo id's should be taken while the person is holding either a cell phone or a laptop in front of the bottom half of their face for a truer representation of what they usually look like. Remember the good old days when you sat down to watch a movie as a family and you could look around the room at your loved ones and actually see their faces? When their fingers were digging into bowls of popcorn instead of feverishly texting or tweeting? When watching a movie didn't take four hours because you didn't have to keep rewinding the parts they missed while updating their status? I am preparing myself to witness my daughter and her fiancé standing at the altar, each holding a laptop as they Skype their "I do's" to each other. I couldn't tell you for sure if my husband still has a beard or not since an iPad playing the theme music from classic LoonyTunes is blocking my view.<br />
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Maybe if I put my laptop on top of a bunch of pillows where I usually sit and set it to say, "Somebody please let that dog out!" "Is there anything good on TV tonight?" "What do you guys want for dinner?" along with a few other phrases that never elicit a response, I can sneak back down to Florida and no one will notice. If I do, I'm not taking my cell phone with me. And I'll brush my teeth <i>before</i> I hit the road.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-46986670142672502842012-03-19T10:01:00.000-04:002012-03-19T10:01:25.962-04:00Rocket Scientists, Mashed Potatoes, Ladders, and Poop Murals<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Despite my woeful lack of experience and qualifications, and contrary to my never-ending worries, my girls have turned out well. I'm having trouble accepting their grownup selves because I knew them when, so to speak. It boggles my mind to see my oldest daughter J giving presentations on aerospace engineering and to see her being responsible for repairs on the space shuttle (<i>the space shuttle!</i>) because I knew her when she had trouble memorizing her multiplication tables, and when she dressed up as a vampire for Halloween, and when the only rocket ship she did repairs on was a refrigerator box she painted in the backyard. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> It's inconceivable that C has a degree in Anthropology and is getting married soon because the C I still see is the four year old who did a booty shake to Jingle Bell Rock that was caught on camera, or the C who was afraid of the plastic crocodile in the Crocodile Dentist game, or the C who saved McDonald's french fries in her closet, or the C who did whatever her older sister told her and repeated everything she said--how can she go first into this new adventure called marriage?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Third daughter A is now a psychologist who will be leading group therapy sessions at a prestigious hospital. My little A leading group therapy? A, who as a toddler, used to wait until someone was watching and then scramble to the top of anything she could climb, just for the thrill of seeing us run to save her? A, who cut her finger on a toy box, had to have four nurses hold her down so they could bandage it, and then tore the bandage off on the way out of the hospital, insisting, "You do it, Mommy. You do it." The A who has given me more pictures and videos of her making funny faces or dressed in crazy costumes than my hard drive can hold is now a psychologist? How is that possible?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> And even my baby M is freaking me out. M, who as a very young entrepreneur, tried to convince her father to buy sticks from her for $3 a pop, M who did a whole song and dance routine with a bar of hotel soap as a toddler ("This is my soap, it's not your soap . . ."), M, who could play for hours marching the figures from the nativity up and down a yardstick bridge, is about to graduate from high school and go off to a top university in the fall. She is already working with a film production company and is well on her way to being a successful filmmaker.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> If I'm having trouble seeing my adult daughters as they are instead of seeing the children they once were, how do the parents of movie stars, surgeons, politicians, etc. take their adult children's success seriously when they remember the braces and acne, the awkwardness of puberty, the embarrassingly public childhood gaffes, the fear of the dark, the bed-wetting, and giving them the birds and bees talk? How can you watch fans mobbing your celebrity son without remembering him crying because no one would let him sit next to them on the bus? Or watch your daughter become CEO of a Fortune 500 company and not think about the D she got in sixth grade math? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I guess that's what helps most of us keep our feet on the ground---the fact that we have family and friends who knew us before we were so highfalutin. My mother passed away in 1991, but I'm sure if she was here and was watching me give a book reading, she would be thinking, "How can she stand up and speak before all these people when she used to hide behind my skirt anytime I asked her to say hi to one of my friends? And she writes whole books now when I was lucky to get two letters a year from her while she was in college?"<br />
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Others may look at you in awe as a movie star, a cardiologist, a rocket scientist, or a CEO, and your family is surely impressed with what you have accomplished, but don't think they have forgotten that you once spread the contents of your diaper all over the nursery wall or asked if you had to steer while using cruise control on the car or peed your pants when you thought your grandfather's snoring was a bear attack. They remember that the great speaker of today couldn't pronounce spaghetti until he was seven and the renowned beauty had to take her cousin to prom.<br />
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They know all your secrets. And they aren't afraid to share them if you get a little too big for your britches.<br />
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Part of me thinks that would be a good thing. Part of me wants to talk to my surgeon's mother and hear how he had to be reminded every single day to take the trash out or how he mixed his peas in his mashed potatoes every time she served them and still does when he's not out at a fancy restaurant. It would make him more human and less intimidating. But another part of me knows that when you are about to let someone cut into your insides, putting your life in their hands, it's better to see them as super-human and better to not know that he couldn't master tying his shoes until he was eight years old. So I haven't asked for his mother's phone number yet.<br />
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Many times in interviews with the family members of politicians, movie stars, famous artists, etc., the question, "What was he/she like as a child?" will come up. The interviewee will invariably paint a positive picture--"He was such a creative child!" "Animals loved her!" or "He learned to speak at an early age," when what they are remembering is the "creative" poop mural on the wall, the "animals who loved her" because she always forgot to put the lid on the garbage can at the curb, and "he learned to speak" early but his first three words were curse words which he repeatedly loudly and often.<br />
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That's as it should be. The same people who helped and supported you as you rose the ladder to success should be the ones who can jiggle that same ladder a bit if you climb so high that you forget how you got on that first step. Because they will also be the same people who will pick you up if you come crashing down to earth. And because they love the real <i>you</i>, the <i>you</i> nobody else gets to see--every last poop-covered, math-flunking, cousin-dating bit of you. :)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> </div>JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-81363981768474326932012-03-17T12:21:00.000-04:002012-03-17T12:21:07.952-04:00Moldy Cheese, Missing Knobs, Select Seats, and The In-Laws A while back, I stated that I had learned my lesson and I wasn't going to try to win over my in-laws anymore. I was going to say "No" when they asked for favors or tried to drag me into their madness.<br />
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It sounded good when I said it. I guess no one is really surprised that I caved and am now sitting in the center of Crazytown.<br />
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Planning for our future retirement, Herbie and I decided to invest in a house in Florida while the real estate prices are so low. It's a lovely house and I could easily live there full-time. FIL and MIL asked if they could bring some friends down to the house for two weeks to get away from the cold. All of them are in their eighties. We of course agreed and I volunteered to go down a few days early to get the house ready, pick them up from the airport so they wouldn't have to drive, and then stay a few days to show them how everything works. I also wanted to stock the fridge and cook a few meals for them.<br />
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Before leaving PA, I called my MIL to ask what groceries she wanted me to buy. She listed a handful of breakfast items, but when I asked what they wanted to eat for their lunches, she told me that they usually eat cheese and crackers. I asked what kind of cheese I should buy and she told me she was bringing a block of cheese in her suitcase. I explained that cheese is available in FL, but she said they like a certain brand, so she was packing it. They had an hour drive to the airport, a two hour wait for their flight, a two hour flight, and then between getting luggage and the drive to the house, another two and a half hours. That poor cheese sat in that suitcase for at least seven and a half hours. I'm surprised it didn't show up on the airport screeners as a deadly weapon.<br />
<br />
They were scheduled to land at 2:46. Daughter J and I were dutifully waiting in the cell phone lot and saw on the board that they had landed early at 2:18. By three, we still hadn't heard anything. I tried calling my FIL's phone, but no answer. Finally, at about 3:15, he answered. I asked where he was and he said outside US Airways. He had called my brother-in-law and told him to call Herbie and have Herbie call me. I asked him why he didn't just call my phone and he said he didn't have the number. I had in fact given both him and my MIL my cell number.<br />
<br />
We picked them up and started driving to the house, which is a beautiful hour and fifteen minute drive down the coast. Usually, guests are blown away by the scenery along the way. Instead, my guests chose to start a conversation about the seating on the plane that went something like this:<br />
<br />
Guest One-"I paid $50 for a select seat, but that other fellow said he paid $25 for the same seat and he wouldn't move."<br />
<br />
Guest Two-"He paid $25 and you paid $50? That doesn't seem right."<br />
<br />
Guest Three-"Did he pay $25 or $50?"<br />
<br />
Guest One-"He paid $25. I paid $50."<br />
<br />
Guest Two-"That doesn't seem right."<br />
<br />
Guest One-"And he wouldn't move."<br />
<br />
Guest Two-"That doesn't seem right."<br />
<br />
This continued for ten minutes. Then there was a five minute silence. I looked back to see that they had all nodded off. Then out of nowhere:<br />
<br />
Guest Two-"Why would you have to pay $50 and he only had to pay $25? That doesn't seem right," and we were off to the races again. This continued for the entire hour and fifteen minutes, only broken up by brief naps (Theirs, not mine. I wanted to nap so badly, but I was driving, so it didn't seem like a good idea) I can only imagine what the guy who paid $25 for the seat on the plane had to listen to for the two hour flight.<br />
<br />
Even though none of them would be driving to or from the airport, they all wanted to know what highway we were on, had just been on, and would be getting on. I was glad to tell them, but then they forgot and asked again. And again. And again. One of the members of the party is a retired priest, so I couldn't even mumble curse words under my breath (not that Mom ever does that, darling daughters who might be reading this).<br />
<br />
We reached the house and got everyone settled into their rooms. I had planned to cook salmon for dinner, but they decided they wanted to go out. Then they decided they wanted to stay in and have takeout, so I dug out menus, took orders, and went to pick up the food. I had bottled water, soda, ice tea, coffee, and juice at the house, but not tomato juice, which is the only thing FIL kept asking for even after we told him we didn't have any, so off I went to the grocery store. I was tempted to lie down in one of the aisles until the manager made me go home, but I resisted.<br />
<br />
I have a great deal of respect and compassion for the elderly, especially as I am fast approaching that time in my own life, so don't think I'm heartless. I am just exhausted. I'm still trying to get my strength back after my surgery and I foolishly thought, "What better way to recover--a week in the sun while being around in case my in-laws need anything or have any questions!" I pictured lovely dinners out, lying in a beach chair reading during the day, and watching the sun set over the ocean. That's not quite how it's turned out.<br />
<br />
I don't remember running around this much when I had a two year old, a four year old, and a newborn. Someone always needs something. Mostly, they can't figure out how to make anything work and no matter how many times I show them, they forget and need me to do it again. This includes door locks, appliances, TV remotes, lawn chairs, the hot tub, tupperware, showers, light switches, thermostats, and trash cans. My MIL went into the garage to put the trash out and got "trapped" in there, even though there are big buttons on the wall to open the automatic doors and a side door that leads outside. They insist on having the screen doors shut so no bugs get in (even though I leave them open all the time and have never had a problem) but then they keep walking into the screens and getting angry. My father-in-law took all the knobs off the dresser in his room since one was broken and went to the hardware store to pick out new ones (without telling me or giving me a choice in the matter) but returned empty-handed, so I guess I'll add shopping for drawer knobs to my list of things to do.<br />
<br />
They drove into town to do some shopping. My MIL bought a bathing suit, then they wandered through a bunch of stores just browsing. When they got home, one of the men came into the kitchen where I was working on dinner. I asked if they'd had a good time and he said after walking around for about an hour, my MIL realized she didn't have her sunglasses. They retraced their steps again and again, but couldn't find them, so she bought a new pair. Then when they were driving home, one of the ladies couldn't find her package, so they drove back to their original parking spot. When she climbed out of the van to see if it was on the ground, she realized it had been on the floor by her feet the whole time. Minutes later, my MIL found that the "missing" sunglasses were in her purse. Basically, they spent three hours looking for things they hadn't lost. I laughed at the story. It was harder to keep laughing as one by one they each wandered into the kitchen to tell me the exact same story. When I would try to stop them by saying, "I know, so and so already told me," they would say, "Did he/she tell you . . ." and just continue telling the whole thing. When my MIL finally came into the kitchen, I asked, "Hey, Mom, do you have an extra pair of sunglasses I can borrow? I can't find mine even though I've looked everywhere." It took her a minute, then she laughed along with everyone else.<br />
<br />
One of the women was complimenting my cooking and hospitality and said, "Herbie sure knew what he was doing when he married you." My FIL was horrible to me from the minute we announced our engagement all the way up until about ten years ago and he still has his moments of cruelty. I thought that at his advanced age when many people try to make amends for past hurts, and considering he's had thirty years to see that I've been a good wife and mother, I'd give him an opening to say something nice. So I pointed to him and said, "Could you please tell him that? He was convinced that Herbie was ruining his life by marrying me." Crickets.<br />
<br />
They are very appreciative of the meals I've cooked and the errands I've run and they do try to help out as much as possible. Part of the problem is not theirs, but mine. Since I am a huge germaphobe, it's hard for me to reach into cupboards and drawers and pull out items they have washed that are still covered with large chunks of food they didn't see. Or to watch them dry dishes with a dish towel that they just dragged across the trash can or the floor while putting things away. Like I said, this probably wouldn't even register with most people. They would just be grateful for the help. I'm trying to squelch my phobia because I know that it means a lot to them to be able to help. Too many people already treat them like they are useless. I'm doing a lot of squelching this week. I hope it burns calories.<br />
<br />
There are memories of this week that will have to be purged from my brain like when I heard my FIL telling my brother-in-law on the phone that he had already put his dinner order in with the maid (that would be me) or when I was <b><i>told</i></b> I would be driving them to a restaurant an hour away on Sunday to meet up with another family member who is visiting FL. I will definitely wipe out the dinner conversation when the priest asked me if one of the couple's bedroom activities had kept me awake the night before (I suggest you try to forget this, too). Then there was the descriptive story my FIL shared about that couple's honeymoon so many, many years ago. I'm trying hard to forget that one of the men came into the kitchen carrying a soiled adult diaper and put it into the kitchen trash because he couldn't find the can in the bathroom. I'll try to forget that in the middle of our hospitality to them, my FIL told me that both Herbie and I need to lose weight. And I'll make sure I don't remember all the calls from my sisters-in-law making sure I haven't let their parents drown, wander off, or starve to death.<br />
<br />
I will have some nice memories from this week---talking to my MIL about C's upcoming wedding, proudly answering all the questions about what my daughters are up to, my FIL telling my BIL that he has laughed so hard here his stomach hurts and knowing I was responsible for some of those laughs, and watching the six of them scarf down five pounds of salmon in one sitting after being told they don't eat much.<br />
<br />
My favorite memory of all came last night---standing in the doorway to the sitting room and seeing four of these gray-haired treasures sitting on the couch wearing 3D glasses as they watched a movie. It was priceless. I wish I had taken a picture.<br />
<br />
I'm staying until Tuesday when I have to fly home to take care of some wedding appointments. They'll be here by themselves until I return the following Monday to drive them to the airport.<br />
<br />
When I open the door after a week of being away, I might find all the screen doors busted through, or every light in the house on since they couldn't figure out how to turn them off, or all of them "trapped" in the garage, or the knobs taken off every piece of furniture in the house.<br />
<br />
As long as I don't walk in on the noises the priest asked me about, I'll survive.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-92181682230867255742012-03-11T11:36:00.000-04:002012-03-11T11:36:17.789-04:00Leaky Diapers, Kindergarten Gangs, Infected Tattoos, and Empty Nests What was I thinking when I had kids? No really, what <i>was</i> I thinking?<br />
<br />
Not that I regret having my girls. Just the opposite, in fact. They are the light of my life and they grew up way too fast. But it's amazing to me that a task so breathtakingly important as raising healthy, sane individuals who can fit nicely into society is left up to people with no training, no required skills, no background check, no resume, and no clue--people like me.<br />
<br />
Shouldn't I have had to at least fill out some kind of form, like:<br />
<br />
I, (fill in your name), understand that by having a child, I will be responsible for making sure that-<br />
<br />
1. He/she is loved and cherished for the rest of his/her life no matter what, including during: temper tantrums in the grocery store, colic, puberty, door slamming/I hate you phases, diaper leakage in public places, learning to drive a car, forgetting to put gas in said car, denting said car, learning of the word "NO," stomach flu and all related cleanup, and the "Can I sleep in your bed?" period.<br />
<br />
2. He/she is neither a bully or bullied. I swear to teach my child that making someone else feel bad is not an acceptable way to make yourself feel good and shoving others in lockers, writing cruel things on their FB page, humiliating them in front of the class, or physically harming them just makes you a sucky, sucky, sucky human being who will eventually feel shame for your behavior, but have no way to go back and make amends. You will have to live with your guilt for the rest of your life which will eat at you like a flesh-eating disease. If my child is the victim of bullying, I promise to move heaven and earth to protect my child and teach him/her that violence against the bullies ends up hurting innocent people and isn't the answer.<br />
<br />
3. He/she is well-fed (even if that means I have to learn to cook), never leaves for school in below freezing weather in shorts and flip-flops, keeps his/her piercings and tattoos clean and infection-free even if that means I have to suppress my shudders and clean them myself, learns to share before kindergarten to avoid potential lawsuits, and can communicate with other human beings without using a keyboard.<br />
<br />
4. He/she is not named in a way that will guarantee a lifetime of teasing, misspellings, mispronunciations, and beat-downs. No exceptions will be made just because you are a celebrity and are trying for free publicity.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I want to drive a car, I have to fill out forms and take several tests. If I'm applying for a job, I have to have some skills, fill out an application, and give an interview. But if I want to raise a child, I can just wing it.<br />
<br />
I grew up in a loving, fairly stable home and I'd done some babysitting over the years. That's it. Those were my qualifications for bringing four humans into the world and being almost totally responsible for their physical, emotional, and mental growth. Would you hire me with that limited resume? I wouldn't.<br />
<br />
When new mothers panic, they are told, "You'll learn as you go along. Everyone does. Most of it will come naturally." Yikes. It's a wonder any babies survive our trial and error education. Books by experts help and many parents take advantage of them, but reading how to swim is quite different than being thrown in the deep end of the pool.<br />
<br />
I don't think anyone is ever truly prepared for the endless mess, the mountain of diapers, the sleep deprivation, the selflessness required, the utter exhaustion, and the guilt that no matter how much you are doing, you aren't doing enough.<br />
<br />
I didn't know beforehand how high the highs would be--the funny things they say that make you laugh out loud and smile for days--the smell of sunshine in their hair after a hard day of playing outside--watching their first step, first day of kindergarten, first date, and first day of college--pulling the blanket to their chin while they sleep--listening to them describe their day at school as a first-grader, fifth-grader, or senior--watching them laugh with friends and then look over their friends' heads to share a smile with you--hugs and kisses and grasping your finger as an infant--it all was so much sweeter than I expected it to be.<br />
<br />
But what really threw me for a loop was the worry. I didn't plan ahead for that. I didn't realize that it starts before they are even born and ends---<b>never</b>. I used to devour Stephen King's novels, but once I had my first daughter, I couldn't read them anymore and still don't. There were too many real-life horrors to protect her from. I couldn't add to them with fictional ones. Of course you know that you will always worry about your child's health and safety, but add in things like worrying that she's warm enough, isn't thirsty or hungry, makes friends and that those friends are good ones or if she can't find good ones then she at least has someone to sit with at lunch. Worrying that her new shoes are giving her a blister, that the tag on her onesie is rubbing a sore spot on her neck, or that the thong she had to have because everyone else is wearing them is . . . well, you figure it out.<br />
<br />
There is always something to worry about all day, every day, and even enough to keep you up at night. First you worry that no boy will ask her out and then you worry because one does. You worry that she is gaining too much weight and then when she loses some, you worry about eating disorders. You worry that she won't get good grades and then when she does, you worry that she is putting too much pressure on herself. You've protected and sheltered her and then you're supposed to stand by and watch as she walks into a classroom of tough-looking kindergarteners who could be in some sort of gang for all you know. Or gets into a car with a friend who has had her license for all of three minutes and might drive as fast and non-stop as she talks. Or walks out the door with a date before you've had a chance to slap a tracking unit on the bumper of his car.<br />
<br />
It's hard to turn off all that worry and let go, but let go I must. By next fall, I'll be a momma bird sitting in the proverbial empty nest. After blindly wading into motherhood twenty-seven years ago, I refuse to be left in the nest without a plan. I'm going to spend more time on my writing, travel, try lots of new recipes now that my finicky eater will be on a college cafeteria diet, and go on dates with my husband who has been waiting to claim my attention back for decades.<br />
<br />
At least until I have some grandkids to spoil. You hear that, Herbie? You have me to yourself for at most a couple of years, so you'd better make the most of it.<br />
<br />
JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-58900582022676267202012-02-26T17:40:00.000-05:002012-02-26T17:40:00.375-05:00Why Is There A Glob of Chocolate Pudding On My Nightstand And Other Questions Parents Have To Ask<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:PixelsPerInch>96</o:PixelsPerInch> <o:TargetScreenSize>800x600</o:TargetScreenSize> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">(This actually happened when my girls were still relatively young. It explains a lot about why I have silver strands mixed in with the blonde in my hair and why I have trouble expressing a complete thought.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Can someone please tell me why I just found a glob of chocolate pudding on the nightstand in my bedroom?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No answer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “I know I wasn’t eating chocolate pudding in my room, so someone else in this house must know something about this.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Youngest daughter M, twelve years old: “Oh yeah, that might have been me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “You were eating chocolate pudding in my bed?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “Nope.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Then how did the pudding get there?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I had a headache.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “You had a headache?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “Yup.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “And smearing chocolate pudding on the nightstand made your headache better somehow?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I needed to take a pill for my headache.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “And?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I can’t swallow a pill unless I put it in something else so I put it in a spoonful of chocolate pudding.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Okay, but how did it get in my bedroom?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “The cat was staring at me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “So you flung the pudding at the cat and it landed on the nightstand? Was the pill still in it?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I didn’t fling the pudding at the cat. The cat was in the kitchen staring at me when I tried to swallow the pill, and it’s hard enough to swallow a pill without a cat staring at you, so I went upstairs to do it in the privacy of your room.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Then what happened?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I’m not sure”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Let’s recreate the scene. You’re standing next to my bed. You have a spoonful of chocolate pudding in your ---which hand was it in?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “The right hand.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “So the spoon is in your right hand and you raise it to your mouth and . . .” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “Oh yeah, I gagged on the pill.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Now we’re getting somewhere! Did you spit the pudding and the pill onto the nightstand?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “Ewwww, gross! No, I ran into the bathroom and spit the pill into the sink.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Now think really hard, was the spoon in your hand when you got to the sink?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “No.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Picture the spoon. Where is it?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I remember now! I dropped it on the nightstand when I gagged.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “But I only found pudding on the nightstand. There was no evidence of a spoon.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: I went back and picked up the spoon and brought it to the kitchen so you wouldn’t get mad.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Okay. Now I understand. Could you please grab a paper towel and go up and wipe up the pudding.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I can’t.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Why not?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">M: “I have a headache.” <o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-21582300341098632392012-02-20T11:36:00.000-05:002012-02-20T11:36:53.498-05:00Recovery, Leprechauns, Birthday Cake, and Thanks I survived.<br />
<br />
I went into the hospital on January 11th for what was supposed to be the repair of one incisional hernia---just a small incision, home the same day, and a month's recovery. Instead, they found three hernias, cut me from two inches above my belly button to about six inches below, admitted me to the hospital, and stuck a tube with a drain in me that stayed in for over a month.<br />
<br />
Oh, and did I mention that I woke up during surgery?<br />
<br />
Okay, so that sounds more dramatic than it was. I don't remember waking up and wouldn't even know that it happened if one of the recovery room nurses hadn't told me about it. I might have thought that it was a drug-induced hallucination (for instance, I'm not sure but I don't think a leprechaun was truly sitting at the foot of my hospital bed trying to "steal me Lucky Charms" but I can't prove anything one way or another). But one of my daughters was with me and confirms that the nurse did in fact say I woke up during the procedure (my daughter did not, however, admit to seeing the leprechaun, but she might have dozed off for a minute or two).<br />
<br />
So they won't be making any horror movies about my experience. I wasn't awake and aware but unable to move, I didn't hear the surgeons talking about their hangovers or their golf scores, and I didn't float above my body and watch them carve me up. But it's still pretty horrifying to think about, especially for someone like me who is almost guaranteed to need future surgeries. As I've found out, once they cut into your abdomen, the odds are pretty good that they will have to go back in again and again to remove adhesions, fix hernias, and unfortunately, sometimes repair organs that get entangled in the scar tissue. It's never easy to force yourself to walk into the hospital and willingly lie on a table while someone uses sharp instruments to cut into you, but it will be a lot harder next time worrying about being a light sleeper. Maybe I'll insist that I be allowed headphones with shows from The Discovery Channel playing on them. That always knocks me right out.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, there are some pros to having surgery. They don't outweigh the cons, but they still deserve to be counted.<br />
<br />
Pros-<br />
<br />
1.) My daughters all were able to come home and be with me in my time of need. I got to spend a couple of weeks with my favorite people in the world and they, along with Herbie, took care of me completely, even doing the tedious chores I couldn't convince the leprechaun to tackle. Thank you, ladies and Herbie. I love you and I'm so very proud of the adults you've become despite my maternal deficiencies (yes, that includes you, Herbie. I don't say it enough, but I'm very proud to call you my husband, best friend, and soulmate. Happy 30th Anniversary!)<br />
<br />
2.) After driving my family crazy watching only Everybody Loves Raymond dvd's during my recovery from my last surgery, I was able to branch out this time and find shows on Netflix that I'd never had time to check out before. I am now proudly addicted to Downton Abbey, Royal Pains, and Monk. I also found a UK show called The IT Crowd and you haven't lived until you have watched Moss while on painkillers.<br />
<br />
3.) Now that the surgery is behind me, it's safe to watch Grey's Anatomy again.<br />
<br />
4.) I already knew how lucky I am to have friends who will put up with me, but the cards, fruit arrangements, flowers, meals, gelato, popcorn assortments, phone calls, and prayers all meant so much to me. Thank you to my friends and family members for all your love and support, even to those of you who are just trying to make me fatter than you are, brown-nose your way into my will, or convince me to vacation with you in places I refuse to go. I love you all.<br />
<br />
5.) Despite those trying to fatten me up and the delicious goodies that arrived on my doorstep almost daily, I always lose ten or fifteen pounds after surgery. It's not a diet plan I would recommend, but still, it deserves to be counted as a pro.<br />
<br />
6.) While poking and prodding me during follow-up visits, my surgeon and Herbie always have involved discussions on the economy, politics, and the business climate in general. I would prefer that my surgeon not talk over my exposed body as though I'm not there, but it does keep him from asking more questions about my bathroom habits and exercise routine, so I'm adding it as a pro.<br />
<br />
It's been five and a half weeks since the surgery and even though my surgeon said it could take up to three months to recover, I spent this past weekend at our loghouse in the country with fifteen of my youngest daughter's closest friends. We go up every year for her birthday and I was afraid we wouldn't be able to do it this year, but we managed. We had three days of giggles, homemade pizza, games, movies, hikes, cookie pies, and tears over a beautiful scrapbook her friends made for her as a gift.<br />
<br />
If spending three days in a cabin in the woods with sixteen teenage girls and coming out alive doesn't prove that I'm back up to full speed, I don't know what will.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-48718935870443217662011-10-17T09:36:00.000-04:002011-10-17T09:36:08.703-04:00Trapped Cats, Nibbling Rats, Grey's Anatomy, and Me Okay, so remember how I compared myself to a cat trapped in a closed skylight because I had to have surgery and there was no escape? Well, I managed to wiggle my fingers through an opening and hit the remote control to open the skylight just a tiny bit. I've re-scheduled the surgery for January instead of October, so I'm getting a little bit of a reprieve.<br />
<br />
While the surgery is necessary and important, if I'm careful, I'll be okay to wait until the first of the year. The doctor agreed that I've had a rough go of it the past couple of years with two scheduled surgeries and one emergency surgery and said I could give myself a little break.<br />
<br />
Before I had my first surgery, I always watched shows like Grey's Anatomy and wondered how anyone voluntarily showed up at the hospital to let themselves be cut open. (By the way, although Grey's is one of my favorite shows, I can't watch it for a month or so before a scheduled surgery and right after a surgery, my family doesn't enjoy watching it with me because I tend to yell, "Yeah, right, like it really happens that way," frequently. As the scar and my memories fade, my enjoyment of the show increases to my pre-surgery levels and my family allows me to watch with them again.) I thought if I ever had to have life-saving surgery, my goose was cooked because I wouldn't be able to force myself to show up at the hospital and say, "Cut away." I figured I would be likely to just disappear a few days before the operation, using fake IDs and a stolen license plate so my family couldn't track me down and guilt me into having my life saved.<br />
<br />
But for me, once I got the call from the doctor telling me I had to have surgery, instead of going on the run, I went to a spiritual place that can only be achieved by either taking large quantities of drugs, or in my case, being paralyzed with fear. It was as though my brain heard the doctor and sent a message through my body like, "Red Alert! Red Alert! We have a situation that is too intense for subject to handle! Shut down all thought processes immediately and go into default semi-dazed mode!" Some of the thoughts took longer to shut down, as evidenced by my nervous narration to my poor, poor nephew who had the misfortune to catch me in my driveway in those early days after finding out and was treated to a detailed description of why his aunt needed her lady parts cut out. I still cringe for him every time I think about it.<br />
<br />
But after that unfortunate encounter, my brain closed the loopholes and I floated from day to day, buying supplies I would need post-surgery, writing letters to my loved ones <i>just in case</i>, doing the chores I would be unable to perform once home from the hospital, and researching every scrap of information about the surgery on the internet. The night beforehand, I was actually able to sleep, even though one of my daughters sat up all night by my side in case company was needed.<br />
<br />
The morning of, things moved in a dreamlike state. I dressed without using lotion or deodorant per the rules, brushed my teeth without swallowing any forbidden water, and talked normally on the drive to the hospital with my family. I registered and was led to a private room to change. I re-joined my family and had only moments with them before I was ushered away to the pre-surgery area. I thought there would be heartfelt goodbyes and pledges of undying love before I left (and maybe some prying of my fingers off the doorframe) but it was calm and unremarkable. The worst part was probably lying on the gurney next to other surgical patients waiting for my turn. They took my glasses, which is the same as blinding me, and they didn't give me any good drugs to make my dreamlike state complete. I used the breathing techniques that got me through four labors and deliveries to keep my panic at bay. Funny how the same techniques got me through both the most productive times for my lady parts and now their retirement.<br />
<br />
Finally, the doctor with the drugs showed up and although the Valium was just supposed to relax me, I'm a lightweight (not literally, but in the holding-my-drugs sense) and I don't remember anything else until I woke up in Recovery. My parts were out, the verdict was in---ovarian cancer, but a form that is less aggressive than most. It had spread to my lymph nodes, but they thought they got it all and that I would be okay. They cut me from belly button to groin and recovery would take almost a year, but it was over and I hadn't jumped off the gurney on the way to the operating room, used my shoulder to cross-check a few male nurses, and hid behind the dumpster of medical waste with my butt hanging out of my hospital gown for the rats to nibble. I was relieved.<br />
<br />
That is until a checkup with my surgeon a year later when he said, "Ut-oh!" You never, ever want to hear a surgeon say ut-oh. Chances are he or she is not going to say, "Ut-oh, I charged you too much for my services and I owe you money," or "Ut-oh, I made a mistake reading the scans and you don't have to have your spleen removed after all." No, mine was ut-oh, your organs are pushing through the muscle we cut open for your surgery and you now have an incisional hernia that needs to be repaired with another surgery. Ut-oh, indeed.<br />
<br />
That's exactly the way it would have happened on Grey's, except they would have discovered the hernia after I was hit by a train while running from an abusive boyfriend who they discover has a rare deformity that only they can fix with surgery. Oh, and my surgeon and the boyfriend's surgeon would be involved in an intense on-again off-again affair which they discuss openly across my unconscious body.<br />
<br />
Great TV. I'll have to stop watching again until March.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-70315188164961420372011-10-16T10:46:00.001-04:002011-10-16T10:48:04.265-04:00Dropbox, Air Conditioners, Modern Family, And Herbie One of my favorite TV shows right now is Modern Family. They had an episode in a previous season that really struck a cord with me. It was the one where married couple Claire and Phil have a fight (as regular viewers know, that doesn't narrow it down because they fight in every episode). This particular fight was because she had been recommending wedge salads to him for years and he ignored the suggestion. Then he came home one evening and told Claire that an acquaintance had suggested he try this new thing called a wedge salad, which he loved, and she should really try one sometime, as though he had never heard of it before despite the one hundred and seventeen times she'd mentioned it to him.<br />
<br />
Herbie and I have been there, done that. Many times.<br />
<br />
Why is it that a suggestion from a co-worker or friend carries so much weight with men while suggestions from their girlfriends, fiancees, or wives are just so much white noise? I don't normally relate to Claire on the show. I usually find her annoying (I hope that isn't because she is too much like me and I just don't recognize it kinda like the way Herbie laughs at Raymond's relationship with Marie without seeing how similar it is to the one he has with his own mother--yikes!) But in that episode, I not only related to Claire's frustration, I wanted her to hit Phil with the vegetables instead of just banging them on the counter for emphasis. They ended up with a broken microwave and their bodies covered in fire extinguisher foam, but I still thought Phil got off too easy.<br />
<br />
I can spend days or weeks on the computer researching a product we need for our home (like, let's just say, hmm, an air conditioner, not because that brings up any strong memories or emotions or makes blood shoot from my eyes, but just random like). I can go to Consumer Reports and read their ratings of every air conditioner on the market, then read posts from people who actually own the units listing the pros and cons, then check thirty different stores' websites for the best price on the highly recommended units, and compile it all into a spreadsheet with colored graphs and a sliding scale for Herbie. I can then go over it page by page with him, pointing out why this particular unit is superior to all other units for our needs. He'll nod and ask questions, flip through the pages, and agree that we should schedule time to go pick one out. We'll get to the store and find the unit we've agreed on, call the salesperson over to discuss delivery options and payment plans, and then as I'm pulling out my credit card, Herbie will invariably say, "I'm not quite ready to buy yet. This guy at work was telling me about this unit that is so cold it will freeze a rump roast left in front of it." And we will return home to sit in front of our old unit that wheezes like it has emphysema and blows air that could warm up a can of soup.<br />
<br />
I'll do research on the unit that the "friend from work" suggested and find out that it isn't a window unit, would necessitate cutting a hole in the 200 year old stone wall of our house, and that it is a black market product since it is illegal to own in the US of A. And we'll start the dance again, only this time as we stand in the store contemplating the unit I'm suggesting, the holdup will be another friend who knows a guy who knew a guy whose sister's boyfriend owned one and thought he might have heard a strange hum coming from it. Or maybe it'll be a guy Herbie had lunch with who has never owned this air conditioner or anything made by this company, but has a bad feeling about them in general and has been right in the past when he's had bad feelings.<br />
<br />
And if this air conditioner story was in fact true and not just a theoretical example of what could serve as evidence in divorce court, it might be three years of sweat and the occasional puff of smoke from the old unit before Herbie says, "Maybe we should buy Model # 39489. Some guy at work just bought one and he loves it," with Model # 39489 being the exact unit I recommended three years ago when it was on sale, which it no longer is. And if this was a real story, I might have said, "Sounds great! Let's go get one right now," waiting until the new unit was safely purchased, installed, and cooling my temper before pointing out that we just suffered through three years of stifling summers because he doesn't listen to me.<br />
<br />
But, of course, this is just a made-up example.<br />
<br />
The same thing happens with news, politics, and funny stories. Heck, Herbie might come home tonight and say, "Remind me to tell you about this funny blog I read at work today where this wife is complaining about her husband not listening to her as they search for an air conditioner to buy. You're gonna love it!" He often tells me that "a guy at work" told him about this breaking news story or that economic trend or some political folly, not recognizing the twitch over my eye that signals that I was the one who told him just the day before. Is it really so hard to remember the difference between the person who gave birth to his four children and the guy who rotated his tires? Hint--I'm the one who smells like vanilla instead of axle grease. Usually. I have been known to get my hands dirty a time or two, but in general, it should be easy to tell us apart.<br />
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The same thing happened recently with Dropbox. I told Herbie all about the service, how it would make it easier to view each others' pictures and videos without trying to fit them into a size suitable for an email, how we could share more as a family if we all had accounts, and offered to set it up on his laptop for him. He nodded in all the right places and then went to bed without granting me access to his computer. Six months later, he was working on that same computer and asked me to help him with something. He handed me a sheet of paper with an email address and password and told me he needed to sign onto something called Dropbox because the techies at his business wanted to use it to share data that was too large to fit in an email. He now has an account with shared access for "the guys at work" but still hasn't set one up to share with his wife and daughters.<br />
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I know Herbie thinks that some of what I say is important. I know this because he has come home from work and spent hours discussing an upcoming meeting about a problem and then has gone to the meeting and suggested the very solutions that I offered in our conversation. Of course, he didn't tell them that they were <i>my</i> solutions, since the very important businessmen would bristle at the thought of implementing a strategy devised by a writer/housewife/mother, but still, he heard what I had to say in those situations.<br />
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It's kind of strange that he doesn't hold what I say in higher regard considering that for the past thirty years, I have been his main source of information and conversation. The first time I met his family, which was at a family wedding, the number one question they asked me was, "Does Herbie actually talk to you? He barely says a word around us." In fact, they had a family joke about how "it is rumored that there is a son named Herbie, but apart from some of his stuff lying around, no one is really sure he exists." In family newsletters and such, he was described as "a man of few words" which struck me as funny because I could barely get him to stop talking to me. He says it's because once his older brothers left home, anything he had to say had to compete with four chattering younger sisters and he eventually gave up. I guess he stored up all his observations, jokes, and stories until he met me and then they just spewed forth unabated.<br />
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Herbie talks with his co-workers and he talks with his friends, but most of his conversations are with me. 98% of what he knows about our daughters' lives is info I pass on to him in the evenings. I keep him up to date on their grades, friendships, disappointments, successes, love-lifes (well, as much as I think his blood pressure can handle), and their careers. When he would ask the girls about their teachers, he would always call them all "Mrs. Snagglepuss" because he couldn't keep track of their real names. I field phone calls from his family and relay pertinent news and gossip. I catch him up on all the news of the world and what's happening in our own little world, like upcoming social events, what the pets have soiled or destroyed, and what absolutely has to be fixed in our home to prevent the township from putting up "Condemned" signs. I stand close to him at family gatherings and tell him what his cousins' names are.<br />
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I am his own personal Dropbox where he can access all the stored data he needs to get by.<br />
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Ahhhh. That's why he doesn't feel an urgency to sign up on his laptop. He has me. Well, Herbie, my "hard drive" is getting corrupted by age and there are definite signs that data is being fragmented in a way that even the Geek Squad can't recover, so until they find a way to download my entire brain onto something that is Bluetooth compatible with your earpiece, your best bet is to access my Dropbox. (As I typed that last line, I could hear Joey Tribbiani or Howard Wolowitz saying it, and it definitely had a whole other meaning.)JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-52362783874665292872011-10-10T13:53:00.000-04:002011-10-10T13:53:46.213-04:00Tambourines, Sausage, Mardi Gras, and Rugby People have this idealized image of my family that is comical. Yes, my four daughters are good students and good people who have never broken the law (or at least haven't been caught yet) (or if they have been caught, they haven't called me for bail money), and I'm very proud of them, but we are also very, very human and we do stupid things all the time. We fight, we get on each other's nerves, we let each other down, we can be selfish, and we tease each other mercilessly.<br />
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But for some reason, there are people who look at us and think we are The Brady Bunch and that we spend Friday nights doing family sing-alongs with the biggest argument being who gets to shake the tambourine (if that were the case, I would definitely call dibs on the tambourine). I am exceptionally lucky that my daughters enjoy spending time with each other and with Herbie and me. We are a close family and I talk to each of them several times a week. We spend major holidays together and try to schedule a fun family vacation every year. But all of that takes a lot of work and compromise, some mild cursing and hair-pulling, and usually some hurt feelings thrown into the mix. It's like sausage-making---if you only see the end result, it looks tasty, but the process to get there is anything but pretty. And more often than not, I'm the one squishing the meat into the machine.<br />
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I called my sister-in-law N to tell her we would all be at my mother-in-law's party this weekend, including fiance E and longtime boyfriend T. She was thrilled to hear the news (No, really, she was.) She commented on what a fun, special couple C and E are and how excited she is about their wedding next year. I found myself wondering how she knew they were a fun, special couple since she has only met E once. N answered the question I hadn't asked.<br />
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"I follow C and E on Facebook and they are so cute together! I love reading the banter they have with their friends. So cute!"<br />
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I'm a firm believer that Facebook is a wonderful tool for high school and college kids to share info and keep in touch. I know that all four of my daughters love Facebook. I reluctantly signed up myself, but only because the oldest one was trying to win a grant and the rules allowed you to cast an extra vote if you did it from your Facebook account. Since I signed up, several people from high school and college have contacted me through the account and that's fun. Others have contacted me because they like my books and that is fun, too. But other than that, I don't participate in Facebook. Sorry to those who I am friends with on there, but you already know I seldom update my status and am much better at answering emails or texts.<br />
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If someone sends me a message, I answer it, and if every couple of months I have some news about the girls to share, I share it. That's all. I'm not friends with my daughters or their friends or my nieces and nephews. I don't want to read ramblings they have written after coming home from a party where "friend X" danced with "boy Y" and will forever after be known as "ex-friend who is the *&^%#$%^ skank of the dorm" or anything even close to that. I don't want to know that the sweet niece who helped me bake cookies when she was ten now swears like a trucker and has stacks of bead necklaces "earned" at Mardi Gras by flashing her boobs. The next time I hug my nephew at a family party, I don't want to remember that he "liked" a nude picture of some celebrity or bragged about chugging ten beers before vomiting in his mother's flower bed. Maybe my young family members are writing about joining the Peace Corps and ending world hunger, but I don't want to take any chances. By not reading their pages, I can continue to cling to the illusion (delusion?) that they are.<br />
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So when my sister-in-law said she was reading C and E's conversations with their friends on Facebook, my first thought was, "Creeper!" As if again reading my mind, she said, "My kids tell me not to be a creeper, but I tell them that I'm not, C and E accepted my invitation to be friends so they must want me to know what's happening in their lives." Here's a quandary for you: Your aunt or uncle or neighbor makes a request to be added as a friend on Facebook or MySpace or whatever. Do you ignore the request so they can ask you in person why you haven't added them yet, or do you deny the request and face the awkwardness, or do you accept the request and then censor your page? C & E didn't want to be rude, so they accepted her request. And now she's creeping on them. And by extension, she's creeping on the rest of us.<br />
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Because the next thing she said was, "I was looking through C's pictures and I saw that you guys went on a vacation to the Florida Keys this past June." Oh, yay. Now I'm wondering what pictures C put up of me in a bathing suit or scarfing seafood at some restaurant. Just as I'm wondering this, N says, "You guys are the perfect family. You and Herbie are such good parents and you all always look like you are having such fun together." I don't know about the "good parents" part, since I mostly think God took pity on Herbie and me when he saw how totally clueless we were and just gave us really, really easy kids, but the always having fun part is pretty true. We do manage to have fun wherever we go, even when things go majorly wrong, just because we are used to things going majorly wrong and we learned early on to find a way to laugh about it so we wouldn't go for each other's throats.<br />
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N told me that she noticed pictures of us on a "nature walk" and how happy we all looked. Nature walk, nature walk, hmmm . . . I guess she was talking about the trek through the Everglades we took. It was about 97 degrees, but according to The Weather Channel, with the humidity added in, it felt like 105. We were all dripping with sweat, the bugs were eating us alive, some of us (and by that I mean mostly me) were terrified of the alligators along the trail, but of course when we stopped for pictures, we all smiled. Doesn't everyone do that? That doesn't mean that when the camera wasn't aimed at us, we weren't pushing each other to fight for the minuscule sections of shade to be found or hogging the coldest water bottle for ourself, or hoping the endless bugs were more attracted to the scent of someone else's blood supply than our own. I didn't hear any one of us say, "Here, I'll spray my body with sugar water so all the bugs will feast on me and you guys won't have to suffer a single itch."<br />
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After seeing the pictures, N said, she woke her family up early on a Saturday morning and ordered them all into the car so they could take a "nature walk" in a nearby park and follow our example of being a happy family. Yikes. That's one sure way to make her family hate us. It didn't work out, though, she told me. Her family just wouldn't cooperate and complained the whole time--it was hot, they were tired, the bugs were biting them--and she finally gave up and let them escape back to the car where they apologized for being uncooperative. Really? That sounds exactly like our nature walk through the Everglades only no one apologized for complaining. Who would they apologize to since we were all complaining equally? I'm sure that if N had stopped her family on their walk to take some pictures, they would have all wiped the sweat and squished bugs from their faces and smiled broadly for the camera the same way we did. Viola! Happy family on nature walk.<br />
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When the camera is back in the case, we are just like any other family I know. We laugh, we fight, we annoy each other, we take care of each other, and we share memories that no one else has. Anyone who is planning to wiggle their way into our close-knit bunch needs to understand that while we never hesitate to insult each other's hair or breath or intelligence, it is done with love. When I tease one of my daughters about being a bad driver or burning the macaroni and cheese, I'm really saying, "You are the light of my life," and when they make fun of me for using the wrong word or calling them by the wrong name, they aren't actually accusing me of being senile, they are saying, "I know there is nothing I can say or do that will make you stop loving me." Really.<br />
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So for those foolish few who ignore all the warning signs and become one of us in the eyes of God and the legal system, you'll know that you've made it to the inner circle when we ask you to put your shoes back on because we'd rather smell the wet dogs. If we let you go first in the dinner line or smile politely when you lick your fingers and then reach back into the Doritos bag for more, you are still part of the viewing audience who only sees the 22 minutes-with-commercials, happy-endings-for-all, sitcom version of our family (yes, I'm talking about you, T. You are part of the family now, so I can tell you if that behavior continues, your snacking supplies and fingers are in danger of being cut off). <br />
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You'll see the version where Marcia gets hit in the face with a football but ends up learning a lesson about vanity and inner beauty and the whole family shares a group hug before jumping in the station wagon for a trip to the green stamps store and maybe you prefer that, the way I prefer the blissful ignorance of reality that I enjoy by not friending nieces and nephews on Facebook. But if you want to see the behind-the-scenes version where Marcia tackles Jan to the floor over the last Oreo, Peter plays home videos of Greg on a potty chair for Greg's new girlfriend, and paper towels serve as markers for the cat vomit everyone claims to have not seen, you have work to do. Deliver a couple of clever insults that leave us with our mouths hanging open, then turn our tentative shots at you back on us without hesitation and you'll get your foot in the door. But once your foot's in, avoid the paper towels strewn about. Just pretend you don't see them like everyone else.<br />
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P.S. Mike Brady is trapped in a collapsed building on Christmas Eve. Carol Brady stands outside the police barricade and worries. Suddenly, she lifts her voice (and the building, apparently) with a stirring Christmas carol and Mike stumbles out to freedom. Christmas and Mike are saved by the power of her voice. She'd be a handy chick to have around for say, mine collapses, earthquakes, and rugby scrums.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-78671409543456843862011-09-20T13:18:00.000-04:002011-09-20T13:18:27.099-04:00Bunny-Hopping to the Finish Line At about 4 o'clock this morning, I heard a cat crying. This isn't unusual since I have four cats and I'm used to their cries. They cry when they first come in from outdoors and they jump on my lap to tell me about their exciting adventures. I know the difference between the meow that means they are about to throw up in my shoe and the one that means they are bragging about bringing me the insect/mouse they have killed (or at least captured alive before letting it loose in my house). There is the, "I'm bored so you'd better entertain me before I find a way to entertain myself" cry and the "How could you leave me on this side of the door when it's warm and cozy in there with you" cry.<br />
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But this was a new cry. I got up and opened the door to let in whichever cat was lonely, but no one waited there. And the meowing continued. I stepped out on the porch to call, "Here, kitty, kitty," but not one furry soul came running. And I still heard meowing. Having been woken from a sound sleep, I was stumbling around with my eyes half-open and my brain on auto-pilot trying to locate the sad kitty. I looked up on the roof, since I have a skylight and cats have been known to stand over the open skylight and cry through the screen to get my attention, but the skylight was closed and no cats were on the roof. I also checked the air conditioning unit sticking out from my upstairs window because one particular cat, PJ, has the unfortunate habit of jumping six feet from a second floor porch railing onto the AC unit (without a safety net) to peer in the window and freak me out with her glowing yellow eyes. She is a black cat, so all you see in the darkness is those eyes. No PJ on the AC.<br />
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I walked back into the house, ready to stumble off to bed and try to sleep through the noise, when I noticed the cries were louder in one area. I looked up at the skylight and felt my heart jump in my chest. I was no longer semi-conscious. I was fully awake. There, framed in the moonlight, was my precious PJ, the sweetest cat I've ever met, sprawled like one of those stuffed cats you see on the rear windows of cars, trapped between the skylight glass and the screen. The space had to be about three inches thick. PJ's mother had climbed onto the screen once or twice, but her weight had always caused the screen to fall and she had safely landed on the table below. The skylight is set up to automatically close when it starts to rain or if anything bumps it, like a branch from a tree. PJ must have climbed onto the screen to let me know she wanted in and caused the window to close, not realizing it was closing until it was too late to crawl out.<br />
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I'm not sure whose face showed more panic, hers or mine, but I know my cries were louder. I grabbed one of the pins in the screen to try to pop it out, then stopped because I was worried she would get hurt when she fell if she couldn't get her feet under her in time. Deciding to use the remote to open the window instead, I pushed the button, then watched as it slowly, slowly lifted off of her. Luckily, the screen had some give in it, so she wasn't crushed, just scared and miserable. She scampered off the screen onto the solid roof, but as I turned to run to the door to let her in, I saw her stick her head back between the window and screen to look at me. I guess she didn't spend quite enough time trapped in there to learn her lesson.<br />
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I've been feeling a little like PJ trapped in that skylight lately. I recently found out that I have to have major abdominal surgery again in October. This will be my fourth time in five years. My choices are either have the surgery with all its pain and long recovery or risk waiting until it is a dangerous emergency that could involve more extensive surgery and an even longer recovery. Some choice. I keep hoping for another option, but unlike PJ's predicament, there is no one who will come along and push a magic button and give me a way out no matter how long or hard I howl.<br />
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At least I can prepare this time. Last time, it was emergency surgery and I had to spend ten days in the hospital with hairy legs and toenails that were only half covered in polish. Do you know how embarrassing that is when nurses are putting socks on you every day? Plus, I was due for a shower when I was rushed to the hospital, so in desperation, I washed my hair in the sink in Intensive Care.<br />
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You would think that I would enjoy a long recovery on the couch, a time of feeling no guilt about laundry or dishes or other household chores. After all, three of my favorite things are writing, reading, and watching movies which are couch-based activities. Unfortunately, general anesthesia and pain medication have a way of clouding your brain for weeks, if not months, after surgery and I always find it hard to concentrate on anything while recovering. My level of concentration just barely rises to watching re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond episodes that I have seen countless times before. My family has also seen them countless times before which makes my recovery almost as painful for them as it is for me.<br />
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Speaking of my family, they are fantastic about taking care of me while in the hospital and once I am home. They buy groceries, attempting to find little treats that will appeal to me, they cook and clean, they change my sheets and help me walk to the bathroom, and they put up with the Raymond re-runs without <i>too</i> much complaint. The only time the ball was dropped was when my husband showed up in my hospital room with a big platter of strong-smelling Italian takeout at a time when I had just spent several days vomiting and was lying with a tube running up my nose and into my stomach. But considering everything else he puts up with and does for me, it was a minor misstep.<br />
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One of my family members is with me round-the-clock for those first few weeks and that is a blessing. I realize this next statement shows just what a small, petty person I am, but it is also incredibly hard to lie on the couch, bored and in pain, and watch the family members who aren't on duty get ready for lunch with friends or to go to a movie or even to run to the store, all clean and shiny and wearing real clothes instead of the pajamas or drawstring pants I'm stuck in, with their legs shaved and their toes perfectly painted because they can bend over to accomplish the job. Given the choice between going through the recovery myself or watching one of my loved ones suffer through it, it's a no-brainer---I would choose the surgery for myself and the healthy, fun times for them---but even knowing that, I'll admit to getting cranky around week three on the couch and maybe, just maybe putting on another episode of Raymond out of spite instead of a genuine desire to watch Marie get her way once again.<br />
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Well, I'm sure I'll have plenty more thoughts to share with you about this over the next couple of weeks, including sharing some of the "you just gotta laugh" moments from my previous adventures in the hospital, so I'll end this for now. Besides, PJ just jumped on the AC unit again and I have to go save her. Maybe there's a lesson in that for me--she could have spent the day playing it safe, napping, and being fussed over, but she shook off her bad experience and leapt right back into the action. I should be recovered enough by January to at least bunny-hop, if not leap. Maybe my recovery period spent watching my family living life and having fun will go quicker if I plan big things for myself to do post-recovery. Bungie jumping? Sky diving? Maybe not, but a trip to someplace warm where I can lay on a chaise on the beach and watch the waves roll in isn't out of the question. I can always pack my portable DVD player and my Raymond discs, just in case.<br />
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<br />JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-16396185617091221412011-07-13T14:24:00.001-04:002011-07-13T14:58:05.475-04:00I Swear I Didn't Hit Him With A Frying Pan!There are many ways to celebrate a birthday---cake, a party, nice dinner out, having family and friends come over---and then there is my husband's way.<br />
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This past Sunday was Herbie's birthday and he wanted to spend it at our cabin in the mountains with my youngest daughter and me. We drove up on Friday with plans to spend Saturday and Sunday hiking through the woods and paddling around in canoes, then have a yummy dinner, a cake, and presents on Sunday afternoon before driving back home. A nice relaxing, outdoorsy weekend, right?<br />
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But Saturday morning my husband woke up before M and I did and since Herbie can't sit still for more than a minute, he headed out to the woods for some manly brush-hogging. The property that we own was left to us by Herbie's uncle and it consists of 127 acres. Herbie likes to use the tractor to cut trails for family and guests to walk through the woods.<br />
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I got up and had my coffee and M had just come downstairs when I heard a squawk on the walkie-talkie that was sitting on the kitchen counter. I answered it, figuring it was Herbie calling to see if we were up and ready for some fun. It <i>was</i> Herbie and he said, "I got the tractor stuck in the swamp." I replied, "You wouldn't be Herbie if you hadn't," since getting things stuck in mud is a common occurrence for my husband. Then he said, "I tried to pull it out with a winch. It snapped and the metal hook hit me in the back of the head. I'm bleeding and I need you to come get me." Who needs coffee to get your heart pumping when you have news like this?<br />
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He gave me directions as to where to find him and M and I jumped on the four-wheeler and took off, our two little white dogs following on foot since we didn't want to take the time to chase them down and stick them in the house. M and I drove back along an old logging road until I could see him coming up a trail to meet us. I jumped off and ran down the trail (and I don't run often) to where he was, but long before I reached him, I could see massive quantities of blood on his shirt and neck. We got him on the back of the four-wheeler and took him back to the cabin. While I assessed the situation, M drove back and picked up the weary dogs on the four-wheeler and brought them inside.<br />
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It was obvious that we were going to be making a trip to the emergency room of the local hospital. Problem is, the local hospital is an hour away. There are small clinics that are closer, but for a real hospital, you need to drive for an hour. Herbie jumped in the shower for a quick rinse off because he said he would be miserable riding in the truck and then sitting in the waiting room covered in sweat and blood. I told him to leave the bloody (not like Ron Weasley bloody, but actually bloody) clothes on so they would take him back to see the doctor more quickly, but he ignored my sage advice.<br />
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When he finished showering, I took my first good look at the damage and saw a two inch gash near the top of his head. He kept pointing to a spot lower on his head and when I parted the hair, I saw another gash there as well. M and I put several sterile gauze pads over the injury and then wrapped an Ace bandage around his head to hold them in place.<br />
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Herbie was pretty quiet on the ride, only answering my questions (Dizzy? Nauseated? Blurry vision? Any loss of consciousness? Was he knocked to the ground? That's right, I know these things. I raised four kids). I asked about pain and he said it wasn't too bad. I tried to get him to the hospital as fast as possible, but the drive involved a half hour on winding country roads before we reached the highway and both Herbie and M get carsick easily, so I drove just fast enough to imply a sense of urgency, but not fast enough to induce vomiting. It was a tricky balance.<br />
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Once at the hospital, he was evaluated. That is the nice thing about country hospitals--if I walked into a hospital at home and said I got hit in the head by a snapped winch cable while pulling my tractor out of the swamp, they would direct me to the psychiatric ward for further evaluation, but up there, they nodded their heads and the male intern said, "Yup, the same thing happened to my dad a few years ago." After looking at the cuts, they put fresh gauze on it and re-wrapped the Ace bandage around his head. They asked the same questions I had already asked him, and I was feeling smugly smart about that until I accidentally answered one of the questions by referring to his injury as his boo-boo.<br />
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They asked him what his pain level was and he said a three, which isn't too bad considering. Then they decided to put a neck brace on him "just in case" and that's when the fun began for real. If most husbands are potato heads, mine is a coconut head. There is no polite way to say this--his head is huge. It is perfectly proportioned to the rest of him, but compared to other heads, it's gigantic. He had to have a specially ordered helmet when he played high school football and he can never find a baseball cap that fits. He passed this huge noggin on to our girls so you can imagine how delightful it was to give birth to them. Not one had a pointy head, all hard and perfectly round at birth.<br />
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I think the hook on the winch cable would have missed a normal man's head by a mile, but Herbie presented too big of a target to miss. So the neck brace was waaaaay too small. They put it on anyway. Now the pain and discomfort level shot up to about a six, because the collar was tight on his throat and he had to hold his head at an odd angle to keep the back of the collar from digging into the lower cut. Blood started to pour down the back of his neck and I had to stuff tissues in there to sop it up. The collar was put on in case of whiplash, but Herbie hadn't had any neck pain before the collar was put on, only after from straining to hold his boo-boo (that's right, I said it) away from the hard plastic.<br />
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We walked from the waiting room back into the triage area and asked for it to be loosened. They did, but it didn't help much. When they weren't looking, I loosened it even more because the blood was still pouring out and Herbie had gone from mildly uncomfortable to downright miserable. Maybe twenty minutes later, they took us to an examining room and we told the nurse that the collar was a problem. She said she couldn't take it off until the doctor had examined him. After another half hour of sitting there with dripping blood and cranky husband, I took it off myself. Herbie was much happier and when the doctor finally came in, she didn't even mention it, so I wasted twenty minutes mentally plotting how I would defend my actions when questioned (Stiff breeze blew it off? Rabid raccoon chewed through the velcro? Hard sneeze by my husband shot it across the room and I was too stupid to figure out how to put it back on? Okay, maybe I needed more than twenty minutes to come up with a plausible answer.)<br />
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The doctor suspected a mild concussion and ordered a CT scan to check for skull fracture or blood clots on the brain. Herbie asked if he would need stitches and the doctor replied that they don't do stitches anymore and staples would be used instead. I flinched, but Herbie took it quite calmly. It was only later that he admitted that he hadn't fully taken in that she meant she would be stapling the back of his head. He just heard, "No stitches."<br />
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We accompanied Herbie down to the CT machine and were allowed to stand in the screening room where we could not only see him rolled into the machine, but could watch the scans as they appeared on the computer screen. On occasion, when my husband swears I didn't tell him something that I've actually told him repeatedly and only remembers being told after I repeat the whole conversation to him word for word, I've wondered about his brain. He's a little too young to be having senior moments like that and while I've presumed that stress from work overload is the culprit, there is a little voice in the back of my mind saying, "Take him to Dr. McDreamy!" At last, I had a chance to see his brain in all it's glory and the experts tell me everything is A-okay. No skull fracture, no hematoma, nothing out of the ordinary at all, just a typical husband who doesn't listen to his wife. Great news all around. Plus, my worries that his head wouldn't even fit in the machine were groundless--they managed to squeeze it in.<br />
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Back in the examining room, the doctor asked Herbie to lay on his stomach so she could clean and close the wound. That's when the word "staples" actually penetrated Herbie's brain (That may be a bad way to put it. The staples didn't penetrate his brain, thank goodness. He just figured out exactly what was about to happen.) First, she had to clean the wound and she wasn't shy about it. She poured antiseptic into both wounds and wiped repeatedly. M and I squeezed Herbie's calf and murmured words of encouragement while we blinked back tears. We had joked with him while waiting for the doctor and we had taken lots of pictures of the wound at his request, but watching someone you love in extreme pain is a sobering experience and it takes a lot to get me sober.<br />
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As if the cleaning hadn't been bad enough, now the doctor had to numb the area so she could insert the staples and there is only one way to do it---big shiny needles stuck right into the cut. I could have gotten every secret Herbie ever kept out of him at that moment, but I refrained. It didn't seem like the appropriate time, plus I'm kinda scared to know what he's keeping secret.<br />
<br />
<br />
After the area was pretty numb, she took out a tool no bigger than an electric toothbrush and started stapling. He got six staples in the top cut and five in the bottom. You really have to go to your happy place and ignore what is happening right in front of you when someone is stapling your husband's head like his skin flaps are the pages of a high school book report.<br />
<br />
<br />
Once the stapling was finished, the doctor had Herbie sit up so she could bandage the wound. He had been laying on a plastic pillow and there was a lovely pool of blood filling it's indents. There was blood splashed all over the floor, on the sheets, all over Herbie's arms and hands--it was like a slaughterhouse in there. She told him to have the staples removed in a week, gave him a prescription for antibiotics, and sent him on his way.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm happy to say that Herbie is making a full recovery. He ate a good dinner that evening and slept like a baby. We Skyped with my other daughters so he could hold the computer up to his head and show them the gory details. The next day, his actual birthday, I made sure to grab the phone every time it rang so I could "encourage" all his loved ones to give him a lecture about the perils of wandering off into the woods on his own to pursue dangerous tasks. I can't stop thinking, "What if he'd been knocked unconscious?" I wouldn't have even started worrying about him for hours. I would have been blissfully reading or puttering around the cabin thinking he was happily tromping through the woods when in reality he would have been laying on the ground bleeding. And when I did start to worry--where would I begin my search of the 127 acres? I love my dogs, but trackers they are not. They wouldn't be able to pull a Lassie and help me find where Timmy fell down the well.<br />
<br />
<br />
Speaking of dogs, I hear you can buy a collar with a GPS locating chip in it in case they wander off. I'm thinking of getting one for Herbie. Unfortunately, I'm almost positive they won't have one big enough. Perhaps we'll have to go old school and have Herbie leave a trail of bread crumbs instead. Or meat chunks. Even <i>my</i> fluffy white puppies could follow <i>that</i> trail.<br />
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</span>JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-86030434627983488382011-06-13T15:24:00.000-04:002011-06-13T15:24:55.925-04:00Empty Nests, Torn Underwear, and the Stirrings of a RebellionI'm thinking about getting a tattoo. Or shaving my head. Or maybe getting something pierced.<br />
<br />
I've always been dutiful.<br />
<br />
A dutiful student who didn't cheat, didn't sleep during even the most boring classes, didn't play hooky, and got the grades to get into and graduate from college.<br />
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A dutiful daughter who respected her parents and tried to make their lives easier as they advanced in years, and who took their advice about not giving away the milk for free or nobody will buy the cow (Who exactly came up with that flattering piece of advice? Couldn't they have said something more like if a man can find enough wildflowers, he won't need to plant a garden? Or if he can get free honey, he won't need a queen bee? Why did women have to be the cow in this scenario?) I also did things in the order they preferred--dating, engagement, wedding, moving in together, and then children.<br />
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A dutiful wife who has never even thought of straying in 29 years of marriage. Who packed her husbands bags and sent him off with a smile on business trips, adventure excursions with his buddies, and weekends in the mountains while I stayed home with four small children. Who has turned the other cheek to his families' behavior so many times I can now do a full 360 degrees with my head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.<br />
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A dutiful mother who always, always, always put her children's wants and needs in front of her own. Who diapered and nursed, wiped and powdered, carried and rocked, punished and rewarded, listened and learned for the last twenty-six years. Who did homeroom mom, fund-raising, crafts, CCD meetings, sleepovers, treasure hunts, Back-to-School nights, party treats, costumes, car pools, designated driver for the of age drinkers, luaus, field-trips, chaperoning, and homework-checking. <br />
<br />
Dutiful, dutiful, dutiful.<br />
<br />
Now, I am 51 years old, my children are grown with lives of their own, my parents have both died, I've lost touch with most friends over the years as I concentrated on my husband and children, and my husband has spent the past 29 years out in the world, building relationships, friendships, and businesses that keep him fully occupied.<br />
<br />
What I wanted more than anything in life was for my husband to be successful and my daughters to grow into independent, happy adults and it has happened. Unfortunately, I forgot to include myself in those goals and now that the nest is almost empty, I can't figure out who I am if I'm not the one gathering twigs for shelter and chewing up worms to nourish someone.<br />
<br />
I shall have to drop the unneeded twigs and spit out the unwanted worms and re-invent myself.<br />
<br />
The question is--into what?<br />
<br />
I don't have the answer to that, but one thing I know is I am tired of caring what other people think, of following written and unwritten rules that make sense only to the people who made them up, and mostly, of being dutiful.<br />
<br />
I want to be baaaaaaad.<br />
<br />
I feel like putting leftovers into Tupperware and not burping the air out. I feel like throwing an aluminum can into the regular trash instead of the recycling--on purpose. I want to let the grass in the yard grow knee high just to see the neighbors' dirty looks. Check underneath the table of the next restaurant I go to and you might find my chewed gum or you might see me order a banana split and when the skinny people eating leaves and twigs at the nearby tables look down their noses' at my gluttony, I'll slowly and deliberately lick the bowl. I want to wear white before Memorial Day and show up at a funeral in red. Dare me to swim immediately after eating and run around the house holding scissors and just watch me go.<br />
<br />
I want to shock my friends by showing up at their house without bringing a bottle of wine or a baked good. Shock my family by taking the last piece of pie without asking if anyone else wants it. I may even stop putting the parking brake on when parked in my own driveway. The next time someone asks if I mind without really caring if I do, instead of saying, "No, of course not," I'll answer, "Yes, I bloody well do mind!" even if I don't (Forgive me, I've been obsessed with watching British miniseries on Netflix lately--Cranford, Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey--and now everything in my head comes with a British accent. As for "bloody" Ron Weasley uses it in Harry Potter, so it can't be too vulgar a curse word, can it? Ooooh, I can add use the word "bloody" in my blog to my list of shocking behaviors!) .<br />
<br />
I want to leave dishes in the sink and clothes in the washer. Drink regular coffee after five p.m. Bend the corner of a page down on the book I'm reading to mark my place. Wink at the butcher when he hands me my pork chops. Leave empty rolls on the toilet paper holders. Ruffle up the hand towels and then walk away. Feed stray cats. Pet stray dogs. Write a picture book in bad rhyme. Eat the collection of chemicals known as a Twinkie. Wear torn underwear even though I know I might get in an accident.<br />
<br />
I can feel this rebellious spirit rising up in me and it scares me. I don't know where it might lead. Is it possible that if I surrender to it, one day I might find myself truly crossing the line and wearing socks with sandals?<br />
<br />
Only time will tell.<br />
<br />
Let's just keep my rebellious stirrings our little secret for now. Wouldn't want to create widespread panic.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-79288630685394047382011-06-09T16:14:00.000-04:002011-06-09T16:14:34.844-04:00Do Baby Zombies Eat Your Face Or Can They Only Reach Your Ankles?I live in perhaps the oddest house I personally have ever seen. It's a farmhouse and the original rooms were built over two hundred years ago. Bits and pieces have been added throughout the years and sometimes I feel like I'm living in The Burrow--the Weasley's tottering home in Harry Potter.<br />
<br />
The house has four floors. Let's start in the basement, shall we? The original basement was an approximately 15 by 10 foot room with beams running through the very low ceiling and a walk-in fireplace. Previous owners added a large cinderblock room under an addition which we finished to make a large rec room. Unfortunately, to get to this carpeted, paneled, rec room with it's pool table, sofa beds, and TV, you have to pass through the creepy old basement with it's rickety stairs, cement walls and floor, and exposed wires and pipes running the length of the ceiling. There isn't much we can do about it because we can't cover up these pipes and wires in case we need access. Feeling that this root cellar like atmosphere wasn't deterrent enough for our guests, we added a frequently used litter box to the mix. I have no idea how our daughters convinced any of their friends to venture down into this area to reach the playroom when they were little, but they did, and the basement has been the site of more parties, play-dates, and sleepovers than I can count. When you consider the fact that any little girl who had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night had to pass through here alone on her way, I'd say the Catholic Church should add this to it's list of miracles.<br />
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On the main floor, you have the dining room and living room, which made up the original house. A previous owner added a kitchen, family room and laundry room off the dining room and added a powder room under the stairs, which puts it right in the dining room. It's always a nice touch to be able to hear the sound of urination and a toilet flushing at your dinner parties. This powder room was the site of the unmentionable spinning party guest incident. Another nice touch to have that story in the back of your mind during meals around the dining room table.<br />
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Open a closet door in the dining room and you will find not a storage place for linens, but a spiral staircase leading to the master bedroom. The staircase is narrow and is unused because the same previous owner built a closet in the master bedroom that required lowering the ceiling in the staircase. A normal staircase was also built between the living room and dining room and I'm guessing that took place after the owners tried to pivot a dresser or headboard up the spiral one and got it stuck. There used to be a window in the wall of the now powder room, so they just put hinges on it and made it into a small storage cabinet.<br />
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On what we call the second floor (even though technically, it's the third) is the master bedroom, the master bath, and another bedroom. When you come up the stairs from the first floor, you are presented with the choice of three doors (It's just like Let's Make a Deal!). To your left, is the door to the master bedroom, immediately to your right is the door to the master bath, and slightly down the hall to the right is the door to the second bedroom. How is this possible when the house has four bedrooms? Well, someone throughout the years designed the layout of the house so that to get to the two bedrooms and bath on the third floor, you have to either go through the master bedroom or master bathroom. You can imagine the complications of that. If someone is taking a shower in that bathroom and someone else is asleep or changing in the master bedroom, you are stuck in the hall waiting for entry. This also means the master bath not only has the door to this hallway, but has a second door leading to the stairs to the top floor. I can't tell you how many guests have shared that they sat down on the toilet only to look up and realize there was a door wide open right in front of them.<br />
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The master bath had the only shower with the third floor bath containing only a claw foot tub, so you can imagine life with six people (four of them being teenage girls) and only one shower. Our stubborn insistence on keeping parts of history plus the herculean effort involved in carrying a cast iron tub down two flights of stairs kept us from putting a shower in even though it was greatly needed. Now, that three of the girls have moved out and are only occasional visitors, we, of course, came to our senses and we are in the process of installing a shower in that bathroom. It only took us twenty-two years of no one using the tub to realize, hey, maybe a second shower would be a good idea. It's no wonder our daughters know every spot on the ceiling when they spend so much time rolling their eyes at my husband and me for our inability to see the obvious.<br />
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The master bedroom has a closet with another spiral staircase leading to . . . nowhere. Previous occupants eliminated the exit at the top of the stairs by putting in a hardwood floor in the bedroom. The third floor used to be an attic, but was made into two bedrooms and a shared bath when the roof was raised by dormers.<br />
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In the long history of the occupants of our house, one thing was constant until we moved in---each family who lived here had five children. We, alas, broke the tradition by stopping at four. But even so, there have been many, many babies and young children living here throughout the centuries. <br />
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I personally am an open-minded person and don't believe in nor negate the possibility of ghosts walking among us, aliens flying above us, or intelligent life existing in Hollywood. I don't pretend to have absolute knowledge of whether these things are real or not. I can say that, despite living in this old house for twenty-two years, I have never felt an evil presence (other than my in-laws) nor have I seen anything out of the ordinary (well, I have, but I'm speaking in paranormal terms here, not my everyday abnormal living, breathing human sightings).<br />
<br />
But others claim that they have experienced things while in our humble home. One case was of a couple who came to feed our cats while we were away. As the wife was opening cat food cans, the husband picked up the baby monitor from the kitchen counter and flicked it on. He casually mentioned to his wife that the kids sounded like they were having a good time upstairs. She froze and reminded him that the reason they were there in the first place was because no one was home. They listened to the sound of children's voices and he suggested that perhaps the part of the monitor that picks up sound was turned off and the receiving part, which he held in his hands, was picking up a signal from a neighbor's monitor. That can happen only if the transmitting part is turned off. She begged him to go upstairs and see if it was turned off. He refused and they dumped cat food onto plates and got out of there. They called us to tell us what happened and when we got home, we checked the monitor. It was turned on upstairs. We also reminded our friends that there were no other children living within the monitor's range. Many times over the years, we turned on the monitor to hear the same lullaby playing. It wasn't playing in our house and it was always the same one.<br />
<br />
But baby monitors aren't reliable and there could be any number of explanations. So let's share our next story.<br />
<br />
We asked two construction worker friends of ours to do some remodeling in our bedroom closet while we were away on vacation. These are tough, burly, hockey fan kind of guys. When we arrived home from vacation, excited to see the finished closet, we were shocked to see the work half done and tools lying abandoned on the floor, paint cans left open and drying, and general disarray. We'd had these guys do work for us before and knew that they were reliable about cleaning up after themselves.<br />
<br />
A call to one of the workers resulted in an explanation of sorts. He said they had been making good progress on the closet when he casually mentioned to his co-worker that he wished I would pick up the baby because the crying was giving him a headache. His co-worker agreed before they both froze at the realization that I wasn't going to be picking up any baby since I and my babies were in another state. They stepped out into the bedroom and both were absolutely positive that the source of the crying was within the house and right up the stairs. They dropped their tools and pushed and shoved each other to be the first down the stairs and out of the house. Both refused to return until we were at home and could assure them that they weren't about to be slimed or have their faces eaten off by a zombie toddler.<br />
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I will say that when they did come back, the job was finished in no time. It's the fastest I've ever seen construction workers move.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I should share this story with all future workers I hire. I could even rig a tape recorder to play a tape of a baby occasionally crying in case they are tempted to slack off a bit. I could program the lights to go on and off by themselves, have doors slowly creaking open . . .<br />
<br />
Well, if it doesn't get my new wallpaper hung faster, it might at least discourage the in-laws from dropping by.<br />
<br />
Of course, if there really were ghostly presences in my house, the time that my in-laws have already spent here probably convinced them to move to the light and cross over. Whatever unfinished business was keeping them here was probably forgotten as they came to the same conclusion I have--moving to the light is preferable than living in the hell of having my in-laws in the same house.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-43299970699210775002011-06-01T17:13:00.000-04:002011-06-01T17:13:56.999-04:00Wedding Plans, Barrel Racers, and Blood OathsI am honestly curious about something. Is my life normal? I mean, do most other people have the day-in day-out craziness and non-stop circus atmosphere that is my life? I'm not complaining. I know that I have a very good life in many ways--I don't have any flesh-eating diseases, none of my family members have ever appeared on Jerry Springer, I don't have to drive to the state prison to visit any of my children, and none of my in-laws live with me. But there is a constant swirl of insanity in my life and every once in awhile, I wonder if every one else lives in their own constant swirl of insanity, too.<br />
<br />
My daughter C and her fiance E were in town for ten days for a whirlwind wedding planning visit. My daughter A came in to go to appointments with us. Ten days of trying on dresses, visiting prospective reception sites, meetings with a wedding planner, talking and talking about where, how, when, and who. C was sick when she got here, so within a few days, so were E and daughter M, who lives at home. M is finishing up her junior year of high school, so we wedged some end of year events into the schedule, too. There was all the usual shopping, cooking, and cleaning that goes with having house-guests, plus a dog who is still biting the rash on his tail where fur used to be, plus visits with their old friends from high school, plus appointments with family doctors to take care of while in town, and since it was Memorial Day weekend, barbecue food needed to be prepared and enjoyed.<br />
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It was great having them home and a lot of fun, but exhausting. A drove back to Pittsburgh on Saturday and by the time we got back from dropping C and E at the airport Monday night, all I wanted to do was float on a raft in the pool until I was as wrinkled as Grandma Moses.<br />
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Before I could even get home, I got a call from M saying that she needed me to go with her to a craft store for supplies for a school project. We pulled in the driveway at 5:30, and since the store closed at 6, pulled right back out again. Shopping was followed by dinner which was followed by trying to put the house back into some semblance of order.<br />
<br />
Then the fun began. I received a text from C saying that they had made it to their layover in Minnesota and were taking off for the final leg of the journey back to North Dakota, but the pilot said there were severe thunderstorms in their path. She informed me, by text, that they were going to try to fly through the eye of the storm. And that was it. Then I got to wait, nervously gnawing at fingernails that don't have much room left for gnawing.<br />
<br />
My oldest daughter then called to talk about her upcoming visit home (she is flying in today for a wedding this weekend) and while we were discussing details, I got a text from A that went like this, "Can I ask you a weird question?" No parent ever wants to get a text like that. A graduated from Pitt in April, but is staying out there for another year while her boyfriend finishes up his teaching degree. I cautiously replied, "Okay," and waited for the shoe to drop. She texted back, "Would you mind if I go to Canada tomorrow?" I guess for some people that isn't an odd question, but for us, it came from so far out in left field, it was in the bleachers. I told oldest daughter J that I had to go so I could call A and find out what she was talking about.<br />
<br />
When I reached her, A told me that some sorority sisters were driving up to Canada the next day to stay for just one night to see Niagara Falls and wanted her to go with them. I got her to agree that she wouldn't get "Oh Canada" tattooed anywhere on her body, wouldn't go over the falls in a barrel or anything else, and wouldn't elope while there, and then gave her my blessing to take the trip. Of course, she was sitting in a bar doing birthday shots with her roommate when we talked, so I'm not sure she knew what she was agreeing to and I won't be surprised if she comes home married to a Canadian barrel racer with an American flag tattoo from a drunken misreading of my instructions.<br />
<br />
Once I handled that situation, my youngest told me that she was having problems printing out a pamphlet for a psychology class assignment that was due the next day. She had completed the work, but the printer wasn't co-operating. I agreed to check the printer in an hour to make sure the pamphlets had printed and went back to writing. She went to bed since it was after 11 and she had school the next day.<br />
<br />
I got another text from C at 12:20 saying, "Back in Minn two hours later. Probably here for the night." I called and she said they got about a half hour outside Grand Forks and had to turn around because of the storms. I asked if the airline was going to put them up at a hotel and she said no, they wanted them to hang out at the airport while they decided what to do.<br />
<br />
Ding, ding, 1:02 and another text. "Looks like we're reboarding soon, looking at the radar, I think there is a gap in the storms, we're going to try to go through." Be still my heart. I called and asked if there was an option to spend the night and fly the next day, but she said there were no seats available on any flights. I hung up and looked at Barnaby, who now has a puff of fur at the base of his tail, a long section of what looks like pink playdoh, and then an odd little tuft that survived at the very top, and even he looked nervous. But then again, that's his usual expression.<br />
<br />
I left my home office to check the printer and found nothing sitting in the tray. In the chair next to the printer, I saw four printed documents and a page that was crumbled as though it had come out of a paper jam. Hmm, curious. I absolutely love technology, but there is nothing as frustrating as technology that won't do what it's supposed to do. I used M's laptop to send the page to the printer again and it started shooting out pages with bits and pieces of text, but not the whole thing. I canceled and tried again with the same result. Oh, well, I thought, I'll just save it to a memory stick and print it on the one in my office. Except the laptop refused to recognize the memory stick. I tried for a half hour, but no luck. So I decided to email the pamphlet as an attachment to myself and and then print it in my office. In order to attach a doc, you have to close it first, so I did. Then I opened her email account and when I went to attach the doc, I couldn't find it anywhere. Another half hour went by as I searched for it, including in recent documents, and I finally found it in a sub-folder of another sub-folder.<br />
<br />
I sent the email, went back to my office, and opened the file. But since my daughter typed it on a PC and I have a Mac, there were updates and patches and blood oaths that had to take place before my Mac would consider giving the print order. And once it was printing, since it was a tri-fold pamphlet with printing on both sides, it took me awhile to figure out which way to put the paper back in and what to ask the printer to do before I got it right. Plus there were the obvious questions of how many does she need, do I fold them, and why does this teacher hate me, too.<br />
<br />
I finally finished with the pamphlet at 2 a.m. (spending most of that time wondering about the possibility of this whole thing being the actual psychology assignment--"See how far you can push subject before he/she snaps"). My eyes were bleary, I was having trouble making my legs move, and I had ink stains on my fingers, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep until I knew that C and E had landed safely. Being a writer, I must admit to having a bit of an active imagination, so of course I was picturing lightning strikes, turbulence, and C screaming, "I should have never left my mommy!" At 2:30 a.m., she finally texted, "Landed in Grand Forks, thank goodness." I replied and then stumbled off to bed to recharge for whatever awaited me in the morning, including a possible Canadian son-in-law.<br />
<br />
I wish that I could say that this was a rare rogue wave in an otherwise calm sea, but this kind of stuff happens to me about as regularly as waves hit a beach. So I just want to know, is anyone else out there treading water or are you all floating on a raft, trailing your fingers in the cool water, sipping from a drink with an umbrella in it?<br />
<br />
I could really use one of those umbrella drinks right now.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-6123295293041137632011-05-29T16:23:00.000-04:002011-05-29T16:23:16.603-04:00Squid, Goat's Hair, and The Parent/Teacher RelationshipMy oldest child started kindergarten in 1990. I have had at least one daughter in public school ever since. I've spent a lot of time in classrooms over the years, as a homeroom mom numerous times, as a writing workshop teacher, reading my own books to kids, and doing other volunteer work. I was even asked to fill in as a substitute teacher at a Catholic school several times when they were shorthanded (must have been <i>really</i> shorthanded).<br />
<br />
I've gotten to know a lot of teachers pretty well and appreciate the work they do. Several of my family members are teachers and my daughter A's boyfriend (Hi, T!) is one year away from becoming a teacher. So I don't want you to take this as an indictment of all teachers. Most of them are quite lovely people.<br />
<br />
But there are those teachers who haunt the halls of your children's schools who are, beyond a shadow of doubt, sadists.<br />
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I'm not talking about the ones who are tough on their students.<br />
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I'm talking about the ones who have it in for the parents.<br />
<br />
This post is about those teachers who send home a list of supplies for a fourth grade book project that are nicer than the ones most professionals own. When I was little, we made a book by glueing scraps of material onto cardboard we had cut from a box and then threading yarn through holes that we punched in the spine. Now, when it's time for your child's words of wisdom to be gathered into a book, you'll need a fourteen dollar goat's hair brush with medium bristles and an angled head so she can use it one time to brush glue onto a ten dollar piece of custom grayboard and then leave it to harden into a lump that even a goat wouldn't recognize.<br />
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Of course, these required supplies can't be found in the five local art or craft stores that you search. You'll end up only finding them in an online specialty shop, then crossing your fingers that they arrive in time as your child reminds you every day that she needs them by Friday or she'll be the only one who doesn't have what the teacher told them to bring. Of course, once the supplies do arrive and your child takes them in, she comes home to tell you that half the class brought in synthetic brushes from the dollar store and the teacher didn't say a word.<br />
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I'm all for fun and interesting projects that engage student's minds and imaginations, just not ones that take more of my time and money to accomplish than planning my wedding did.<br />
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We've made it through all sorts of these projects from dioramas of world wars to music videos about dictators to a shoebox replication of George Washington's parlor using a combination of popsicle sticks and dollhouse furniture, but there is one category that is far, far worse than any other---the cooking projects.<br />
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At least once a year, from grade school through high school, one teacher would decide that a wonderful way to incorporate a lesson or book about a particular country would be to have each student prepare a dish enjoyed by the population of that country. These sadists then hand out recipes to the students to be prepared at home and shared with the class in a celebration of learning. It has not escaped my notice that the teacher's pet usually gets assigned the exhausting chore of only bringing in paper plates.<br />
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I enjoy cooking. I am actually a pretty competent cook. But that is with ingredients I recognize and measurements that are on my kitchen tools. Year after year I would receive recipes that were about as recognizable to me as the instructions necessary for disabling a bomb and with almost as many ways for it all to go very wrong.<br />
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This past week, my daughter M remembered on Wednesday night that she needed to bring in a homemade chocolate squidgy roll for a British celebration on Friday. In M's defense, she had been very sick all week and is usually much better about giving me notice. My daughter C and her fiance were in town for the week along with daughter A and we had been in accelerated wedding planning mode, visiting possible reception sites and shopping for the all-important wedding gown. Between a sick dog, houseguests, and wedding appointments, I was reduced to licking candy bar wrappers from the floor of the car in case there was a morsel of sugar or caffeine to be had. I was exhausted. Now I had to bake a squidgy roll? I had never even heard of such a thing. Did I need to find a seafood shop that sold squid? Did people actually eat chocolate on squid?<br />
<br />
Turns out a chocolate squidgy roll is a type of sponge cake and no squid needed to die for this assignment. I didn't recognize the measurements, but since they were in milliliters, I knew I could convert them easily enough. The recipe called for basic ingredients that I already had in my pantry, except for the castor sugar. Googling it revealed that castor sugar is just a superfine sugar that blends easier to make meringues and cream fillings. Okay, no problem. My local grocery store should have this in their baking aisle.<br />
<br />
Except they didn't. So in between appointments, I stopped at a craft store that has a large selection of specialty baking items, but they didn't have it either. I repeatedly called another shop that I thought might have it, but no one ever answered the phone. Not a good sign. I looked it up online and found out that I could take regular sugar and grind it up in my food processor, but it would likely scratch the plastic to bits. I wasn't excited about that option, so I kept looking. I finally found a store that carried superfine sugar and I was ready to proceed. Of course, I still had appointments to juggle and guests to feed, so it was nine p.m. Thursday night before I was able to attempt my squidgy roll. M was still sick and I didn't want her to contaminate her classmates' food, so she just observed instead of being a hands-on assistant. C helped instead. We were making two of the cakes since they needed to feed twenty-one students and a teacher.<br />
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Milk and cocoa needed to brought gently to an acceptable warmth, then set aside. Eight eggs needed to be separated and then the yolks beat by hand with the special sugar until reaching a proper degree of creaminess (or until you develop carpal tunnel). Mix the cocoa concoction with the egg/sugar combo, then whip the egg whites until they are stiff enough to poke your eye out and fold them in. Spread the batter on a jelly roll pan that has been greased and lined with parchment paper and stick in the preheated oven. Whip the heavy cream by hand, then spread over the cooled sponge cake. Now for the fun part---carefully roll the cake from end to end so you have a delightful log of cake with a spiral of cream in the middle.<br />
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Only the cake didn't want to stay in one piece as it was rolled and moist sections came off on my fingertips. My log looked like beavers had been gnawing at it. The recipe called for the remainder of the whipped cream to be piped on top of the log and then artfully decorated with sliced strawberries before shaving chocolate over the whole dessert. Does this sound like an assignment a high school student can accomplish on her own? Maybe if your high school offers Cordon Bleu classes as required courses, but not a student from our high school.<br />
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I hid the worst of the bald spots on the two cakes under the cream, strawberries, and chocolate, shoveled it all into a container, stuck it in the refrigerator, cleaned up the assortment of bowls, measuring devices, pots, pans, and utensils, then stumbled from the kitchen and fell into bed.<br />
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The next afternoon, I waited for M to get home from school so I could hear the praise from her teacher that would make the effort worthwhile. She carried in the tupperware container and opened it to show me that one and a half squidgy lay untouched. I asked what had happened and she said that with twenty students bringing in food (and one lucky parent's child bringing in paper plates) there was just too much for it all to be eaten. I asked if at least the teacher had liked it and was informed that the teacher doesn't eat sugar, so she hadn't tried it. Well, I said, at least she must have acknowledged how much effort went into the final product and given you a good grade on it. This wasn't for a grade, she replied, just an assignment for fun. I reached for another candy bar wrapper to lick.<br />
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Sadists, I tell you. Rubbing their hands together and cackling as they think up more and more complicated punishments for parents. M is my youngest and she has one more year of this. I'm not sure I can make it. The only thing keeping me sane is the knowledge that I've never been asked to cook anything for one of my daughters' college level courses.<br />
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At least not yet.<br />
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Please don't study Japanese, M. If I can massacre a squidgy roll, just imagine what I would do to an innocent little springroll. The possibilities haunt me.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-61577281575779750262011-05-18T19:34:00.000-04:002011-05-18T19:34:20.591-04:00Sometimes One Plus One Equals ChaosHave you ever had a friend or relative who over-reacted to everything? Each bump in the road was the end of the world, each bout with the common cold was the plaque, every small accomplishment was worthy of national press coverage, and every basic need was an emergency that had to be taken care of immediately?<br />
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My dog Barnaby is the drama queen in our family (or technically drama king).<br />
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We had a beautiful yellow lab for ten years named Honey Bear. We brought him home when our third daughter wasn't quite two and our fourth daughter hadn't even been born yet. He was an adorable puppy whose feet were too big for his body and whose tongue was always lolling out of his mouth. It was our girls first experience with training a dog, which was evidenced by my oldest daughter trying to convince the puppy not to chew a pillow by reasoning with him like this, "You shouldn't chew that, puppy, because it's my mommy's furniture and she'll get mad," instead of just saying, "No, no."<br />
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Honey Bear was loving, and protective, and put up with so much tugging and hugging and dress-up from our girls that he should have won doggie awards. He had his share of quirkiness (he wouldn't have fit in our family if he didn't) like loving water so much that he once dented the metal fence around our pool trying to force his way in, and looking forward to our annual Easter egg hunt so he could find a few on his own and carefully peel the shell with his teeth to get to the yummy egg inside. When he developed heart problems at age ten and passed away in my arms, a part of my soul died with him.<br />
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The house was too quiet without Honey Bear's nails click-clacking on the hardwood floors, so we decided to get a new puppy. It would have been too painful to raise a Honey Bear II, so we agreed to go in a totally different direction and get a little white Bichon Frise. We chose a female and named her Isabella, but she quickly became Bella to all of us (this was in 2001, so we weren't honoring vampires). Bella is a laid-back dog who hardly ever barks and when she does, it's a deep-throated ba-roo, like a beagle. Her eyes are as black as coal and the craziest thing she has ever done is chew on rocks when we were doing some digging in the backyard. Seriously, just the thought of scraping my teeth on the hard surface of a rock makes me cringe, but Bella loved digging them up and chewing on them. She doesn't know that Bichons have a long history as pampered show dogs and is most happy when she is half covered in dirt.<br />
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We were happily living with our quiet, sweet little dog and a handful of stray cats we'd taken in. Common sense would tell you to enjoy the situation and don't rock the boat, but my family will always rock the boat no matter how many times it tips over on us. We decided to get another Bichon to keep Bella company. After all, who wouldn't love two adorable, calm little dogs to cuddle? We got a male and named him Barnaby.<br />
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My vet, who also owns the kennel where the dogs stay while we are on vacation, calls Barnaby "sensitive" and says it takes a special owner to raise a dog like Barn. He is being very generous and very politically correct.<br />
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The real story is that Barn is a hot mess. He is nothing like easy-going Bella. You would think they are two different breeds of dog. He doesn't even have her soft ba-roo; he has a high pitched yap of a bark and he uses it when he's happy, sad, scared, confused, lonely, hungry, or awake. We have had him for eight years now and not a day goes by that I don't laugh at his antics.<br />
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Barnaby is afraid of everything. He is afraid of his dry food bowl and will only eat the food if it's tipped out onto the floor. He is afraid of his canned food and will only eat it if you hold the plate with your feet so it can't move and startle him. Anything that blows onto or is left sitting in our yard is cause for non-stop barking and avoidance of the area until it is moved or we touch it to show him it isn't dangerous. This includes such known dog-killers as a paper bag, an open umbrella, a cooler, or a bag of fertilizer. He is absolutely terrified by the magazine page with the boy with the "got milk" mustache and the shopping bags from trendy stores that have half-dressed men and women on them, like Aeropostale or Abercrombie and Fitch. Freaks him out every time. We have to hide them.<br />
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Everything is an emergency with Barn. Bella nudges her empty water bowl and then waits. Nudges and then waits. Barn nudges, then overturns, then bangs it into the wall, all without a pause, as though he has just spent two days crossing the desert without a drop to drink. Even when you say, "Just a minute, Barn," so he knows you are coming, the onslaught continues. When he has to go out, he whines and dances so you know he needs to go this very second, and the thirty seconds it took you to cross the room were twenty-nine too many for him.<br />
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He is afraid to miss out on anything. His attention is torn in so many directions and he has trouble choosing which one is the most interesting. He wants to be outside with my husband, but what if I'm doing something interesting inside and he's missing it? He wants to be by my side, but he also wants to be with Bella and we are in different rooms, so he needs to travel back and forth, back and forth. He has the worst case of ADD I've ever seen in a dog.<br />
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He loves to go for rides in the car, but going for a ride makes him so excited that he throws up every time. He runs to the window and whines for it to be lowered, but once it is, he runs to the other window, wanting that one down as well, in case there is something that smells more interesting out that side. Between the whining, vomiting, and running from window to window, Bella only wants one thing--to climb in the front by me where she can sleep in peace.<br />
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Bella has had ear infections, hot spots, and various ailments, but she rarely ever lets us know about them. We stumble upon them at regular vet visits or through a slight wince while she is being pet. Barn, on the other hand, is apoplectic about every flea bite. This past weekend, Barn got a hot spot on his tail (which is kind of like a person getting poison ivy). We immediately cleaned it with lukewarm water and put ointment on to ease the pain and itchiness. We then took him to the vet for an injection and have used the pills and spray the vet gave us faithfully since. I feel terrible for him, partly because I hate to see him in discomfort, but also because I know how much this is rattling him. He is shaking like a leaf, keeps trying to bite his tail, fur is falling out, he is unconsolable when I leave his side long enough to use the bathroom even though someone else sits with him, and he wants me to carry him everywhere. The drama of the situation is so much more intense than if Bella had the exact same ailment.<br />
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There is nothing funny about a dog in pain or discomfort and I wince every time I have to treat his boo-boo, touching him as gently as I would a newborn baby. He i<i>s</i> my baby and I feel his pain deeply. I've gone with only brief patches of sleep the past three nights to take care of him. But it is slightly comical to compare his "I'm at death's door" attitude about common ailments next to Bella's stoic life-goes-on response. It's especially funny to note the similarities to a human male's reaction to illness and injuries versus human females. I've always been the "Bella" in our family, pushing through pain and illness to take care of everyone while my husband needs the world to stop if he has the sniffles, just like Barn.<br />
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In spite of all his neurotic behaviors, Barnaby is also one of the funniest dogs you'll ever see. He is the life of any room he is in. He is not only adorable to look at, but has tons of personality. When he walks, he takes two or three normal steps and then hitches one leg up into a cute little skip for a step, then back to normal. He is a bundle of energy and loves to chase a bouncy ball around the room, inevitably losing it under furniture and then lying with his nose tucked under the edge of the couch or table until someone rescues it for him. When he is picked up by someone he doesn't know, he keeps his four legs stiff and straight as though he was a stuffed animal or a possum playing dead. He has spent so much time around cats that he often thinks he is one, including sitting on the back of the couch pawing at my husband's head until he gets the attention he craves.<br />
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He is afraid to climb a set of stairs, so he climbs at an angle from left to right until he reaches the halfway point, which puts him all the way to the right side of that step, then walks to the left side, turns in a full circle so he is facing up, and completes the climb. He hates the water, but hates it even worse when we are in the pool and too far away from him, so we put him on a raft to keep him dry, yet in the midst of the fun. His behavior and high energy make him seem like a puppy still, but so does his size--he eats the same amount as Bella, but burns it off too quickly to fatten up, usually while running in circles around her as she patiently walks through the yard like the princess she is. Bella mothers Barn and puts up with his hijinks with as much patience as Honey Bear put up with my young daughters' hijinks, but every so often, she looks at me with those baleful eyes as though asking, "What did I ever do to deserve this?"<br />
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There are days when Barnaby's barking drives me crazy and days when I'm tempted to lace his food with Benedryl just to calm him down, but for the most part, he is a good fit for our crazy family. It's nice to have a dog to point to and say, "Look what he's doing now!" to distract your company while you discreetly blow broccoli from your nose into a tissue or move your mother-in-law's toe so you can reach the ice cream in the freezer you are about to serve them for dessert.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-14801581110886994812011-05-14T15:03:00.000-04:002011-05-14T15:03:37.673-04:00Growling Bears, Spinning Party Guests, and Bobbing HeartsToday, I thought I would share with you a few random experiences that I have had over the years, experiences that have made me the model of sanity that I am.<br />
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Once, two delivery men refused to bring the furniture I ordered into the house and would only leave it on the back porch because they saw a bag of dog food sitting near the door and as one of them put it, "That don't say Kibbles and Bits, that says Kibbles and <i>Chunks</i>."<br />
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When I was a little girl, my family used to go camping each summer in tents by a lake in the Adirondack Mountains. The campsite had outhouses that all the campers shared. Sometime around the age of seven or eight, I woke up in the night and had to pee. I left the tent and started up the path to the outhouse, but stopped when I heard growling. Thinking that it was a bear, I squatted down and wet myself. Turns out it was only my grandpa snoring in the neighboring tent. Oops.<br />
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On those same camping trips, at the age of five, I was so scared of water that my father used to bribe me by paying me a nickel if I would wade in up to my knees and then squat down until my shorts got wet. I could have saved him the money. All he had to do was have my grandpa snore and my shorts would have gotten wet for free.<br />
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On my honeymoon, my first trip outside the States, Herbie and I took a cruise. Many of the waitstaff on the cruise were Indonesian. On the last night of the cruise, I wanted to personally thank each of our waiters. I pointed to a group of waiters and asked the head waiter what our waiter's name was. He said, in a heavy accent, "Which one," and I said, "That one," and pointed again. He said, "Which one," and I said, "That one right there. The one on the left." We did this one more time before someone at the table was merciful enough to tell me, through his laughter, that the head waiter was telling me the guy's name was Rishwan.<br />
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I have told my family for years that sometimes when I laugh with food in my mouth, the food will shoot up the holes in the roof of my mouth and end up in my nose. I can blow my nose and there in the tissue is turkey or licorice or whatever I was eating. They never believed me and refused to look at the simple proof in the tissue (go figure). A few weeks ago, we were out to dinner with my oldest daughter when she was surprised by a laugh as she ate. She looked at me, blew her nose, and sure enough, broccoli florets. Don't doubt momma when she tells you she can suck food up into her nose from her mouth.<br />
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Sometimes when I get the hiccups, they turn into the burp-ups where each hiccup is a disgusting sounding burp. One of my daughters has inherited this great gift. When I lived with my parents and this happened, my father would say, "Leave the room." When it happens to my daughter, my husband says, "Good one!" The times, they are a changing.<br />
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Once, while out on our motorboat, the engine died, stranding the six of us far from shore with no other boats in sight. We reached for the oars and found that we had left them on the inflatable raft at the dock. With no other options in sight, we grabbed our waterskis, hung over the side of the boat, and used them to paddle. As we finally reached the busier part of the lake, several boats passed us, pointing and laughing, but not coming closer to offer help. At first, I was angry that they didn't assist us in our time of need, but when I thought about how we looked, I realized I probably would have steered clear of us, too. It's always best not to get too close to crazy.<br />
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The first time my parents asked my future husband to go on a trip with us, it was in a motorhome. As we drove, my mother opened the freezer to take something out for dinner, causing a shower of ice to fly toward her. She proceeded to jump up and down, wiping at the front of her blouse, and chanting, "Ice went down my hoo-hoos, ice went down my hoo-hoos." He married me anyway.<br />
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In college, I played the lead in a play that was a type of melodrama. I had a big dramatic scene where I picked up a "baby" wrapped in blankets and gave a monologue about the cruelties in my life. In one of the performances, the audience started laughing during my heartfelt speech and continued until I finished and exited the stage. I was crushed. Until my fellow actors told me I had been holding the doll upside down with her head clearly visible hanging out of the bottom of the blankets. Luckily, that prepared me for what NOT to do as a mother later on. (okay, so I <i>occasionally</i> picked up one of my babies by the wrong end, but at least there wasn't an audience to witness it)<br />
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In the middle of a backyard party at our house with about a hundred guests, an older woman we didn't know very well approached my husband, told him she'd had an accident in our powder room, and then got in her car and left. He found me and we approached the bathroom cautiously, as though it was a crime scene. Turns out she hadn't had the kind of accident I had when I thought I heard a bear, she'd had the kind some people have when they actually see a bear. We immediately called for backup. Doors to the house were locked and anyone pounding on one with a desire to use the bathroom was sent away with wild, panicked excuses. Two daughters guarded the doors, one rushed to light candles and spray anything that would spray, another stood clutching my arm as I shouted instructions between bouts of gagging, and the last daughter, the hero of this piece, helped her father take care of business. She only showed signs of cracking when she asked, "Was she spinning in circles when she did this because it's even on the walls." We made that daughter's boyfriend come in when we were done to sniff around and make sure we had wiped out the smell before we let any of the other party guests come in--see what bonuses come with being an almost member of our family! Seriously, does this kind of thing happen to other people because it would really help me hang onto a shred of my sanity if I knew this was a common occurrence. I have given lots of parties over the years and this was a first for me. I sincerely hope that's one party activity that doesn't become a tradition. I couldn't make myself use that powder room for weeks.<br />
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And lastly, one Halloween I went for my annual gynecologist appointment (I know, you're scared already, but be brave). As I lay there assuming the position, the doctor asked me a question. I raised my head slightly to answer her and saw, between my stirruped legs, two hearts bobbing in the air. I shook my head and looked closer and saw that the doctor, in the spirit of Halloween, was wearing one of those headbands that have objects attached to springs, and those pink hearts were bobbing up and down as she asked me intimate details about my body. To add to the surreal atmosphere, when she was finished, she snapped off her gloves, rolled her stool around next to my head, and hearts still bobbing with every word, told me she had found a problem that would need to be checked out with a CT scan and which would almost definitely require major surgery. As it turns out, the problem she found was cancer. So when people ask me how I handled the diagnosis, instead of the words, I remember those two hearts springing left and right, forward and back, and I say, "It wasn't as bad as you would think."JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-71942689101287828952011-05-09T20:34:00.000-04:002011-05-09T20:34:07.416-04:00Hello, Mom? Is Shrimp Scampi First Or Second Base?So I've been thinking a lot about prom and how things have changed since I was a young-un. Of course, back then Ma and Pa had to get out the wagon to take us across the prairie to the one room school house . . .<br />
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I grew up in a small town where even if you didn't know everyone in the school, you knew their name and knew of them. We didn't have a Junior Prom and a Senior Prom, we had a Junior/Senior Prom which both grades attended. It was always held in the high school gymnasium where a committee spent weeks making flowers out of tissue paper and trying to find a unique way to cover the basketball hoops. We had themes based on popular songs like "Stairway to Heaven" and the decorations matched the theme as much as possible (We built a fake staircase that twisted up to the gym ceiling as though "heaven" was in the second floor biology lab).<br />
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In those days, boys asked girls to prom. Period. If a boy didn't ask you, you didn't go and no one went solo. In fact, the tickets were sold by the couple, not the person. They were mimeographed sheets of paper that had been cut up into tickets and when you bought one, they wrote the boy and girl's names on the bottom of the ticket. I think a ticket cost $25 and we thought that was highway robbery, but all those tissue paper flowers had to be paid for somehow.<br />
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Some girls bought new dresses for prom, but most either borrowed one, wore a hand-me-down from a relative, or their mothers made a dress for them. Even the girls who bought one spent less than fifty dollars on it. We did our own hair and nails or had a friend do it for us. We wore the high heels we already owned for special occasions and no one dyed their shoes to match their gowns.<br />
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Your date would ask what color your dress was so he could buy flowers to match. Most girls got a small corsage to pin on their dress. The luckier ones got a wrist corsage. The ultimate at that time was a small bouquet that resembled a miniature bridal bouquet (I think it had the weird name of "nosegay") and very few girls received those. Most of the flowers were carnations, although sometimes a rose or two was mixed in if your date was flashy. My dates weren't flashy.<br />
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On the big night, your date would pick you up in his parent's car (usually a station wagon) and take you out to dinner. The only food waiting for you in the gymnasium was food donated by parents that ran the gamut from chips and pretzels to brownies and cookies, so dinner at a restaurant was an unwritten rule of prom night and girls bragged about which restaurant their date had chosen. Imagine the awkwardness of the dinner conversation when it's you and a boy who you've known most of your life, but have never talked to before.<br />
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Plus, you have to add in the advice your mother gave you before you left that you should order something nice, but not too nice because then your date might expect something in return. This advice led to thoughts like, "Hmmm, I've always wanted to try the lasagna, but that's $12.50 which translates to ten or fifteen minutes of necking. No way this guy's getting a steak dinner worth of wrestling in his back seat. I'm not eating steak until I'm married. He's not bad looking, and since he had his braces taken off, my lips should be safe for a kiss or two, so I think I'll go with the $9.00 chicken parmesan."<br />
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At the dance itself, the gym was suddenly magical with its twinkly lights and twisted streamers. A local band had been hired to perform and everyone crowded the floor to shift their weight from one foot to the other in true seventies dance style. Boys had to be dragged out for fast dances, but did the dragging on the slow ones since for some, it was their first chance to actually touch a girl their age. Every couple on the dance floor moved the same--girls' arms around boys' necks, boys' arms around girls' waists, no space between bodies, all leaning left, then leaning right, with an occasional change in the direction of the spinning as the only variety. We were about as animated as zombies.<br />
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When the prom ended, there were a variety of entertainment options. Some flocked to parties to continue the drinking they had started on the way to prom. Others dropped their dates off at their door with a quick kiss and a thank you for a lovely evening. Still others found a hidden spot in a local cornfield to park and negotiate what a dinner of chicken parm is really worth.<br />
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I have watched all four of my daughters navigate the complexities of present day proms and I can tell you that prom has been taking steroids.<br />
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First of all, while there are those who already have a significant other and are set for a date, so many others find dates through committee. If your friend has a boyfriend, she asks him which of his friends want to go to prom and then his list is matched with her list of friends until everyone has a suitable date. This, of course, involves negotiations and compromise. It also means boys don't have to actually ask a girl until they already know that the answer will be yes. Sometimes a more outgoing girl will just stand up before class and ask who still needs a prom date and then will match up the people who raise their hands, either with each other, or with people outside that class who she knows are still searching. It's all so civilized and democratic. It's also about as romantic as union negotiations.<br />
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Once a date has been procured, the search for a dress is on. I've already described that adventure in a previous post, but there are also appointments for hair, manicure, pedicure, waxing, exfoliating, dermabrasion, spray tan, and maybe other procedures I don't want to know about. These days, a girl has to have more things creamed, sprayed, and removed for prom night than I had done for my wedding day. Hey, I shaved my legs and put on deodorant--what more do you want? If my date/husband isn't attracted to me unless I allow hot wax to be poured onto various body parts, he'd better be willing to have the same thing done in the same areas and be willing to go first.<br />
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Proms these days aren't held in the school gym. They are held in banquet halls and country clubs and nightclubs. A buffet dinner is served and there isn't any prom decorating committee folding tissues into flowers since the venue provides live flowers. There's no homemade stairway winding up into the biology lab, there are balloon covered trellises. Real linens, china, crystal, and silver have replaced the paper plates, plastic cups, and brightly colored paper napkins of my prom days. No awkward dinner for two beforehand, now you share the meal with all those seated at your table. And don't plan on picking up your date in Dad's car because even a limo isn't enough these days--it has to be a stretch Hummer that seats twenty or a party bus that holds twelve couples. And what chance do you have to take your date parking in a cornfield for some smooching when you're in one of those?<br />
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My strongest memory of prom is of my date in my junior year. He was a senior who I had never actually talked to before. We had a nice time, shared a quick kiss goodnight, and I thought that was that. He graduated, joined the Navy, and I moved on to my senior year. Then out of the blue, he called to say he was home on leave and to ask if I would have dinner with him. I thought it would be fun to see how he was doing and I accepted.<br />
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He picked me up and immediately I could tell he was no longer the shy, quiet guy who had taken me to prom. He seemed more confidant and very edgy. He talked a lot on the drive to the restaurant. We had a nice dinner and then went to see a movie. About halfway through the film, he put his arm around me and I let him, not seeing any harm in it (he did buy me dinner, after all, and I had the chicken PLUS a piece of cake for dessert). When we were walking across the parking lot to his car, he stopped and planted a big, sloppy kiss on me. Now I wasn't as comfortable. He was a nice enough guy, I thought, but I wasn't attracted to him and he was only home on leave. We got in the car and as we were driving, he opened the glove box, took out a baggie of pills and asked me if I wanted one before popping one in his mouth. I was a naive little country girl, but even I knew these weren't tic-tacs.<br />
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He turned the radio up really loud and said he knew a good place at a local farm where we could park and "talk" for awhile. There are two reasons to go into a cornfield--one is to pick corn and the other isn't to talk. I just wanted out of the car at that point. I made excuses why I really had to get home and he started telling me how much he had missed me and thought about me while he was at basic training. He said he couldn't get me off his mind, which I thought was really strange since we hadn't had a relationship or anything, just a few casual dates. When we reached my house, he just kept driving. His talking became even more slurred and rambling and I knew I wasn't going into a cornfield or anywhere else with this guy. At a red light a few blocks past my house, I jumped out of the car and ran into the backyard of the nearest house and kept running through backyards until I reached my own. After locking the door, I peered out the front window and saw his car stop in front of my house, sit idling for a few minutes, and then pull away. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest.<br />
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The next day, the phone rang and when I answered, it was his mother calling me to ask if I had seen or heard from him. I said I had gone out with him the night before, but hadn't been in touch since. She said, "Oh, my, so he's in town?" I said, "He was last night. Haven't you seen him since he came home on leave?" She answered, "He isn't home on leave. He went AWOL. I knew he was missing you because he talks about you a lot in phone calls and letters. I had a feeling you might have been the reason he took off." I promised her that I would call if I saw or heard from him again, which I was praying wouldn't happen. It didn't. I have no idea what became of him. I hope, wherever he is, he is happy and well.<br />
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Because of him, when I get up in the morning and look in the mirror to see another wrinkle creasing my forehead, another silver hair mixed with the blonde, bags under my eyes big enough to pack lunch in, and another chin resting on my chest, I tell myself, "Yeah, okay, but once upon a time, a man went AWOL just to buy you dinner and have a chance to take you parking in a cornfield," and it's a little easier keeping my chin up, or in my case, <i>chins </i>up.<br />
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And as scary as it was, it was certainly more romantic than a union negotiation.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-38521958939328340382011-05-03T17:29:00.001-04:002011-05-03T17:30:08.602-04:00Hobos, Old Man Booty, And Cat VomitI'm a bad blogger. A bad, bad blogger. I shall say The Blogger's Oath fifty times before I go to sleep tonight as penance for not writing for so long (Is there a blogger's oath?).<br />
<br />
In my defense, the last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. First, I traveled to the writer's conference. Then, it was a week of preparing for prom night--not only dealing with dress, hair, shoes, jewelry, nails, flowers, etc., but also the fact that ten girls were coming back to my house for a sleepover following the festivities, so I also had to prepare sleeping arrangements, food, and drink (water and soda only, thank you very much). It's a lot of work, but so much fun to have the house full of teenage girls in gowns, gossiping about their dates and the dance itself, and then to wake up to bobby pins everywhere from the deconstruction of ten up-dos. (And guess what? I get to do it all again in a few weeks because the boy my daughter took to Junior Prom invited her to Senior Prom.) Plus this past weekend, we traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my daughter A's graduation from college--YAY! I'm a woman on the move these days.<br />
<br />
Getting my daughter M ready for the prom was interesting. The two of us went to a local hair salon for her special 'do. She asked me to go with her to help explain what she wanted. It should have been an exciting time of preparation for a fun event. It was not. During the whole time we were there, the salon had the TV tuned in to an Oprah episode where she was talking to a young boy who had spent several years locked in a closet and was basically tortured by his family. Not likely to put you in a partying mood. Then, a male senior citizen walked by me and I noticed that he had money sticking out of his back pocket about to fall. I told him about it, he thanked me and stuck it in his front pocket, then wiggled his butt in my face and asked me if I saw anything else there I liked. I did not. Really, really not.<br />
<br />
The prom was Friday night and on Monday, my husband, my daughter M, and I traveled to Florida to visit my oldest daughter J. J is an aerospace engineer who works on the space shuttle Endeavor. We originally made plans for the visit so we could watch the shuttle launch, but the launch was postponed. We can't go down then, so we decided to keep our plans and spend the week sightseeing in Florida. The day we arrived, J arranged for us to attend a private function where we met the astronauts who had just flown on Discovery's last mission. It was amazing to get to shake their hands, talk with them, and get pictures signed. I was humbled by the dedication and sacrifice these individuals make and was a little tongue-tied. My husband--not so much. He said, "Nice chucks," to one astronaut who was wearing sneakers and then told him to have a safe flight---despite the fact that they had just returned from their last flight ever. Oh, well. His isn't the only red face. I thanked an astronaut "for all you do" and he thanked me for all I do in return, thinking I was one of the employees who maintain the shuttle. Rather than hold up the line explaining that I didn't do anything other than raise a smart daughter who helps keep the shuttle functioning, I just smiled and stammered, "You're welcome."<br />
<br />
We also spent several days at the beach. My youngest daughter M, who is seventeen and gorgeous, came back from the beach one afternoon and told me she'd felt uncomfortable tossing a football with her dad and sister since, as she put it, "Two hobos were staring at me." I laughed for a half hour, not at the sad plight of homeless men or the creepiness of them staring at my young daughter, but because all I could picture was two guys sitting on the beach in top hats with sticks thrown over their shoulders supporting a bandana full of their belongings as cigar stubs dangled from the corner of their mouths. I couldn't remember the last time I heard anyone use the word hobo and I told her so. The next day we visited the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Augustine and there was a plate made of cigar bands by, yup, hobos. And then we were watching a popular sitcom on TV and one of the songs had the word hobo in it. On one of the pages of the book I read that night was a sentence with hobo in it. I guess hobos are making a comeback. We should all take the wads of extra cash we have laying around and invest in companies that make bandanas. We'll make millions! Wouldn't it be odd if you avoided becoming a hobo by investing in supplies that hobos use? <br />
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This past weekend we were at A's graduation. We paid tens of thousands of dollars in four years of tuition so we could spend Sunday at a two hour ceremony in the morning where the speaker talked about himself and his accomplishments with barely a mention of the graduates, followed by a three hour ceremony in the afternoon where a twenty minute introduction <i>of </i>the speaker was followed by a half hour talk <i>by</i> the speaker <i>about</i> the speaker. I think someone thought they were at a political fundraising function instead of a graduation. All that was followed by a five hour car ride home. I lost all feeling from my neck to my knees, but my daughter A graduated Magna Cum Laude and is qualified to psychoanalyze me, which should be a full-time job. She now has the degree to answer the question Am I Crazy? and it only cost me sixty thousand dollars. Plus, by the time she hit puberty, she was telling everyone who would listen that I'm crazy, so I <i>must</i> be crazy to spend all that money to hear her reaffirm her beliefs. Or something like that.<br />
<br />
I'm back home at last and my pets are punishing me for leaving them so often and for so long. The older dog just stares at me with baleful eyes if I call her or give her a command. The younger one is trying the helpless baby approach to getting attention and suddenly must be lifted up the stairs and onto the couch despite the fact that he has no problem doing it on his own when he thinks I'm not looking. The cats take turns climbing on me and sharpening their claws on my clothes and skin, giving each other a nod when it's time to trade places. This isn't just my guilt talking--there is an actual plan to punish me afoot. Speaking of afoot, M must be included in the punishment since one of the cats threw up on her bare foot last night. With a whole house and seven acres to throw up in, tell me that wasn't deliberate.<br />
<br />
Life has slowed down to its normal craziness, so I'll try to post regularly again. I wouldn't want any of you to have to resort to coming up with elaborate plans to punish me the way my pets have. I can only take so many baleful stares and my clothes have so many claw holes that if you hold them in front of a light, you can see a whole galaxy of stars shining on the wall.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-3100378432141624272011-04-17T15:01:00.000-04:002011-04-17T15:01:06.417-04:00There's No Place Like Home So I had an interesting experience last weekend.<br />
<br />
Went to a regional writer's conference to meet up with some people, get some work critiqued, and have some quiet time to write (that means without cats or dogs between me and my laptop). The workshops were Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but I drove up on Thursday and booked my room until Monday so I'd have time to work.<br />
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The conference was being held at a historic inn located in a small country town. I chose not to stay in the main hotel since I knew it would be crowded and noisy and instead booked a new little cottage with a queen bed, full kitchen, and small living room. When I called to make the reservation, I asked if I would be able to get room service since I wanted to eat while I worked. I was told yes. The day before I left (Wednesday) the hotel called to confirm my reservation and again I asked about room service and was told it would be available.<br />
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After a two hour drive, I arrived and went to the front desk to check in. As I was signing the forms, I read the small print and was bewildered to find that even though the inn charges extra for the rooms with the kitchens, they flat out tell you that you aren't allowed to use the kitchen. Huh? The form stated that even though the room contains a refrigerator, stove, oven, dishwasher, and microwave, they don't allow cooking and have provided no pans or utensils for use in the rooms. If you want to cook, you must make arrangements through them for a different room. So you lure customers in by offering a full kitchen and even charge them extra for it, and then when they show up, you tell them it's just for show? What's next--"There is also a king size bed in the room, but all sleeping must be done on the floor." "You'll find a toilet in the bathroom, but . . ." well, you get the point.<br />
<br />
I hadn't planned on cooking anyway and had just brought some basics to keep in the fridge--fruit, cheese, milk, etc., so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I moved my stuff into the room and got to work. Around seven p.m., I took a break and decided to order some soup and a salad from room service. I called the number and reached an answering machine. Room service was available until nine, so I was surprised that no one answered. I called the front desk and they said, "Oh, the restaurant is only open on weekends." Seriously? The two times that I asked about room service, they couldn't say, "Yes, we have it available, but only on the weekend," so I would be prepared? Now it's seven-thirty on a Thursday night and I have to drive around a strange town looking for food. I felt like a high school boy whose date rubbed up against him all night only to push him away when he tried for a kiss goodnight. The word "tease" comes to mind.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I took a shower before dressing for the first of my sessions. The owners of the inn had little notecards all around with environmental messages on them. Suspiciously, most of the messages might have helped the environment, but mainly seem to save money and work for the inn. I had to turn the water all the way up for it even to be lukewarm and then within five minutes, it was chilly. You know how important my Herbal Essence is to me, so I wasn't thrilled with rushing through my lather, rinse, repeat. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my hair, then starting drying my body with another one. Ouch! These towels must have been recycled bamboo or reconstituted pine nuts or something because they would take the skin off an armadillo. I patted the spots that still had skin and got dressed in my writer's uniform--black dress pants, black books, and a black sweater. Now all I had to do was dry my hair, put on my makeup and I could face my fellow writers. I unwrapped the towel and rubbed my hair with it, then looked in the mirror. It was as though I had rolled on the floor of a cotton factory. I was covered in bits of towel. I'm not talking about your normal everyday lint. I have cats and dogs, so I'm used to pulling fur off myself. No, this was chunks of towel covering most of my sweater. A lamb would have had to explode to get this much fluff on me.<br />
<br />
I changed my sweater, finished getting ready and headed out. The conference part was good. I had fun talking with the other writers and there were some interesting talks. I met an agent who I think would be a good fit for my work and who seems to get me (I know, terrifying thought, right?).<br />
<br />
After my meetings, I stopped by the general store to see if there was anything I could take home for my husband and the daughter who still lives at home. I found a bronze bear that I thought my husband would like. Oh, brother, no price tag on it. I took it up to the cashier and asked for the price. She called to one of the male workers and told him to find another one with a price. He wandered around the store with the bear in his hand, but couldn't find one. He picked up a fairy and with a serious face said, "These weigh about the same, so just charge her $20 since that's the price on the fairy." Talk about time travel. I thought I was going to have to come up with some gold nuggets to throw on the scale to pay.<br />
<br />
I bought the bear and went back to my room to get to work. It was Saturday night, so I decided I would give room service another try and then put my nose to the writing grindstone. The cottage was with a group of buildings that were away from the main inn, but still within walking distance. The front desk had told me that I could park in what is usually the luggage drop-off zone because there wasn't anyone else staying over in those buildings. Since I was so isolated, I was surprised when there was a knock on my door that evening. I opened the door and found a six foot plus state trooper in full uniform. He said he was sorry to interrupt my vacation, but he was investigating a burglary in the building attached to mine from the night before and he wanted to know if I had heard anything. Say what?<br />
<br />
It seems that while I slept in my little cottage, a person or persons had broken into the room next to mine and had taken everything--sheets, pillows, blankets, the TV, the lamps, and yes, even the crappy towels. The trooper wanted to know if I had heard or seen anything suspicious. I told him that I hadn't as my knees shook and my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that only a cheap hotel room door had stood between me and criminals. If they had thought those towels were worth stealing, how much would they have risked to get their hands on my laptop and other technology? Yikes!<br />
<br />
I gave the trooper my contact info, thanked him, then shut and locked the door. Fifteen minutes later, my bags were in the car and I was pulling out of the parking lot on my way home.<br />
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Peace and quiet in a country setting is overrated. I would much rather be at home trying to type around the dog on my lap, a dog who will bark like his tail is on fire if anyone shows up here looking for crappy towels to steal. Hey, maybe I can leave the ones my sister made dingy on the back porch and the burglar will take them and leave.<br />
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Two birds--one stone.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-32136063468853203822011-04-06T14:33:00.000-04:002011-04-06T14:33:06.726-04:00Who Can I Count On To Suck Out The Poison? Psychoanalysis-Stage Two.<br />
<br />
Some people have a natural confidence in themselves and wear it like a second skin. Others never find confidence no matter how great their achievements. I fall somewhere in between. Mine's more like a sunburn that peels easily. Or like the shell game you find on street corners-now you see it, now you don't, and even when you see it, it's not there for long. Definitely a sucker's bet.<br />
<br />
It was distinctly not there for most of my school years when I was too shy to peek out from behind my curtain of hair. In my junior year, I was chosen as a majorette. Not top tier popularity like the cheerleaders, but moving up the ladder just a bit. In my senior year, there was the combination of being head majorette and realizing this was it, I would probably never see most of these people again, so what did I have to lose? I stepped out of my shell a little and gained a thin layer of confidence.<br />
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Then I left for college and a whole new life. It was a very small school, but these people hadn't been there for all my awkward years, hadn't seen my Cousin It impression, hadn't known my family, and hadn't had front row seats for every embarrassing puberty-driven humiliation life had dealt me. I could start fresh. And I did.<br />
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I had great friends, I was in plays, I dated cute guys, and even when my confidence flickered, I had discovered the secret that most successful-people-manuals share with you--fake it. That's right-fake it. I became the queen of faking confidence and surviving faking it made me more confident. I challenged myself all the time-- if nobody wanted to be the one to ask the cranky professor for more time to complete an assignment, I volunteered. Nobody wanted to approach the group of hot guys to find out where the best party was going to be--send me in. My knees would be shaking and my head would be spinning like a seat on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the town carnival, but I'd grit my teeth and do it.<br />
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By the time I graduated from college, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had a college degree, a guy who thought I was pretty special, lifelong friends, and my whole future ahead of me. The guy asked me to spend my life with him and everything was coming up roses. Besides, that was part of that brief period when my lumps and bumps were aligned like the stars.<br />
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So when exactly did that layer of confidence start splitting like the skin on an overripe banana?<br />
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Maybe it was when my future father-in-law told me to be sure my coal-cracker family wore shoes to the wedding so he wouldn't be embarrassed. I could be wrong, but I think IBM required that their executives, of which my father was one, wore shoes to work. <br />
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Or perhaps it was when my future mother-in-law said she wouldn't come to the wedding if it was in my church because she wasn't going to sit through a "heathen" ritual (you know us Methodists are always beheading chickens and smearing the blood on our infants to appease the pagan gods).<br />
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Could it have been in the middle of my bridesmaids' luncheon, when in front of everyone, my soon-to-be sister-in-law announced that no one in her family was happy about the wedding going forward (she could have just given me a toaster, but this was a nice gift, too).<br />
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Or maybe it was the first ten Christmases or so when I arrived at their house with bags of carefully chosen gifts for all of them and left with bags of gifts for my husband and children, but not one item in there for me. I guess the Grinch took all mine up the mountain and they fell off his sleigh. (Oh, to live in Whoville where we can all join hands and enjoy the Roast Beast--Yahoo torres . . . ) (Note to mother-in-law--Yahoo torres is a phrase from a Christmas cartoon, not a chant from one of our pagan rituals. That goes more like Ba boo zorres. Just want to make that clear.)<br />
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These are just a few of thousands of examples, but this steady drumbeat of "You're not good enough, you're not smart enough, and gosh darn it, we just don't like you," was more than enough to break my thin shell of confidence. I responded by vowing to prove them wrong, but the more I tried to be what I thought they wanted, the less I was myself and the unhappier I grew. I don't remember what the straw was that broke the camel's back, but one day I realized that I didn't want to be like them, I didn't care what they thought, and being around them was like sprinkling arsenic on your salad, toxic and self-destructive.<br />
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I couldn't cut them out of my life altogether because that wouldn't be fair to my husband and children. I do show up for the important functions a couple times a year and I never try to talk my husband out of going to as many of his family's get-togethers as he wants (well, except for the time I was only a week out of the hospital after major abdominal surgery and they insisted he leave me to participate in a family photo at their house). Sometimes my girls go with him, but most of the time they don't. They are smart girls and have witnessed things for themselves.<br />
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At some point in the years after I stopped caring if they liked me, they started liking me. My in-laws went from "no gifts for you" to bidding on and winning a signed Joe Paterno football for me just because they knew he's my favorite coach. They call me for help and advice and actually respect my opinion. Sometimes, they even tell people we're related.<br />
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What caused this change? I have no idea. It all happened around the time my first book was published, so maybe the move from hick/heathen/mutt to author was the turning point. Maybe it was because my kids turned out so well, despite their predictions to the contrary, or maybe it was because my marriage survived past all the dates in the betting pool estimating it's eventual failure ( I hear my mother and father-in-law put a crapload of money on six months). I don't know the reason why, but I do know it makes me very nervous.<br />
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After all, what other creature does a rattlesnake cozy up to? Only a victim or another rattlesnake.<br />
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Trying to figure out which one I am keeps me awake at night.JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-65706260804823271062011-04-02T19:29:00.000-04:002011-04-02T19:29:48.693-04:00When Exactly Did I Move To Crazy Town? Last week was full of stinky bits---stress, sadness, exhaustion, and strangeness.<br />
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But I haven't moved so far into crazy town that I don't realize that a lot of that was my own fault. I can complain about all the food I had to cook for my family (who I love, really I do), but who asked me to cook so much? Yeah, I had to feed people, but I could have pulled out the lunch meat or thrown hamburgers on the grill instead of trying to impress with crab-stuffed cod and homemade rolls. I spent hours on the music for the slideshow, but I could have just found a nice instrumental piece and made it work instead of searching for the ultimate funeral music. I could have just appreciated that my towels were clean and not cringed over the fact that they are now a different shade.<br />
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Why do I obsess over making everything so perfect? I wasn't always this way. I used to be semi-normal (I know, hard to believe, isn't it?) So let's psychoanalyze my need for perfection. Hmmmm. This could take many, many blog posts, so let's start with just one possibility.<br />
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Did it start with the "You could be so pretty if"'s my mom used to throw at me. You know the ones--"You could be so pretty if you'd only pull your hair off your face," or "You could be so pretty if you'd only dress nicer," which leaves you with the only possible deduction--I'm not so pretty now. I need to try harder, up my game.<br />
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Moms aren't the only ones who use this phrase. Dads-guilty. Boyfriends-guilty. Sisters, best friends, strangers in line at Dunkin' Donuts-guilty, guilty, guilty. Everybody thinks they have the magic secret to what's keeping you from being so pretty.<br />
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I never got the you-could-be-so-pretty-if-you'd-only lose a few pounds, exercise more, stop eating, bleach your mustache, get highlights, have a nose-job, or change sexes, but I know people who did. I'm sure I've said a form of those dreaded words to my own daughters and shame on me. My daughters are beautiful as they are and they don't need to change a thing.<br />
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Now that I'm a mom, I know that my mother wasn't trying to be cruel or make me feel bad--she just wanted me to be the best I could be and to her eyes, I wasn't using all my potential in the looks department. She was probably right. I probably would have been prettier without scraggly hair falling over my face, but I wasn't confident enough to believe that and the scraggly hair made me feel less vulnerable. It was my invisibility cloak. Of course, it didn't make me invisible, it just made me look like Cousin It from The Addams Family, but to my puberty-stricken mind, it was a place to hide.<br />
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My ill-fitting clothes hid the body that was all strange lumps and bumps and odd angles. Once I hit seventeen and the bumps moved to the right areas, I no longer hid them in baggy shirts and pants. I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle.<br />
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I see young women now who throw on a hoodie and a pair of wrinkled sweats, finger comb their hair, and they are out the door. I want to run up to them screaming, "You are wasting the very small window of attractiveness you have been given. Do you think anyone is going to want to see you in a tank top in ten years? You're past the gangly stage and headed straight for the even my wrinkles have wrinkles stage! Strut it while you've got it, girl!" But of course I don't because that would be crazy and wrong. So wrong. So very wrong.<br />
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My mom passed in 1991 and I loved her dearly. She was my biggest fan and for some reason, she thought I should be a movie star. She started telling me that when I was just a little girl and continued until I got married and had kids. I guess she gave up on the idea at that point.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I have no idea why she thought I would make a good movie star. I think maybe it was because I liked Shirley Temple movies and I had curly hair ( I couldn't dance or sing and I didn't have the skills to be an ambassador, but she didn't let that get in the way). I had never shown any interest in acting or performing, I had never shown any skill for it either. I didn't have some mysterious "it factor" that drew people in. I was just a shy, awkward little blonde kid whose mother had big dreams. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> She even talked me into signing up for a drama class in college by convincing me I could work behind the scenes. I did it to make her happy and then on the first day, I found out everyone in the class had to audition for the plays. What? I just wanted to paint scenery and get a free ticket to the show. I did the audition and won the role of one of the main characters. Life can be so cruel sometimes. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I went on to enjoy acting and to have roles in a bunch more plays during college and even had a role in a TV commercial, but I never tried to be a movie star. That was her dream for me, not mine. I can admit though, that if she hadn't seen something in me that I didn't, I would never have signed up for drama class and had the experiences that I had. So I guess her gentle little nudges didn't make me psychotic, just less shy and less hairy. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> In my next post, I'll explore Possibility #2 in the search for the reason I can't say, "Make yourself a sandwich. If you need me, I'll be taking a nap." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-17763542188968491872011-03-30T19:15:00.000-04:002011-03-30T19:15:52.145-04:00I Wanted To Burn The Sheets, But My Husband Says Burn The Bed In my last post, I promised to tell you what my family was inflicting on me during the time I was creating the memorial slideshow for my husband's aunt. You'd better grab a drink--this is going to be a long one.<br />
<br />
My husband's uncle left us a property in the beautiful mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania and last year, we decided to build a loghouse on it. The plan is to share it with family and friends now, and then retire there in the future. It's about three hours away from where I live now, but only an hour from my hometown, where a lot of my family still lives, so it works out well as a meeting place. The loghouse turned out nicely and is used by family or friends almost every weekend.<br />
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A niece that I haven't seen in years was going to be visiting the area with her son and new baby so my sister asked if we could all meet at the loghouse for a few days. It was going to be my sister, her husband, her two daughters, her son, the new baby along with his older brother, the baby's father, and then my husband and me. Ten people in all or nine and a half since the baby is only a few months old.<br />
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My sister said she would do all the shopping and cooking since this was basically eighty percent her family, but then two days before the gathering, she called to say that she wasn't feeling well and didn't have a chance to shop. She said she would bring deli meat and rolls for lunches, but left the rest up to me. Meals for ten people for three days--no problem.<br />
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I told my sister that I would be arriving on Monday to clean up from the seven adults and seventeen kids who had used the house over the weekend and I would see all of them on Tuesday. No, my sister insisted she wanted to come Monday night. I told her I had to wash sheets and towels and clean and she said she would help. I tried in vain to talk her out of coming Monday so I could have one evening of peace before the crowd arrived. I even called her Monday afternoon to tell her I was just finishing up my errands and hadn't even left town yet so wouldn't be at the loghouse until nine or ten. She said she was already packed up and in the car, ready to go, and would wait for me there. She told me that she would get started on the laundry and I said, "Please don't. I'm anal about the towels because we've had so many pretty ones ruined by being thrown in with dark colors and now they are dingy looking. I'll do them when I get there." (This mostly happened when men "helped" by throwing laundry in the machine. I don't want to stereotype, but the men I associate with have an allergic reaction to sorting dirty laundry. If it can be crammed into the washer with the handle of a broom, it's going in with the rest.)<br />
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I arrived after a three hour drive accompanied by one dog who tries to jump into the front seat every couple of miles and another one who whines for the windows to be down for the entire drive, in 30 degree weather, and gets so upset if they aren't that he vomits. I honestly think the one is trying to get in the front seat to get away from the other one.<br />
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Anyway, after I unpacked and put the food away, my sister's teenage grandson, who had come with her, asked, "Is it okay if I have a snack or will we be having dinner soon?" Excuse me? It's nine-thirty at night, you left your house after six, so why are you waiting for me to cook you dinner? Also, you've been sitting here for two hours with lunch meat and rolls--can you not make a sandwich? My sister, her husband, and her grandson just stood there waiting for me to answer. I took a deep breath and not wanting to start the visit on a bad note, said, "I have some chicken and steak. I could make fajitas." And so I did. <br />
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We ate at about ten o'clock and while I was cleaning up the kitchen afterwards, my sister disappeared for a few minutes. She came back and said, "Well, they probably aren't folded the way you like, but at least they're clean." I asked, "What are you talking about?" She said, "The towels. I washed them for you." I asked, "Did you do the light blue ones or the dark brown ones?" and she answered, "Both. I threw them in together." I was picturing the dinginess spreading over my lovely towels when she added, "There is some sort of red stain all over the light blue ones that didn't come out in the wash." Sure enough, when I checked them, there was red all over them that was now permanently baked in by putting them in the dryer. Why, oh, why couldn't she have helped by cleaning the toilets instead? That would have earned her a hug.<br />
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The rest of the guests arrived the next day and I spent the afternoon cooking a large pan of beef, 5 lbs of cod topped with crab stuffing, two strawberry trifles, homemade rolls, fresh green beans, baked potatoes, and rice. We had a nice dinner and I estimated there were enough leftovers that I wouldn't have to cook the next day.<br />
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Once the kitchen was clean, we all found seats in the great-room and settled in to chat. Like I said, I haven't seen my niece in a few years. She lives down south now and although we share news on Facebook and through emails, we haven't really talked in awhile.<br />
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She told us she is crunchy and most of her friends are as well.<br />
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Now, I learned back in college that if you don't know what a word means, you just smile, nod your head, and pretend you do and then look it up later. I learned this the hard way when I had no idea what ninety percent of the punchlines to jokes meant and I thought "papers" meant the kind with the news in them. I was teased unmercifully for my small-town naivete and learned to hide the fact that I had no idea what was being discussed. Now I just fake it and try to figure it out from the context in which the word is used.<br />
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She went on to say that she showers only once a week and never uses shampoo or soap.<br />
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Well, I thought, no wonder she's crunchy. She's probably crusty, too.<br />
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Turns out that "crunchy" in slang means she has adjusted her lifestyle for environmental reasons. Oh. Then not referring to food and body fluids trapped on unwashed skin. Got it.<br />
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You have to understand that last year, I had emergency surgery after three days in the hospital with severe abdominal pain and woke up in intensive care because I had the beginning stages of sepsis. The first thing I asked the intensive care nurse was, "Can I get a shower?" She said, "No. You've just had major surgery, you have a catheter, you're hooked up to IV, and you have a tube running up your nose and down into your stomach. You cannot get a shower." A few hours later, they took out the catheter and I pleaded, "Can I get one now? It's been days!" The nurse finally agreed to let me give myself a sponge-bath in the little sink in the room, under her supervision. She brought me a washcloth, towel, and one of those little kits with body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and a toothbrush. She watched to make sure I was steady on my feet while I wiped my face and body clean. Satisfied that I wasn't going to fall over, she left the room and I stuck my head under that little faucet and washed my hair. It felt wonderful! My incision hurt and I was exhausted when I was finished, but my head was no longer itchy. She came back into the room to find me combing my freshly washed locks. She shook her head and said, "I think you can leave Intensive Care now."<br />
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So if I am willing to do all that to have clean hair, you can imagine how hard it is for me to fathom someone willingly not using shampoo on her waist-length hair. She said if it feels greasy, she sprinkles some baking soda in it and combs it out. I remember people doing that as an emergency measure when they didn't have time to shampoo, but never as a total replacement for shampoo. As she was telling us this, my scalp starting itching in sympathy for hers.<br />
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I recycle. I care about the environment. But please don't ask me to give up my Herbal Essence. I'll fight you to the death.<br />
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I understand that different cultures have different hygiene habits. Heck, I watched the movie "Babies" and almost lost consciousness when that mother wiped her child's poop off on her own leg. Maybe if I had been raised somewhere else, I would think it was crazy to shower every day or every other day. But that's what I've been doing for fifty years and that's about all I can stand of my own filth.<br />
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My niece also doesn't use disposable diapers. I understand that. Her mother asked her why she had such a large bag of dirty cloth diapers and she said she was staying with friends and didn't feel right about asking them to introduce urine and feces into their washing machine, so she brought them to my house so I could have the pleasure instead.<br />
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My husband has this habit when someone says something that bothers him or grosses him out. He will go from slouching to sitting straight up and his eyes get really wide. You almost expect steam to shoot from his ears like it did from Harry Potter's when he ate the candy. Well, I was trying to keep a poker face as she was telling us this (not my strong suit) and my husband shot so straight up that his head was almost brushing the ceiling and his eyes were wide open and staring at me for a reaction. I avoided making eye contact with him until the conversation moved to another topic, but fifteen minutes into the new conversation, he was still ramrod straight and bug-eyed.<br />
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I locked myself in my office the next morning and when I came out, Herbie told me that he had made them waffles and eggs, but they had also brought out the leftovers from the night before and mostly polished them off, including the beef that I didn't think crunchies would eat. I spent the afternoon cooking again-three whole chickens, 4 lbs of salmon, two applesauce cakes, and new batches of rolls, potatoes, rice, and green beans. How is this "sustainable" eating? No one could sustain this!<br />
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My husband's second piece of bad news that morning had been that his aunt had passed away. So in between hosting family and cooking another big dinner, I was working on the slideshow and searching for the perfect song that no one would end up hearing.<br />
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The next day, when I had finished cleaning the house and packing everything up for the three hour drive home, I gave my sister a hug goodbye. She hugged me back and said, "You should take better care of yourself. You look exhausted."<br />
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Gee, ya think?<br />
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JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5180452946753812741.post-82833102029059723902011-03-28T18:34:00.002-04:002011-03-28T23:26:07.859-04:00It Must Have Smelled Like He Was Dancing With Shamu There is a sucker born every minute and when I was born, they probably said, "That one counts as two."<br />
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I've had some unique encounters in the past two weeks that I thought I would share with you.<br />
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It all started two weeks ago when one of my sisters-in-law asked me to make a slide show for the family of an aunt who was in hospice care. Unfortunately, the doctors had done all they could for the aunt and the family was making funeral preparations. They wanted a ten minute slide show for the funeral luncheon, a twenty minute one to show people who stopped by the house, and a thousand slide presentation for each family member as a keepsake.<br />
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Two weeks ago was before I made my pledge to start saying "No" when asked for favors. I probably would have still said no since this sister-in law is one of the worst for only calling when in need, but she was calling on behalf of a cousin who has been not only a good relative, but also a great friend, so I was happy to do it for him and his siblings.<br />
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They had scanned the slides, but hadn't put them in any order, so I had to guess at the chronological placement. They had songs they liked, but only knew where to find them on youtube, not for purchase. They had artists they liked, but left it up to me to pick which songs (not a responsibility I wanted for someone else's funeral).<br />
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I put together the ten minute show, spent a couple hours finding places to buy the particular songs they requested, then a couple more hours adding transitions, putting together a final slide with an appropriate quote, and getting it all to end at the precise same second. The cousin who was approving my work isn't tech savvy at all and she lives a couple hours away, so I uploaded the video to my youtube channel (which I only have to support other people's videos) and sent her the link. I figured she would watch it, tell me what she wanted changed and then I would take it down. Since I don't have anything else on the page, the chances that anyone else would see it were minimal.<br />
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She watched it, liked it, and didn't want anything changed. I went to work on the twenty minute one and forgot about taking the one off youtube. A couple of days later, I got an email saying that a comment had been left on my channel. I checked and someone had left a "Woo hoo!" under the memorial tribute. Not only that, but there had been sixty-nine views. Huh?<br />
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When I asked around, I found out that the cousin I sent the link to had forwarded it to her siblings to get their input and some of them had pasted it to their Facebook pages. A memorial video for their mother who hadn't passed away yet. Again-huh?<br />
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Unfortunately, a week later, their mother did pass, and I was contacted because they decided they weren't comfortable with the second song. They wanted something else, but didn't know what, and could I pick something and change it. Seriously? Raise your hand if you want to be responsible for picking a song for someone else's mother's funeral with zero guidance as to why the last song wasn't what they wanted? Anyone? Anyone?<br />
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After many hours of searching and stressing, I picked an instrumental of "Time To Say Goodbye" that was lovely. I had to spend more hours fitting it in to the video since it wasn't the same length as the original song, but I finished it late the night before the funeral.<br />
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Herbie and I attended the funeral the next day. At the luncheon, we sat at a table with seven members of his family. It was a sad day and especially hard to watch the family saying goodbye to their mother and grandmother, but there were distractions to take our mind off the grief.<br />
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One of Herbie's brothers ate his whole salad with his hands even though there were three forks next to his plate. His wife refused to eat anything, just allowing the waitstaff to put it in front of her and then take it away again untouched. She never eats at public places unless there are five stars next to the restaurant's name, but she never tells the waitstaff no thank you either. She just lets them serve it and then throw it away. Mind-boggling. Two others were displeased with the chicken entree the family had decided to serve and told the server to bring them a pasta dish instead. They aren't vegetarians. They just wanted something better than the chicken dish. Did I accidentally stumble into a food tasting instead of a funeral luncheon?<br />
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The fussy eater spent the whole luncheon trying to get the manager to come to the table because the server had dripped a couple of drops of something on her scarf. I'm not sure if she was trying to get a new scarf or just dry-cleaning out of the deal. I had to look away. I once went to a fancy dinner/dance with my hair in an up-do and wearing a black lace gown. Someone bumped the waiter and a full plate of flounder stuffed with crabmeat fell on my head. I smelled like the docks for the rest of the night, and had clumps of fish peeking out of the lace, but I never asked for something free in exchange. Accidents happen and I don't want some poor waiter or waitress getting fired or docked pay over something so insignificant. Besides, it's hard to share it as a funny story later on if the punchline is, "And so they fired the guy."<br />
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But my favorite was the sister-in-law at our table who made the original request for me to do the slideshow. She spent ten minutes telling me what religious shrines to visit on an upcoming trip, where to attend Mass, where to find the second largest collection of religious relics, etc. and then asked her niece to pass her the salad sitting at the empty seat next to me. Not, "Does anyone else want that salad?" but "Hand me that salad." I commented that more people had shown up than the family expected and people were still trying to find seats, so maybe we should leave the salad until we knew if someone was going to be sitting there for the meal. To which she displayed her holiness by answering, "Well, if someone comes, we'll just tell them there wasn't any salad." And she ate it. But she said grace first, so it's all good.<br />
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Once everyone had finished eating, family members of the deceased got up and said a few words and then it was time for the part I was dreading--the slideshow. What if they hated the song I'd chosen? What if it had some meaning for them that I wasn't aware of and it made things worse? All those hours I'd spent agonizing over finding the perfect song and fitting it into the show and they could hate it!<br />
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Not to worry. They forgot to turn the volume up and no one heard a note of the songs I'd spent so much time working into the memorial. I wasn't going to leap from my seat like a Hollywood director and yell, "CUT! Start the pictures of the deceased over again and this time cue the sentimental music!" I just quietly gathered my things and slipped out the door.<br />
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Experiencing that is going to make it so much easier to keep my vow to say no when asked for favors. I'll just make myself remember sitting in front of my laptop at four a.m. listening to the Itunes hotlist for funerals, desperate to find the right song.<br />
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In my next post, I'll tell you what was going on with my side of the family in the middle of all this. As one of my daughters says, "I see this stuff, and I still don't believe it."<br />
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JLDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01547308887736189693noreply@blogger.com1