Life Is Not Tidy.

So Many Crossroads. I'll Go Left...No Right...

2012-02-06T05:51:00.000-07:00

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

I love to wander. And I love to walk. However, not all my choices happen in a thicket outside. My mother likened this poem to daily choices, and I still have that tendency. For instance:

Well-off or not. Left-wing or Right. Fit or Fat. Heels or Flats. Spanxs or Flab. Gray or Color. Stay or Go. In or Out. Happy or Sad. I imagine all of these decisions as a road with a fork in it. (Not an actual fork.) And I am Robert Frost, coming to the 2 roads that bring me to my daily choice. They add up to a lot of energy spent, and sometimes I am exhausted by 8 AM.

Some of these roads are pretty recent. And they are a bit disappointing. The choices of age just stink. Why would I care if I went natural or fixed my body artificially? At 27, I was not in the least bit interested. But at 38... they need to be considered. Heels or Flats? At 9, it didn't matter, because my mom would have none of that anyway. FLATS. The choice was made for me.

OOH. HMM. I want my mom. To continue just making choices for me. Now lets be clear that at teen-hood, I just wanted her out of my life because she was ridiculously dumb. Because I was always right, and knew all the answers. I just needed her for food and money. NOT ADVICE. But now... it would be nice to wake up and have my clothes laid out, my shoes next to my clothes, and my breakfast made again. Even if it was oatmeal.

She could make my choices in clothing, but the consequence to that is she would also make my money choices as well. (NO, Sharon, You may not have unlimited funds for the night as you leave the house, looking for something "fun" to do.) That might work as a teen, but definitely doesn't work when I have my own household. Oh well. It was a thought...

Oh, the money thing. To Spend or Not To Spend. The daily road of choice. Now, most fork-in-the-road spots I do myself, like trying on 5 outfits to get the right combination for the day. This includes the thank-you-for-trying-but-you-didn't-make-the-cut-today outfits being flung over my bed and dresser, with my husband looking on in wonder. (He gathers them up and puts them in a basket for me to put away later. I just keep them there, and bring them out the next day.) Most are my individual choice, when it comes right down to it, but the money thing, well, that brings in my partner. To Spend or Not To Spend looks like this:

Husband: Oh yeah. It's on sale. We have to get it.

Me: Is it on the list?

Husband: Writes it on the list with the pen he has kept for just such occasion. Yes.

Me: You just wrote that in!

Husband: So? It's on sale and we have to get it.

Me: You're right. It IS on the list....

And that's the decision. In fact, it is what all my choices come down to. Self Control, or Live In The Moment? I'd say it is a 50/50 split right now. I do wear high heels without Scholl's gel inserts (see a prior story for that), so I practice self control wearing them in spite of the pain, all day. They go with my outfit, after all. BUT, I don't wear SPANX as often as I could (or should, for that matter. I do have limits in my daily dose of discomfort.). I choose salty pickles and chips on my sandwiches every time, but will skip eating ribs, steak, or red meat, usually, and choose a salad instead. Does it balance out? the teeter totter of having both control AND indulgence? Not really, but I am currently in the place where I pick the choice that makes sense at the time.

My mom would groan and turn away if she knew. (She doesn't currently read my blog, I don't think.)

Mom told me, once, to make a choice, make it once, and live with the consequences. Then you never have to make it again, and you are free to do other things. (My mom got along with Robert Frost on a few things.) Sound advice, really. It is how she balances her checkbook. It is how she knows when to iron shirts, and darn socks, and what time to make dinner or breakfast. Or make her bed. And when to send out birthday cards, I believe. She is amazing!

She used it, she said, for choices like, "Does she date young, or at 16?" and "Will she pray before a big decision, or not?" and "What type of companion will she marry?" I agree with her philosophy on the life changing things. And, I wish I would have listened. MMM, I listened. I just didn't emulate a whole lot.

Oh how I envy that woman sometimes. She came to the forks of her life a long time ago, I believe. She sat in the dust, or the pavement (or she just brought one of those folding chairs that she got in a Church auction, with her), and, with a legal pad and pen in hand, would write down the pro's and con's of the decision. Then, she would keep the pad with her in her purse, to be referred to when needed, and would simply take the road that made most sense. And keep on down that road. ( I am pretty sure she has the legal pad to this day.) Did I say she even taught me how to do it? I saw her balance her checkbook every Monday and iron Dad's shirts on Tuesday.

So why do my choices still look like me running, pell-mell down the road and then screeching to a halt at the last possible second, only to put a foot in both directions, walking it out until I do the splits? It's because I want it all. I am a road dweller because I want both Self Control AND Instant Gratification. Can it be done?

My legs hurt.

I do know this. I have started to pick myself up and go down one tine of the fork in that road. And then, cut across and go to the other side, knowing that I will probably run through prickles and milkweed sap and tumbleweeds. But when I get to the other side, I get to experience ... more. Even if that ...more... is the wrong way after all, so I have to book it, double-time, back the way I came. Even if, when I get to where I was in the first place, I look a bit sticky and dirty and tired.

Usually, though, I am smiling because I got to see both sides. I got to look at both roads and THEN pick. Again, my mom would groan. So would Robert Frost.

I am not my mom. I will take her lessons and use them a lot of times. But sometimes...SOMETIMES... I will pick up my chair and my legal pad and just fling them into the weeds, running fast for the other road. Sometimes in my heels, never in my SPANX, and when I get to the problem of whether to go gray or natural, I may wander, then, as well.

Stop the words! I'm drowning!!!

2012-02-04T07:59:00.000-07:00

I grew up with words being coerced, coaxed, pleaded and applauded out of me. As a baby, adult faces would frown when i didn't do what they asked, and shine when i got it right. Words let me know which paths were the easiest and the hardest, which food was hot or cold, which items were off limits, and what happened to the bad guys in fairytale stories.

As i grew, i heard more complex phrases which, put together with the correct punctuation, let me know when to come home for dinner, which friends i could hang with, and why my soup was too bland.

In teenhood, words became everything. EVERYTHING (along with the right eye liner) could be accomplished with words. Add an essential eye roll, a few facial expressions, and world peace could be solved.

All through life, words have been my companion in making my world vivid. I couldn't have have this vivaciousness about words without my elders. I was fortunate enough to have fine arts and liturature imbued into the very air i breathed. But, i do enjoy being lax, thanks to texting, facebook, and looking out the window as i tap away at the keys. Also, i like to write as i think, lately, and that is anything but high-falutin.

Which is why it is particularly silly when i get words, phrases, and even punctuation wrong, by accident. I was corrected about a few phrases, this afternoon, by a woman whom i could barely understand. She had no accent. She was from the same region as i. Yet i struggled mightily to let her words (and the blueberry muffin i was eating at the time) fight it out in my mouth for room. (I was saved by milk.) "You know, the correct term for ....blah blah.....is....bleetily blow, bliy bloo bloo..." and she sat there haughtily, waiting for me to do something. Bow down and say, "I'm not worthy!" or maybe "You have changed my life! I will now be a blow-torch guy!" (The term is welder.) Her eyebrow was pulled up to an almost Vulcan-ese hight, and the left side of her lips had been scrunched, while at the same time being pulled down slightly. And there she was. My grandma. Ouch. (And Ba Ha!!! She even had the mole!) I am not clear what she wanted from me, except for me to immediately stop offending her with my hill-billy ways, and move around her. This put me in mind of Dr. Seuss's story where two furry yet naked beings came across the sand, one from the north, and one from the south. Instead of either of them moving to one side so they could continue their journey, they found ways to share with the other about how important they were. And how IMPERITIVE it was that the other move, simply because of how important they were. The words got more self-important. Words like "Sir" were traded for "Young Man", and then on to "You couldn't possibly understand how important it is that you move aside so I can move forward, Simpleton"-ish attitudes. And a freeway was built around their haughtiness. It was like that, but the woman had clothes on and was slightly less furry. I believe she simply corrected me as she had been corrected by her elders, and wasn't even aware that she did it, honestly. And I was schooled. I said "Thank you." And moved aside so she could get her own muffin. To anyone that has been corrected, or even looked at, by me, in the oh-you-poor-creature way that she had given me, i apologize. It's hideous. For the next 2 weeks on Facebook, or texting, you have my permission to correct me. But only if i get to see the eyebrow-raising gesture at the time. Or the lips pursing together with those crinkly lines making you look 30 years older than you are. Send those pics in! Just the flaring nostrils and eyes and lips, mind you. Cause that would make one heck of a montage (homage? mobile?...) to the elders that have started turning over in their graves at my lax use of their lessons lately.

Crossing Over. Hold the line!!!.

2011-10-01T11:03:00.000-06:00

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Tuesday, 09 March 2010.

I've crossed over.

I don't know when i did it. I don't remember the exact date or event, but here i am. A grown up. One minute i'm roller skating around my mom and dad's unfinished family room (trying not to get splinters from the plywood when I fall) thinking, “This is the life. The feeling of freedom and flying and not doing chores. Can it get better than this?”, and the next minute i'm roller skating in a quaint warehouse-turned-80's-disco, cajoling my daughter onto the rink as she watches me wobble around the half wall. I practically spun around from one age to the next with hardly a blink. Crap. My blinks must have gotten longer the older i got.

My whole thoughts, as i'm in this warehouse/roller rink, go like this: “I am NOT going to get knocked over by the 9 year old in lime-green hair. Again. A-HA!"..."This is so fun!"..."Well... i remember it being fun, but why don't my legs work like they used to? And why am i so much taller than the other people on the rink?”..."Why are all the parents on the side, shaking their head at me, with pity in their eyes??!!!" I honestly thought i could just pick up where i left off a few weeks/years..../decades ago. Dur.

I look over at the DJ up in the magical booth of music and notice that he's not quite the memory i remember, either. A cool grown up with the ultimate job, and a look on his face that says, “Envy me. I can put on any music I want and have people DANCE around me. AH AH AHH!!!”,... he is not. Oh no. This guy is a pimply 16 year old with a bored look on his face, wondering why he waited so long to look for a summer job. The look on his face that i first took as bliss at landing this fantastic job is actually incredulity that he has kept this gig under wraps from his girlfriend for so long. (She thinks he works at Boondocks.)

So I've crossed over. What's the big deal? Other people have gone there before me. They seem happy and... actually..... happy-ER. It's like they are keeping the line going steady for me, just waiting for me to take the bait and move forward. No big deal for them.

The big deal for me is being in resistance to change, i guess. I know what it feels like to be a kid, because i've done it already. Familiar is good, even if it is keeping me in the past. Letting go of something i know is good, for something i only hear about being better...We-eh-ehll!...That's a risk, a gamble, and it isn't a sure thing. Ever heard the story of the monkey and the mouldy peanuts? Look it up. End result is that the monkey is trapped by something good, and is unwilling to let go of the stuff he is holding on to, in order to get what's better for him.

I would much rather be, by the way, in my 30 some-things and having a great time in the present, than back at the younger age and not able to progress. Now. I have a feeling things just get better the further along I go.

Alright, I'm ready to take the bait. GULP!

My mom always wanted me to write in my journal.

2011-09-28T15:27:00.000-06:00

Just about spiritual things. So here goes. I am hanging out in my temple. My feet are dirty, I am sticky from sweat, and I am laying down on my sofa with no one around. I have some serious joy going on.

I ran/walked today. Who cares? I do. Because I noticed that it was just me out there in the 94 degree day. I mean, of course there were others. The bulked up guy sweating it out on the top of his mountain bike. The older couple in spandex holding each other up coming down the hill. The nazi mom with 3 kids keeping them well exercised and hydrated at precisely the right time. (This is Colorado, after all.)

What I’m saying, though, is that no one was with me but me. No one was with me in my black shorts that were really my sons swim trunks (not a good idea in the sweltering air) , complete with mesh-ness (a great idea). No one shared my blotchy face and breathe counting. Not one person felt my butt muscles work, but me. My wheezing at the end… was my own. I was my temple. My place of honor, of love, of peace and comfort. I guess mom was right after all. She always said not to defile “My Temple”, and to take care of it. What a blessing.

it was me that decided when to push faster and when to ease up. It was me that asked myself why I had let my thighs grow together so my shorts rode up. And, it was me that forgave myself, got a chuckle out of it, and used it as a rhythm to walk to. (fwwp, fwwp, fwwp…step to the side to bring them down,…fwwp, fwwp, fwwp, …step to the side…) This has become a spiritual ritual that I adhere to daily. No husband, no kids or friends go with me, and it is damned freeing. I am partaking in the joy of doing it for me. The sky, the air, the bugs, the sounds, the flavor of the outdoor world… these are my temple grounds. Woot.

Each time I went from voluptuous curves, to “you look great! So thin! How did you do it?”, it was due to a heartache of some kind. A tragedy. I didn’t eat or sleep as I was going through heartache, and the pounds just fell off. No joy in it a-tall. Currently, however, I am not in a relationship with a heartache, so I wanted to see what it was like to be healthy on my terms. Thus the walk/run every day earlier than the rest of the family gets up.

I don’t ask or want praise from family or friends. I don’t care that my socks match my shirt when I go. I certainly don’t brush my teeth first. I absolutely revel in taking this space and being perfect in it, however it looks. Even when it looks like taking two water bottles and lifting them in the air at various positions to get my arms a workout at the same time. Or cans, as the case was today. The older couple on the hill thought that was great. I know this because I wasn’t paying attention to them until I whacked the lady in the shoulder with one. (I now know her name is Thelma and she has 9 grandkids).

Then back to the breathing, the counting, and listening to the latest Harry Dresden audiobook as the prairie dogs chitter at me and the gnats compete with my nose hair.

The stretching at the end is the best. The climax. Out on my lawn, still alone and dedicated to my ritual as cars and neighbors pass. I bend, lunge, reach, and flex until… Until… until I am done. I water my plants, checking on them, loving them, and staying smelly for another half hour or so Just for the joy of it. When finally I move indoors, I look to the next step, and now comes the only decision of the morning. Shower? Or flop on my sofa and Facebook? Either way, I have permagrin.

That flavor of popcorn will never taste the same....

2011-09-27T13:57:00.000-06:00

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Sunday, 14 March 2010 at 23:10

I never knew that the startle response could go on and on and on. Remember the feeling of being scared out of your wits, coming around a corner and almost running into someone? "Oh! You scared the crap out of me!" Then laughing for an ackward second as you walk away, but your heart is still pounding and you think you peed just a bit? Yeah, that startle response. I'm good with one of those a decade, and here it was a continuous moment that just wouldn't go away.

One minute I'm having a great night out at the movies and thinking, "It's about time I relax and let down my guard. I'm with good company, after all, and I'm stuffed to the gills with great food." The next minute, I notice how many people are near me, brushing up against me, STARING at me. Then BOOM! My heart feels like a hand is around it, making a fist. Squeezing.... squeezing...squeezing. How can this feeling hurt so much??

Looking around, I'm terrified of each and every person's motions. The moments slow down, and as I move my eyes around there is an echo of the picture before it. Bu-na na na. Bu-na na na. The Six Million Dollar Man sounds are playing in my head as I look around in terror. Every movement, whether head on, or periphrial, is acutely jarring.

I look at the person next to me and wonder if she can tell how creepy, how .... violated.... I suddenly feel. "How can I make this stop?!"

This is so silly, I rationalize. I'll just stand here, in the corner with my back up against the wall, and breathe. Only, it just keeps getting worse. All these people were actually breathing the air I needed! Oh No! I can hear my friend asking me if I needed anything, if I was ok. I even hear myself say "Yes, I'm fine. I'll wait here while you step into the restroom."... And that was just the beginning. Once she was gone, I couldn't breathe! Ears ringing, short sharp breaths with my heart pounding in my throat, I didn't know how to ease the squeezing in my chest.

I will never, EVER question the validity of someone else's panic attack. Or my own.

While she was gone, I just wanted to slide down to the floor and cry. I went from 36 years old to 7, just like that. Ahhh! So many people staring at me! Are they looking at me because they know how vulnerable, how scared of them I am? Or are they looking because i'm looking at them and jumping slightly as they come nearer and nearer to me? Their eyes, which just a few minutes ago said they were having a good time at the movies, now said that any one of them could corner me, could hurt me, and no one else would help.

And then, the calm came through the storm. Thank you BFF, for coming out of the restroom and seeing me even though I thought you had forgotten me, or missed me in the crowd and I was sure I was alone. I figured I was hiding my untimely terror pretty well as you "decided" that, instead of hanging around and doing another movie, we could just head home.

We walked out of the doors of the movie theatre and I figured I could keep this to my self, what with the fresh air, the moving away from the crowds, and...and...and then it hit me again. Like a wave. Instead of people, it was darkness, and the people that were around and passing us. The wave slapped me again, and I couldn't breathe.

I wonder at the calm and patience you showed as you stopped to hug me on the sidewalk as my tears and snot rolled down your leather jacket. Thank you for hugging me through the shaking and sobbing while the little girl in the window of the restaurant stared at me. Thank you for keeping me walking in the right direction when I had no idea where I parked my car. And sitting down with me as I was frozen stiff on the sidewalk, hurling the popcorn, the Coke with lemon, and the horrible memories that brought me here in the first place. Lastly, thank you for not making a big deal of me reaching back down to grasp desperately what was left of my bag of popcorn, and clutching it to me as you drove me home. You were so nonchalant as you brought me to the safety of my house, my family, and my quilt.

I remembered to breathe about 10 minutes or so into the ride home. I stopped rubbing my solar plexis around the time we turned off the freeway. The fist around my heart let go when I walked up the steps to my front door. And I started to regain my dignity 10 minutes after I wrapped my quilt around me and blew my nose for the umpteenth time with those precious Puffs tissues.

I have no idea when BFF left for the night, but I do know that I won't be getting popcorn for a long, long time. And... Life is not tidy...

So This Is The Flavor of Crazy. Not Bad. Not Bad At All....

2011-09-27T13:26:00.000-06:00

by Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Sunday, 06 June 2010 at 01:12

Summer. It's what I wait for every year. Summer equals fireworks, and watermelon. It equals gardening and promise. It equals sprinklers under the trampoline and stargazing. How, then, can I be caught by surprise when the heat and stickiness make me go crazy EVERY YEAR? It laces right over the heart of the watermelon I cram into my mouth, and sinks into the fabric of the hammock I just teetered on.

Crazy even shows its ugly head throughout the beauty of the 4th of July fireworks display as I fight the crowds to find that 3 foot square plot of land in the park. I cram the kids, snacks brought from home, lawn chairs, and a tent onto this spot so I can savor the golden moment, and KA-CHOW! our senses are assaulted.

Heat and stickiness seep into all of my activities throughout summer, but I forget about it until it has a firm hold of me and starts giggling.

I wonder why everyone and everything is irritating until I realize... Oh. I'm the grumpy one. I can't breathe in without feeling the dampness of my skin moving against my wrinkles in my clothes, and my hair. Immediately the thought pops in, "I'M GOING CRAZY!!!! If I don't...(insert ultimatum here)... I'll go crazy."

This year, If I don't cut my hair, I'll go crazy!!!

I'll deal with it here in a few more days. I'll look at the clouds and notice the moisture forming as I water my garden, or go to the mountains and breathe in the cooler air as I ride the Alpine Slide down the hill. I may even sample some fresh peas and forgive the heat altogether. I do remember that without the heat, I can't have the fantastic-ness that is summer. As long as Crazy tastes this good, I'll take it.

Oh Abby. The mohawk is just the start of a beautiful relationship with your Grandpa..

2011-09-27T12:29:00.000-06:00

By Sharon Thornton Montgomery on Wednesday, 23 June 2010 at 23:41

I'm giggling.

Not out loud, because that would be odd. (I'm supposed to be sleeping, and my daughter is right next to me.) But nevertheless, I'm giggling on the inside. It's burbling up from my toes, through my knee caps, over my hips, and I'm keeping it at bay on top of my belly with some serious perma-grin and a note.

This is what the laughter is about: I'm remembering what my niece said to my dad this morning. Abby, who is a proud 4 year old, noticed that Grandpa T. didn't exactly approve of the mohawk she was giving to her little brother Carter. He came close to examine it and gave a small hint that he would look better with it down on his head.

She looked at Grandpa for a second and said, "Gwampa, Caw-tah is only pwetending to have one. He is too young. Not like you, Gwandpa. You awah old old OLD. But you don't have any ha-yah. Too bad." Observant? Yes. Grandpa T. is bald as an egg, except for the base of his skull. And I should say at this point, a bit sensitive about it. He would rather have a flowing mane of locks, but alas, it's not to be. The result to the comment was a bit of a scowl.

Now at this point, I would think that Abby would take the hint and change the subject, or at least go back to fixing Carters hair. Not so. She just plowed right on in her brutally honest way. (Somehow it works well, because she has an adorable voice. It's probably why she has made it to the ripe old age of 4.)

"Gwampa, you awah so so SO old, but you cannot be 100 yet, because when you awah 100, you die and stay dead." This seemed to be sound reasoning, so I didn't step in, other than to shift away about a foot from where my dad was plastering on a patient face. He is also keenly sensitive about not being 30 anymore. In addition, he had just come back from a brisk walk with me, and was ticked that he had to slow down for me, a young whippersnapper. Maybe that could be why he started snorting steam from his nostrils. Not sure.

(Carter, by the way, was happily chewing on an IPod in his high chair, and was oblivious to the dangerous situation that was brewing. Ignorance is bliss.)

Abby then came over and touched her grandpa, kind of patting him on the arm in a maternal way and blurted, "Oh Gwampa, does it hoot to be old? I would give you a mohawk if you had mo-ah ha-uh, but you don't because you awah too old to have ha-uh".

She Promptly gave him a great big hug, said she loved him, and went back once more to Carter's 'do.

The look on my dad's face was one of keen irritation. Then smiled. It melted his tantrum that was brewing. Once the hug came on, I could tell he was whipped. It explains why he keeps coming back for more, honestly. He is a grandkids boy, that's for sure.

It highlighted my morning, and as I assisted Abby with her brother's mohawk, and Grandpa went on to talk with his grandson, I realized that neither my dad, nor Abby would remember this moment as the funny moment it was. It deserved a good guffaw later. And that's just what I am doing now. It came out as a snort, but I know what it meant.

IS that Dr. Scholl's I taste?

2011-09-18T07:06:00.000-06:00

The dishes were almost done. i just had the leftover crockpot to do. Granted, i hated dishes enough that it had sae by the sink for...well over the allotted dish-avoidance time, but i was getting to it today. I turned it over to scrub the outside of it, loving that it was just the ceramic tub that came out and i didn't have to wash the entire crock pot, when a mystery was solved. A big one.

Looking sticky, translucently cooked, and glued to the side in a death grip, was the partial word Dr. Scho- and that was it. But for me, it was enough. I started laughing, and thought, THIS IS WHY I'M SUCH A DORK!!!!!!! Who else could start off cooking something simple, and end up cooking inserts????

UH. Lets back up here.

I think we all know this about me by now. I cook rarely. When I cook, it is mostly finger food with carrot curly cue's and other assorted flora and fauna, artfully placed around...something that came in a can. My theory is, why make something fancy from scratch when you can dress up the bland? It's why i can get away with a t-shirt at work when it isn't casual Friday. Really.

So when i do cook, it's a big deal around here. At least to me. And to my sou-chef, Addie. It becomes an event and she puts on her lavender Betty Crocker hat. I put on my apron (thanks for that habit, mom. you know i'm messy) and we both crank the tunes.

This particular morning, we had put into play the fruition of the last nights brainstorming. It went something like this:
Addie: "mom, we really should cook. It's been a long time."
Mom: "um. how bout sandwiches?"
Addie: "Are u listening? seriously, we need something warm in our bellies. Not chili again, please. I can't open the can at ALL."
Mom: "How bout a crock pott-ee thing-ee? Debbie on Facebook said she uses it all the time."
Addie: "isn't that complicated?"
Mom: "i'm not sure. We should look."

Now those of you that use crock pots as a crutch when you don't have time to do any real cooking, and just "throw any old thing in it", please just look away. Go back to your world conquering, knit your favorite charity a truckload of sweaters over the weekend... life. Any that are left, (menfolk, teens, women that watch the cooking channel but don't use it...) this is what happened next.

Addie and i saw in a cookbook (crockpots made easy) that chicken and rice was right up our alley. And still too complicated. But what we conceived instead was 15 bean soup w/some ham in it. Simple. Right up our alley. We even planned ahead enough to put dry beans in water to soften up over night. GENIUS!!!!

The next morning i got up, got ready for work, and came down to put together the "cook all by itself while you are away" magic.

Now as we all know, life is sometimes about upkeep. So the gel inserts i keep in my ALL DAY/ALL NIGHT heels were just not sticking to the inside of the shoe like they should. And it was Salsa Lesson night in Boulder, after work. I needed to re-stickiuppee my gels. Um.. side note: Salsa dancing, not Salsa making. I don't cook often, remember?

So i'm rinsing off the inserts in the sink. The kitchen sink. They are all clean and sticky again, because they are that clear silicone stuff that Dr. Scholls made a million on. I don't have to know the why of it, i just like that i can Salsa (badly, but still) after work on Thursdays, because of these bad boys. I put the inserts on the counter (on a towel to dry, and so it isn't on my counter. Feet on counters, ew. This was my compromise.) and washed my hands.

I went to the other side of the kitchen to do the ingredient dump into the crock pot. Beans.... check. Water.... check. Spices.... check. And that was it for now. when husband got home from work, he would dump in the meat and finish it up. whammo! A meal that i wasn't there to watch over.

I took the ceramic part of the crock pot back over to the sink to fill it up with a bit of water, setting it on the towel so i had both hands. (wow. that was nice that there was a towel there so i didn't have to set it on the counter. wonder when i thought ahead that much?... what am i doing for lunch.... how many times will i need to hear annoying co-worker talk about her hair plugs...and so on and so on with the thoughts of the day). Then i put it in the outside part of the crockpot, put the lid on, and forgot about it. I felt so domestic at that point.

I then noticed i was running late, and Addie and i got the menfolk up, and i headed out the door, kicking myself when i walked and noticed that i forgot my gel inserts. "Dang it! i really needed them tonight, but i'll deal" and my day commenced from there.

Fast forward through the day to 4:30 when husband calls to say the house smells good and did i put something interesting in the crock pot? He puts in the meat, we chit chat, and i feel good that there is a meal for the family. I head to salsa lessons, and am home by 9:30. All i could think of was how great it would be to have a bit of this food.

I walk in the door and am assaulted by a great smell of homemade food......and something else. (what is that? WHAT. IS. THAT. SMELL?) I look in the garbage, i look in the fridge. nothing. I'm beat, so i eat the soup. love that it turned out well, and go to bed. (husband had just put the entire crockpot in the fridge. his way of putting dinner away. )

Next day, i take the crock pot liner out of the crock pot, and prepare to just rinse it down a little bit when i'm assaulted by that odd smell again. I pick up the ceramic pot part and .... gunky, stringy, smelly, incredibly sticky stuff is on the bottom of the ceramic pot, up the sides, and stuck to the metal shell. I don't have a clue what it is because, lets face it, i'm an in the moment kind of gal. I rinse off the best of it, happy that at least it's coming off, so it must be some odd food that husband made the last time we used this thing, about 4 months ago... ew. i'd have to speak with him about cleaning up better...... and moved the ceramic to the counter by the sink, vowing i'd get to it later.... you know. LATER.

It was a few days later that the mystery clicked into place. I had cooked my inserts. Cooked them, and then fed the blended scents to my family. I'm that good. Welcome to my life. the worst part???? i mean, really the worst part? Now i'm going to have to go back out and find some more gel inserts. My family will live with the knowledge they inhaled my cooked foot goo. I, however, have Salsa night coming up, and can't live another day without the cushionee goodness.

The crock pot went back into the garage. We are having cheese, meat, and crackers for dinner tonight.

If we are going to Mourn, it really should look my way.

2011-09-09T00:00:00.001-06:00

This is what I said to myself as a total stranger popped into the official mourning room for the family. Just as the door was being shut for the official Family Prayer. For FAMILY only. "What gall, to just mosey on in, like he belongs in the FAMILY ONLY area!". I didn't want onlookers out of the onlooker area. We had set it up to be in the foyer and/or the chapel. Clearly marked. Plus, I was busy with a fresh wave of sadness and hurt and... hunger? My belly growled loudly and I played it off as Uncle Gassy-Britches-On-The-Right's business. I was also busy with being tired. And numb. And...noticing that nephew #7 was picking his nose and wiping it under great-aunt Stone-Deaf-So-I-Will-Yell-Instead-Of-Whisper (to be spoken in a hurried and hushed voice)'s...wheel chair seat. eck. I just didn't have it in me to walk over and usher this person out so we could relax and stop being so dignified.

I looked around the room and smiled, both in affection and slight distaste. Uncle Creepy-Vibe was a little too close for my comfort. But that aside, affection. So what if the family was enormous, yet hadn't gathered for a family reunion in years? If ever? So what if they were a mixed lot, with their mourning attire ranging from a peach tuxedo and frilled button-down shirt, to a velvet pair of pants with a torn AC/DC T-shirt that was justified as "Well, it's black, isn't it?". So what if the grand kids had already tried to climb into the casket to play hide-n-seek with Grandma 3 times so far? So what if irreverence was the dominant trait? Pshhh. It was amusing and colorful and ridiculous. And mine.

And, glancing back at the guy that sauntered in, it doesn't mean that just any stranger can just be part of such an intimate thing as the family prayer. No siree, Bob. Not on my watch.

The problem was, I noted, no one else was booting him out. Preteens were walking around him, and toddlers shot through his legs, just as if he had always been in this room. In-laws and out-laws alike (Uncle Had-A-Slight-Run-In-With-The-Cops-In-A-High-Speed-Chase-But-Those-Days-Are-Behind-Me-Now, to be exact), talked with this guy in a slightly deferential manner, and I started to get suspicious. Even stoic old Great Aunt Bat-Any-Child-That-Comes-Near-Her-With-A-Cane stopped fanning herself long enough to take his hand and make clicking noises with her mouth as she shook her head and sighed.

I think I am missing something...

That was right before I was introduced to him as The Mortuary Guy. And, yeah, he was asked to give the family prayer. (Slight gasp at the thought.) He had declined, however, and was just there as a guide to facilitate the process of grief. A supportive onlooker.

Luckily, I had not let my facial expressions match the righteous indignation that was written all over the insides of my eyebrows. I kept quiet the frowny muscles on my left lip, and the puff of air that threatened to snake out my nose. Also, the shoo-ing tendons in both of my hands. (Hmmm. Those tendons also doubled as angry hands when put juuust-so on my hips, I notice.) No, these inside urges simmered slowly down into a bit of embarrassment at my secret snap judgements.

I instead did a properly saddish, yet formally welcoming smile. This, i assumed, was the right degree of "ok, you are in. You may stay and experience the intimacy of the mourn with the rest of us." Which was kind of a silly proclamation, even to myself, considering I was about the newest family member in the room. 19 years new, roughly. And one of the in-laws, at that. You just don't break into this crowd easily. But I am pretty protective of this group. And they overlook my flaws, I hope, as simply as I overlook their warts. So to speak. (There IS a cousin on the wobbly chair in the corner that really pushes the wart limit. By 17.)

The door to the room closed, and I knew that this was the time to focus my thoughts and to say my last goodbye's to a woman that was, herself, the epitome of overlooking flaws. Craaap. The tears, which I thought had just left my eyes for at least another hour on lunch break, crept back in through my stuffy, red nose, and leaked out stubbornly. As Mortuary Guy gave us directions on what would happen next, and who would say the family prayer (Uncle Stuffy-From-Out-East would actually take this role, as Slightly-Tipsy-Cousin-On-The-Other-Side-Of-The-Family didn't have the authority to extend this invitation in the first place.), I saw that there wasn't a script, or an invitation list, or a role to play at all.

This was death.

This was the part where the good, the bad, the messy, and the heroic all meshed up into an event. THE EVENT. The Funeral. And not even Family, Friends, Onlookers, or Event Planners were cut and dry. There is no script, so quit trying to memorize lines. This was what I said to myself as Grandson Angst-Yet-Tender set his ball cap on top of the casket. This was what I meant to myself when Uncle Stuffy relayed words of comfort, of depth, of tenderness as he went through the Prayer, and I was grateful to him for all of his words. This was what I choked to myself as Perfect-Stranger-In-Row-Number-Three took the small toddlers so Daughter-Number-One could speak simply and lovingly of her mother. There is no script... It is what I whispered to Husband as he dry sobbed through the grandkid's musical number of "I am a Child Of God". And, it is what I forgot to chant as I led the closing song of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again", snot and tears running down my face because my hands were full of hymn book and hand motions.

I forgot the proper way to gather the liquid-filled tissues on the chapel pew. So I left them. I also went back through the line that was shuffling out, because I had forgotten my phone and keys. I even wobbled on my stiletto pump as I was politely pushing back into my place in line. Can't we do another practice run? Nope. We just kept doing The Event. Nobody pointed at me. Not one person snickered, or even noticed. Just me.

At the luncheon, laughter reared its welcome head. Food brings about smiles to empty bellies. Also, Seeing Uncle Bring-A-Flyswatter-Everywhere-Just-In-Case save his place at the table with his prize possession... Well, that's just funny. It worked, though. (He got his space.) And as family mowed down mountains of Funeral Potatoes, heaps of ham, and pans of jello with raisins and/or carrots floating around, the laughter became...Allowed. Embraced. Nurtured, even.

Brazenly, the sorrow and heartache was put on hiatus so the hugs and smiles could be passed around. Clasps of hands. Claps on shoulders. Fingers lightly placed on forearms to emphasize a point in conversation. All walls came down as the desserts were devoured, and it became a safe place to heal. To let bygones be bygones. To exchange emails and phone numbers for future connection.

By the time the dishes were cleared, family pictures became a needed activity. Putting the cemetary on hold for just a few more moments, Grand-Dad looked on as Miss Bossy-Yet-effective niece held the camera and moved the grandkids, kids, and spouses, first just a liiittle to the left...then sliiiightly to the right....and Nose-Picking-Four-Year-Old! Hold still, or SO HELP ME I'll spank you all the way to Grandma in Heaven!!!.... until the camera click-click-clicked to capture a generation or two of his offspring. The grin he showed was only slightly wet from tears.

As immediate family packed into cars to making the final trip to bury the shell of One Who Is No Longer There, a different energy went with us. Even somber as I was, I joked with Son number 2, and chided daughter and son number 3 for fighting over the sweet seat in Hoss. Husband backed up our enormous suburban while I thought, "If I had energy for that, I'll have energy to get through the rest of THE EVENT."

...and then, WHAP!!!...

Husband looked in the rear-view mirror, then and looked at me in a way that said, "There really is no script...", and we got out to see Hoss's bumper pushed right through the radiator of Reclusive-Great-Uncle-From-Up-North. Grandma's brother, to be exact. Stroking his scruffy beard and quietly exiting his vehicle, he joined us in watching his rare Jeep truck's radiator spurt fluid 2 feet out. The food I had just ingested felt cold and heavy in my stomach.

I don't think I was the only one to contemplate the hit and run strategy. No one really knew him anyway, right? We curbed our urges, and I did the apologies while Husband and Uncle-Reclusive spoke the outlandish things men say to staunch the flow of car fluids when in a suit and tie. "Pepper in the radiator, that will do it." "Where are my tools? Ugg. I can't find the screwdriver!" "Here is my insurance information. I don't know how it happened." "No, No. I will just pick up a new ...INSERT NAME OF JEEP PART HERE... at the junk yard tomorrow. I was going there anyway." And, Great Uncle-Reclusive rode with us. (Hoss simply had a scratch on the bumper.)

As the teen boys yammered about the street cars they would SO have if they only had thousands of dollars, I thought about what small talk was appropriate with this family member that belonged in this EVENT, yet was just a vague name to me and my immediate family. I simply looked out my window and let curiosity do it's job. Just as I started to inquire, Great Uncle-Reclusive spoke. And spoke. And spoke. About cars and trucks, and everything motorized. Engines and carburetors... and The boys slowly tapered off and listened. He spun short stories that understated just how talented and varied his life was, in the motor arena. He had raced, fixed, and smuggled (eluded to, but still...) cars that my boys had only dreamed of, and that brought him right into their inner sanctum of adoration. Thank goodness for accidental bonding. We was upgraded from Uncle-Reclusive to Great-Uncle-Mysterious.

The last leg of The Event was here. As we pulled up to the rolling hills of the Cemetery, wind blowing and clouds racing by, I saw something that made me giggle and breathe hard, all at once. At the end of the dignified trail-way that led to the grave site, 6 children congregated over the open grave. Kneeling, squatting, chasing around, sitting in the chairs designated for the 8 most prominent members of the family.... irreverence just oozed off of these kids. Without thought, I tramped through the manicured lawn in my stilettos, aerating the whole way, and somewhat pompously shooed those kids away from there. I also looked around to see which parents were not keeping the kids in tow. Eyebrow raised. Lip muscle tugged down. Angry hands kept firmly in place with those tendons. I even think I harrumphed a bit.

All the kids obediently followed me, explaining that they had permission from the parents, and that if they promised not to climb down into the hole, didn't go past the step, and didn't push each other AT ALL.... They could play one last time around the place where Grandma would stay for a while. Yeah. I felt ridiculous. Especially because when I looked back, the parents were staring intently at us all. Where they had always been looking, now that I recalled seeing them right by the trees nearby. Pomp and circumstance were just not invited to this day.

There is no script to Death. It happens whether I ask it to or not. It brings people together in ways that don't make sense, and heals on it's own time. As quickly or slowly as it takes. And that is none of my nevermind. It never was.

I joined the grownups just as they start back toward the grave site, this time without my pumps. Sons, Brothers-in-law, and Nephew bring the casket with the formal fashion that is half tradition and half necessity so they don't trip or drop the precious cargo. It is lovingly laid in it's position and a simple dedication is made. Carnations are added to the flower spray, and it is over. Nothing else need to be added to The Event. But, thank goodness, we don't follow scripts, so grandkids touch the casket. Grandma's kids sit by and talk for the last time to the great lady that left such a legacy. And finally, Grandpa hugs family members, comforting them, smiling and laughing as he lets go of what is to be lowered down, and lets in the reminders of the life he shared and memories he made before the need for The Event even happened.

More pictures. More hugs. More chasing around the lawn. And just like that, The Event was downgraded to When We All Got Back Together. or possibly, What Started The Hugs and I Love You's. Uncle Stuffy-From-Back-East had somewhere along the line become Uncle Reserved-Yet-Approachable-Kindness-And-Humor-Guy. Uncle Had-A-Run-In-With-The-Law... became Uncle Grown-Into-A-Grounded-And-Humble-Man-That-Posseses-Tenderness-And-Love. I let go of what came next in the day.

Strangely, we did not seem to want The Event to end. 2 hours passed before we went back to our cars, and back to our rooms to change out of wrinkled or spotted dress clothes. And, there was still the next day, a spontaneous trip up the mountains for a picnic. And rock climbing. Yeah. Rock climbing. A fitting end before traveling the 8 hours home.

I am thankful for the mysterious man that slipped quietly into the Family Mourning Room. He was the only bit of guidance that moved our family through the day. The rest came on it's own. And took care of itself. Thank goodness I remembered to get out of the way.

Oh, she's hanging around, all right...

2011-08-27T08:10:00.003-06:00

It just seemed logical. For her to watch over me a bit on her journey up, up, up. And I felt her in the birds silence. In crickets, singing their song in the background. In the Cicadas stuttering harmony, stuttering, then still. Stuttering, then still. And especially in the pool, warm and comforting. It cradled me as I floated around by myself in the night, watching the clouds open and close across the star speckled night. Even the backyard foliage seemed to work to give me this space to mourn.

I kept my eyes up to the sky and wondered why I didn’t cry now. Now, when there were no kids to comfort, no phone calls to take, no head to stroke and hug to give in sadness. There was just me. Me and my gulping ache just at the bottom of my throat. So welcome was the water, with the sky as my focus. Crying was the whole reason I ducked into my friend’s pool. So I could just let my own sadness have it’s time. I needed to sob, and to ache, and to contort my face into pain where no one could see. But the tears didn’t come, and I found myself concentrating instead on the stars. I knew they were just points of light. And constellations. And things to count when I was snuggling down to sleep on my lawn during summer, long ago. However to me, this night, they were beloved members of life's families and friends, watching over us beings still alive.

Maybe she was looking back over her shoulder, I think, as she went further and further on her journey to new things. Maybe she was already there and was looking to see if I could handle her grand-kids with the same patient love as she did. Maybe, and a bit of an angry sob stuck in my throat, she was just floating around somewhere and didn’t care anymore at all. Just part of the universe in a ka-jillion motes of nothing.

That was a secret fear. What if, after all I have been taught and comforted with, she was just really gone? Nothing to look forward to, no reason to look forward to meeting her in another place and time. Just gone? That would mean that I really didn’t have a reason anymore to forgive her for my petty thoughts. My busy life. My assumption that she would just be there in the background. Like these crickets, you know? Chirping beautifully, and adding to my life, but not acknowledging them as a beautiful accompaniment in my life. Enriching whatever setting there is. It would mean that I chose to go into HER background, when I could so easily have stayed engaged in her life. Crap. It’s true, either way.

I felt her here, though, as I wandered through the water. I felt comforted for a few minutes and remembered the same blatant comfort that I felt the first time I met her in her kitchen. In that messy, cluttered, busy kitchen. It was cramped, and well lit. Cows themed that place, and salt n pepper shakers, and miniature spoons from all over the world (a gift from her husband as he wandered from one military assignment to another). Nicknacks abounded and needed a good dusting. It had that country feel of not needing to impress anyone, not even the owners. It was full of bodies and jokes and laughter. And come-on-in-and-leave-your-troubles-at-the-door-ness. It was obviously the heart of the house, and she was the heart of that kitchen.

I remember walking in to it as a new girlfriend to her middle son, in that awkward, stiff way that meant to me, “I am new, and have manners and will not hurt your son while i know him.”, but to her meant, “I got a lotta hurt, and judgements. Just love on me a bit, for as long as I am here.”. And she loved me. Right from the start, and right there in that kitchen. She did about the only thing that would have kept me there. In that kitchen full of teens, and huge dogs running through everything with hair and slobber spraying into the kitchen air, she put me to work. Making food. The kind of food that should never exist in a healthy lifestyle. If she was in the South, she would have put Paula Deene to shame with her fatty, creamy food. From the first mouthful, it was happy goodness. And total indulgence kept me there. So different from the disciplined life that I grew up with. The life of constant repentance for deeds and thoughts not quite pure enough. The life of order and making sense and purpose with a schedule and a routine. And chores and strict manners. (That above all, in my angry, dramatic, teenage view, was what mattered). ...That life had no place in this kitchen. Here, I was enough. Just as I was that day, that moment, that instant. And that was a craving I never knew I even had. So I stayed. I stirred and opened cans, and eavesdropped as the chaos of off-color jokes and suggestive retorts blended with some strange feeling of acceptance. I put the slobber and hair and clutter out of my head that day and just reveled in it. In her.

That is what I was experiencing as I drifted along, toes and belly and fingertips sticking out just a bit, and chilly in the night air. The rest of me feeling decidedly luke warm, which was enough. A gentle breeze blew and I went back to my childish view of a dead person sitting on a cloud in their robe of white, strumming a harp and singing a bit in adoring bliss. Then I chuckled. NOPE. That view stopped right there. For one thing, she would never have worn a robe without adornment. Maybe a gold mu-mu with a white cord.... now THAT would have made a statement. Or been fine sitting in one place. Jumping from cloud to cloud, with strays following her as they look back to see if they will get in trouble... that seemed more her style. In addition, that harp would be replaced with an 80’s boom box, stuck on the sappiest song station. She did love music, i thought with a smile, and sang absolutely off-tone. So seemingly tone deaf was she, that she only sang when she thought others were not listening. But then, by darn, it was with gusto. Without reservation, and decidedly feminine. Her 5'11'’ solid frame would delicately reach for the high notes as she swayed along to the music as she washed dishes. Maybe that would be her heaven, I think. Belting it out and loving her voice.

Eventually, I sit at the edge of the pool in the shallow part. I squat with my legs in a sitting position, just my head above the water. I look down through the clear water to my knees, the lining of the pool, and my red toenails. And think of nothing. That’s when the tears come. And the regret for Not Being There Enough. All those things that people must say when a loved one passes away, I said em to myself. Why did I just move on and let the phone calls get shorter and shorter? And less personal and intimate? Why did I feel like I had outgrown her advice, her jokes, her empathy? Because I was an adult now, I thought. I can make my own decisions, and did not need to consult her or any parent. And, I say quietly to myself, because as she got older, and sicker, and less of her boisterous self… I started resenting her. I resented that she chose to keep eating those wonderful meals and snacks even when the doctors said it was making her sick. I got haughty and angry that she didn’t listen, so she must be stupid, or crazy, or just too old to care about me anymore. Otherwise why would she choose to be sick??? I made it about me. Always about me. My tears and sobs let loose as I found how petty and selfish my thoughts were of her. Not that she was a saint or anything. Lots bugged me about her, but these particular thoughts were so one sided!. She loved and loved and loved and loved. Her kids, her in-law additions, her adopted ones, her grand-kids. She loved us the best she could and knew how. Her 100%. Could I say the same? I loved when it was convenient and when I visited. I loved with considerations. And I loved while I gossiped. (that last one hurt the most.) As she got weaker and weaker, my view of her changed. CRAZY!!!!! Even when her mind started doing quirky things, she was still the quick-witted woman that loved me through the crap part of marriage, kids, and life. And the dark and light parts of me. It just hurt too much to see her look and act different. And I resented her for it.

My tears and sobs went on and on and on. Clear fluids leaked from my face to the pool water and I was glad no one was there to see. I was glad the chemicals took it away.

Eventually I focused on the good times I remember we had. Camping. The jokes and hours of playing cards, and sitting on her bed watching TV in her crazy cold room. The looks of anticipation and joy on my kids faces as we drove into her driveway, knowing they would soon be riding the converted riding lawn mower around in her field. And the advice we both shared openly from the ends of our phones, miles away from each other. She was the Wicked Witch of the West. That made me the Wicked Witch of the East (until my new sister-in-law moved to Jersey). She gave me permission to be human. And still loved for it. That was when I knew she was there. Just reminding me that in this instant, this minute, this night, and any night I needed, she could be there. Her memories are there for the taking. Her love is there for the keeping and sharing. That made it a bit easier to get out of that pool, dry off, stick my shoes into my flip flops, and head home. It’s a gift that I can give back to her family now. Some thing I can use to stay close to her with. And when I see my strays, my adopted kids walk through my door and ransack my kitchen….. well, then, I know she is there, too.

A possible concussion, you say? A faint smile, says I...

2011-08-18T21:27:00.001-06:00

.... And I will just go get your dad.

Remarkably, it isn't a concussion that is wrong with son #3. It is a quick case of the dramatic, which the poor boy is genetically prone to. Aaannd... a case of a 6'4" MAN-CHILD bashing into my son's chin and esophogus. It is 3rd son's football practice, and the first one of the season that includes hitting. I am particularly excited that they have included pads in this practice. Whew. I won't need that AFLAC documentation after all...

In point of fact, my son has shared and been very convincing about the fact that he also has a dislocated hip and a broken kneecap. His little sister is completely convinced that the ambulance should take him away, but his dad walks into the room and down-grades it to "hmmm, drilled you somethin' fierce, did he?". My son answers, "Totally! i took the helmut off another guy, though. should have seen his eye!" Grins all around, and cut! End of scene.

Thus, the parental roles are cemented. I am the one to play up to, and his dad is the one to shrug it off. Gotcha. Now I am secure in my duty with him.

MOM: brings him hot chocolate and cucumber salad when he is sad and hurt. ANNDD when dad isn't around. She is allowed to rub his shoulders, and he is allowed to ask for her to push on that sore muscle on his calf. They have bonded and it is enough. This changes when dad is around, of course. At this time, mom becomes a BIT of an inconvenience... (In a Sean Connery voice, for some reason, the man-child might blurt,"what're you doin around here, woman? Stop skulking about and get me some wine!"...SCRATCH THE MAN PARTS AND GRUNT.... type of thing, i think...) Situation solved.

DAD: mostly grunts and says one word sentances to the man-child until he is hurt. then, he spouts a gem of a sentance that both sums up and dumbs down the situation, all in one shot. combined with a hard smack on the back, and a few pokes at a joint or muscle, usually in the most painful spot, the situation has been scoped out and identified to both male's satisfaction. they both go off to watch a show that includes more grunting, scratching, and violence. Situation solved.

As i am smiling and shaking my head, i realize that i can now pass some of the the owwee and boo boos off to others and still get the same result. Bonding. She punts...and....GOAL!!!!!!

Happy, Fat, and Full. Seen it? It's just around the next bend...

2011-08-17T12:14:00.001-06:00

HAPPY: Joyful. Not Sad.
FAT: Having enough that you are no longer lacking, to the point of excess.
FULL: Not Needing Anything More in this area.

The elusive state of mind where there are no problems, which means, by default, happiness. Hearts and unicorns, peace and prosperity, a room full of marshmallows to sleep on... whatever the elusive spot of happy goodness is to you, it all looks like something that motivates us to spend more, save more, or wait for our ship to come in.

The problem comes when it all comes in at once. Windfalls. DARN YOUR HIDE!!!!!

My daughter thinks i'm talking about food when i use the term "Happy, Fat, and Full", but it is usually used in a conversation about money. I have had "Thin times", where we are scraping by to make it to the end of the month, or the week. And then there are "Fat times", where we have excess.

And then there are windfalls, which I believe every person has a few times in their lives. Through good or bad circumstances, a heap of Fatness comes our way.

For me, our windfalls have happened 3 times now. The first was when my husband received a large package for getting let go as a result of a merger. And because our mindset was that "we have arrived", ..... we spent it all. No forthought at all. Even when we were telling each other that we need to slow down, stop, and look to the future, we saw the coolest toy or trip and said, "we will worry about it later". and boom! we spent our way into an enormous thin time. 2 years, to be exact, of thinness.

I felt like the sad looking guy that had won the lottery 2 years ago and was now homeless and owing 5000 to a card shark named Borris.

Next was a sad windfall when, as a result of an accident that left my husband with 4 surgeries and a brain injury, we received a settlement. it was after 4 years of recovery and heart ache, so there wasn't a lot of joy in it, but after the bills were paid, a vacation for the family to reconnect, and some put in savings, it was also gone.

This time I just felt empty.

Luckily, we were in a better place physically, and financially now. Husband has had a great many years in his career choice, so when he was let go through yet another merger he has a large network to pull from. This has resulted in the third windfall. He has gone into consulting and it is currently a very FAT AND HAPPY time. Also, we are not in crisis, so we are able to think clearheadedly. My goal is to put money away and save save save save....... still thinking that we will need to even things out when we are in a thin time.

Then, we will be able to ride the storms out without being unhappy. Right?

Ever thought that the ship that's coming in is simply a daily sail around the shore of life? Not a place, a destination or a goal, but the daily appreciation and love for life as it is?

I guess what i'm noticing here is a pattern. i have been shoring up, and being disappointed when i didn't have enough finances to recoup the losses, and disappointed when i had too much finances and felt like i was wasting it.

The interesting part to me is this: when i have been Thin in finances, I have been humbled, and noticed the beauty in small things. I have given of my time instead of money and learned to appreciate being on the receiving end. I have acknowledged that i am not in charge of my life and that i can function without funds. A lot of blessings showed up. And thanks to all those who assisted us in time, tenderness, understanding and, of course, funds.

when i am Fat in funds, it is so much easier to take for granted ... everything. i can fix ... everything.... with flinging money at it, and sometimes that is the last thing someone or something needs for a situation to be truely fixed. I am a bit embarrassed to know that about myself.

So where does this leave me in my goal? my what should i wish for-ness?

How bout just to enjoy the day by day lessons and joy? My windfall is now acknowledged as the day by day happy goodness. A rain storm. A day with friends and family where it doesn't end with the bedroom doors slammed. A mint chocolate shake from ... anywhere. It is no longer a destination, a house, a goal, an amount that gives me the permission to live free. it's my choice every day. I will be working on appreciating the little things and loving them through the thick and thin. The Fat, and The Thin. I just may enjoy them with crab legs every now and then...

Now I know how a horse may feel...

2011-08-09T10:52:00.003-06:00

As it is in the chute of a racing stall. The anxiety: will this ever start? How long do I need to be in here...alone... Knowing others are on either side of me, just as nervous and raring to go??? I know this because I was just at Rock Bottom Brewery with some friends and, inevitably, used the loo. First, the checking of the stall for cleanliness and loose debris. Then committing to what I see as the best option only to realize that they are all really the same. Next, walking into this stall only to find I have to straddle (STRADDLE!) the loo just to fit my body in and shut the door. Backing slightly up, shimmying around so I am facing the right way, and this is the point that I am unsure if I am the horse or the jockey. I find that the loo is strangely low and I am crouching, with calves practically dug in on either side of the porcelain bowl, knees bent, and torso forward ready to leap out of the gate. Do I really need to have only inches on either side of my shoulders before I hit metal walls? And will someone be calming me down with a pat on the neck and some soothing words? The lady in the next stall turns to her cell phone for comfort. The beeping of the buttons and sounds of "Angry Birds" confirms this. The lady on the other side clacks her heels on the tiles, first the left heel (click, click, scuff), then the right (click, click, scuff). It starts again... FLUSH!!! and the doors fly open! It's a race to the sinks, the soap dispenser, and finally, the air dryer. Thank goodness it's a Dyson supra jet dryer. Zoom!!! I take second place, but know I have done my best. Bathroom designers here have a sense of humor, and have seen Micky Rooney riding a bale of hay in "The Black Stallion". Yet another wonder of loud, crazy restaurants.

Some Things Just Shouldn't Tilt

2010-09-03T16:42:00.002-06:00

I have been on the Tilt-A-Whirl at Six Flags Amusement Park. That was a fun experience. Nowhere in Six Flags was there a ride called, "Tilt-A-Toilet". I know because I looked. Tilting should only happen when it is expected and when it is fun. I'm just sayin. This blog, however, is not about tilting for fun. It is about tilting with a look on my face that says, "Are you freaking kidding me?" It's a ride, just not fun. Let me go back a few days. I was in the car with Micah after doing some errands when he decided that what really sounded good was a fountain drink with that fantastic crushed ice. And because he knew that I was in need of a pee break, but quite a snob about public restrooms, he let me know that the gas station we were stopping at had really nice, clean restrooms. Now I was just planning on holding it until we got home because I really can't relax in a public area. Shy bladder and all that. But his recommendation, and the fact that i really really really had to pee, led me into the gas station. This place was clean and up to date, and while Micah was getting his icy goodness, I just headed right on into the restroom to do my business. Now please understand that this isn't a blog about me doing my business. I mean, well, it is, but it shouldn't be. In fact, I don't usually talk about it at all. BUT, I ended up laughing on the toilet, and that is rare. Really rare. Ok, as I shut the door behind me, it should be repeated that I really REALLY had to go. ahem. That being said, I noticed a few things as I was doing my business. 1. This toilet was built for someone a lot taller than I was. I am not short, but I basically ended up teetering on my tip-toes, so i am wondering, "Is this made for giants? What kind of bathroom is this when I feel like a child on a toilet?" I really needed one of those step-stools that grandma's have for their goofy toddler just trying out the potty experience. it was that high. Seriously. And it got a grin from me. Did I mention I was wearing high heels, too? The visual was what I grinned at. If you do a visual, Please fuzz out the inappropriate parts. Or just know I was wearing a skirt and trying to keep it out of the way. Whatever. 2. As I was in the middle-ish part of my public experience, it occurs to me that I am ALSO tipping and tilting over from one side to the other. I would go as far as to call it listing from side to side. At first I think it is my heels, or that I am too short for the enormous toilet. Nay, it is actually that the TOILET IS TILTING FROM SIDE TO SIDE. Yeah, it is loose, really loose, and is really falling over. This means that my butt is the only thing keeping it upright. I kept trying to hold still, or even get off, but between being on tippy toes, and the fact that the water in the tank was listing from one side, and then compensating over to the other side, I felt like I was peeing while kneeling on a water bed. True, it's not a fun visual, but some things should be told. And while I am at it, I am not able to stop my business because once some things start, they can't stop, so I am on my tip-toes, in a skirt, balancing with my bum while trying to keep my clothes dry and clean. I couldn't help it. I started laughing. 3. I had no idea if I was going to be able to reach the TP. 4. It became irrelevant when I saw that there was no TP in the holder. Surprise!!!! It stopped being funny. I was starting to get sea sick as I swayed one way, balanced another way, and craned my neck to look for other sources of TP. Luckily, I...... Just kidding. There was no Luckily anything. There was no TP. Period. 5. When I found a roll of either cleaning towels, or paper towels, they were so so so stuck to themselves that all I could do with it was rip off small bits of the paper. Yeah, I think I still have some pieces in unmentionable places. Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip, Rip..... Not my finest hour. One does what one must, in odd situations. So I have ridden the ride, and have a bum that is raw from gas station paper towel, and I am still stuck. Because I cannot find the kickstand for the toilet. If I get off, it will fall over, and I do NOT want that water on me anywhere. I just sit there for a minute thinking, "What would Laura Ingalls Wilder do in this situation?" and then it comes to me. I am going to have to call for help!!!! Not what I want to do, at all. But .....Nope, I do not ask for help in this situation. I am to busy giggling every once in a while thinking that I am such a dork!!! Eventually, the toilet stops swaying enough that I feel it will stand on it's own. I can tell because i have had to use my butt muscles and my thigh muscles to balance it out. I wonder if I should write a comment card letting the next user know which muscles are best to balance it out, but I opt to just get the heck out of there. I stand up, and flush, knowing that it could spray everywhere. It doesn't. I now feel lucky. Or cocky, because then as I turn on the water to wash my hands, the water goes from full blast, to a trickle, then nothing. APPARENTLY, the toilet water and hand water is the same stuff, and cannot be used at the same time. I feel grimy right now and just want to wash my hands. So I wait to see if the water will come back. It does, but only after the toilet has finished running. trickle, trickle, and then water again. Soap does work, but after rinsing off, the only option is the nasty towels that will rip, rip, rip, rip, rip.... in a million tiny pieces. no thanks. I take one last look at the place that has been one crazy ride, and open the door with my wet hands. Micah asks, "What took so long? Did ya fall in?" and I give him a look that says, "yeah, kind of." I snort, and ask if we can just go home. I did sip at his Mountain Dew on ice. It's as close to a drink as I am getting for now.

Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

2010-08-09T08:26:00.000-06:00

Thoughts From A Member of Life: Beam Me Up, Scotty!

How Bout Now? No...Now? Grrrr.....

2010-08-05T00:46:00.003-06:00

Writers block can be frustrating, intimidating, and, well, downright discouraging. I know, because I have it. It seems the more I force the situation, the more the writers block just digs in and says, "Um no. You are not in charge of this part. Go for a walk, fold some socks, or just throw your tantrum in the other room. It's not a good time to be writing anything today." Now after I have gone for a walk, and folded the socks, as well as throwing my tantrum in the hallway so I don't mess up any creativity MOJO that may still be lingering on my writing space, .... I'm still blocked. Now what? Um, it's still not time! This is about when I notice how writer's block is like other areas in my life. I simply don't have control over the timing in these areas, either. And no matter how I prepare, or manipulate the elements in that area, the TIMING is simply not mine to control. For instance, the birth of my 2nd son. 1. I had a date narrowed down, ... sort of. 2. I had a route to get to the hospital, ...unless there was traffic/construction/tidal wave, etc. 3. I had an idea of who would be delivering my baby, ...mostly. 4. I knew without a doubt that the epidural would be my choice of pain control...-ish. Yah. This is how it really went down: A. Waiting, Waiting, Waiting. B. Wishing and willing the boy to start his engines so I could keep my schedule. C. Waiting and waiting and waiting some more until I was tired of using my Vulcan Mind Tricks on him. D. Desperately walking and watching TV while practicing eating ice chips. Pretty soon I just took a nap because, after all, I could continue to will him to get moving in half an hour or so, as I was dang tired. THAT WAS ALL ON MY TIME. Now, it seemed that as soon as I let my guard down, the actual plan went into motion. I was yanked out of my sleep by huge pains coming about a minute apart. I was hyperventilating before I realized what was going on, and knew I was having my son right then. I was no longer in charge, I was simply watching what unfolded, along for the ride. SOMEONE ELSE tracked down my husband. SOMEONE ELSE bundled me in the car. SOMEONE ELSE chose their own way to get to the hospital, AND how fast to go, AND which bumps and potholes to use or avoid at their own discretion. I didn't pick who wheeled me to a room that I didn't pick out because there was no time to get settled first. And I certainly wasn't the one that made the decision to let me have the baby naturally, simply because my muscles were too clenched to safely get the epidural in my back. You want to know what I was in charge of through that small but revealing time? My attitude. That's it! Through the whole ordeal, I got to choose how to deal with what life hurled at me. And, no, I didn't rise to the occasion right off the bat. My exact words were, "But I didn't take Lamaze class this time because I planned on using the epidural! Never mind. I am not ready yet. Not like this. Please make it stop. I don't want to do this. Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I'm pretty sure there was a swear word in there somewhere. How did life respond to my response? The pain got worse!!! Eventually I stopped complaining and concentrated on working with the process to get through it. What that looked like to me was finding a specific 1 inch square spot on the ceiling that I could concentrate my will, my force, my pain, my everything that was not my body, and just breathe. I got very quiet and just let myself breathe. Once I got to that point, My son came quickly. Actually I screamed my bloody guts out right before he came, my mother tried to soothe me by saying, "SHHH... it's ok. Don't yell." And I told her, in my least demonic voice, to shut up. (Side Note: I have never told my mom to shut up until that point. It was kind of freeing. I am hoping she doesn't remember that part.) And THENNNN, my son came. And I found that I was a part of life that I wasn't in control of. And Life Still Played On. Again, freeing. To bring it back to my writer's block, I can do all the exercises I want, but when I write best is when I am simply part of Life. I think I will leave the directing to those who really have the schedule down. In the mean time, I just clipped my nails and reorganized my shoes, which I have never scheduled into my life before, so I guess that's good too. Otherwise I would never have thrown out the furry muk-luk boots, complete with tassels, that got handed down to me by some relative in Alaska.

Who says a Camry with a messed up fender can't be the next Wonder-mobile, anyway?

2010-01-01T13:47:00.001-07:00

Sometimes life comes at me in little ways, like when I'm doing laundry, dishes, or vacuuming, and a piece of flotsam or jetsam gunks up the works. I have to stop what I'm doing to get rid of it, dispose of it, and then decide if I want to go back to the mundane, or play video poker online. Other times, life throws me a curve ball that takes more heart. Like through the kids. For instance, I got to have the talk...THE TALK... with my 7 yr old today. In a casual way. I wasn't ready for it, but I took a deep breath and just went. It turned out better than I thought, but still received the look from her that said, "I cannot believe you actually knew about this for so long and still acted so NORMAL!..." THEN, there are the times that life winds up and whacks me in the gut, no holds barred. OOF! ZONK! KA-BLAM!!! Those are the times that I find out what I'm made of. Usually, I'm not that impressed. Why? Because it's me doing it, silly. I know the why of why I do what I do. When there are life changing decisions to be made, or decisions being made whether I like it or not, a part of me says, "OOF! Oh, that stings! I don't really have a choice in this, so what am I going to do with the facts?" And... there is also a leeettle part of me that says, "Wait! Not yet, not yet, NOT YET! I'm not done being comfortable. Can't I wait for the next commercial/day/week/vacation?" That's when the decision comes. The choice of when I decide to be strong, calm, and turn lemons into lemonade.... or to run screaming small profanities and cause panic to the masses. I'm currently about 40/60 for my record, I believe. Other people can say how brave, strong, patient or amazing I am. It's been said of many women after all, when husbands/partners/coaches see them give birth, that they could NEVER go through that and survive. Um, for crying out loud. I just think, "Where is that special corner I can curl up in and rock back and forth?" I don't know that I do all the things that I do because of any noble causes at all. The truth is, hero's aren't a special breed of people. They are just people that crap happens to and they didn't run. Maybe their mind went blank and they didn't have an escape route. Maybe they stumbled on their shoelaces and then it was too late. Or maybe the circumstance reminded them of when they were humiliated in 7th grade and this is a way to redeem themselves. Who knows? It just happens that for whatever reason, they stayed and kept going. Not as romantic as being born with red tights, a magic tiara, and a really fantastic set of boots, but still. Here's a secret. Most of us, by far, are heroes. We are someone else's hero. In some way. I think that's the cool part, because I cannot see myself in a cape or a cat mask, no matter how hard I try. But I do see others as my heroes, complete with the persona. My just-in-the-nick-of-time guys, my WHEW! YOU JUST MADE IT!'s. Yeah, I am amazed by them. It is amazing that they show up when I need them, don't ask for payment, and I usually forget to ask for their name until they are gone. So I just think of them as Bob or Frank, or Edna. Those are noble names, right? I Don't have to know em, to experience the talents that are unique to them. Especially when Frank is in a suit and tie, or Edna still has curlers in her hair. HMMMM. In fact, the good news is that we all have secret identities. I could care less what I JUST THOUGHT YOU COULD USE SOME TIME AWAY FROM THE KIDS SO YOU CAN GO TO THE SPA gal does for her secret identity. She shows up and whisks my kids away to the park and I end up making it through a really hard weekend. Where in that saving grace does it say I have to approve of her shows,her occupation, her bedspread, or cooking skills? I DON'T CARE. Other than to know that she is capable with my kids I mean. She just noticed I looked tired at one point in the 3 hour Sunday ritual and thought it might be something more than hearing the TRAVELAMONY that Sister So-&-So was citing. She was right. At no point will I be looking for the labels that I NOTICED YOUR CAR BROKE DOWN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AND I HAPPEN TO BE A MECHANIC guy wears on his shirt. Don't care. He is still my hero of the day. I'm just thankful that he happened to be flying my way, you know what I mean? So is it so far fetched that we can be someone else's hero? I mean really. I got to be CAR BATTERY GAL on Wednesday morning, and it didn't occur to me that I did anything out of the ordinary. I just happened to be driving up alongside a woman in an ENORMOUS car who's flashers were on. I could have passed her by, as A. I'm a woman and not a mechanic so what could I do? B. I'm a woman, so I would probably make it worse for whomever ended up rescuing both of us, and C. This is stupid. The light is going to turn green and she needs help. So I roll down the window and ask if she's ok? She says she just put some gas in the car, but she thinks she will need a jump. "Hey! I can do that!", I think. So I pull through the light, through the gas station that is literally 20 feet away, and pull back into traffic. Yep, I'd have to stop up a lane a bit to get into position to help, and did I remember at all which thingee went on black, and what thingee went on red? Crap.... But I still did it. The lady had her own jump cables, and knew what to do so I didn't have to look like too much of the idiot that I felt like, at all. Within 15 seconds she was up and running, and I was back on the road. Sure I was a bit late, but it wasn't a big deal. It hit me then that the term HERO is a term that others give to the person. It isn't self inflicted. Much like "Jerk" or "Molly Mormon/Peter Priesthood" or even "Workaholic". We would more likely call ourselves "Strong willed" or "Devout" or "hard working". Don't those sound nicer? Honestly, when life throws us little curves, or big curves, or even an entire CURVES building, it is up to us to label ourselves, listen to the labels that others give us, or just quit caring about the label at all and just go. I'm much more effective as just someone who gave a crap than anything else. That works well for THE TALK with my daughter, or vacuuming and doing dishes when the flotsam gets in the way, or even when deciding if my life is better lived at 40% or 100%.

Dina won't you blow, Dina won't you blow, Dina won't you blow your hor-or-ornn.....

2009-10-31T03:43:00.001-06:00

A very wise woman, lets call her .... Dina....., once told me, "Life isn't tidy." She's right. At least in my case. And , alright... in the case of my house. Now, at the time, she wasn't talking about housework, per se, but I'll get to that in a minute.

I do have a room in my house that is tidy. It moves around a lot. Sometimes it is the living room (with the exception of that one spot behind the sofa, where son #3 stashes his dirty sock, his homework from last week, his bowl of cucumber salad, and my daughters latest stuffed unicorn for blackmail purposes. This goes without saying). Sometimes, my bedroom is the tidy spot. This happens when i proclaim that my room is "my space", and all kids and/or husband has got 10 seconds to get their blankets, shoes, homework/work laptop, and swords out of it RIGHT NOW, or someone's going to get whipped with a wet noodle. And on rainy days when i get in a mood, the tidy spot could just be the kitchen, although i know that as soon as i clean it sons #1 and #2, along with the friends they have chosen for the day, will promptly walk through the front door, drop their backpacks/shoes/blades and/or boards, and raid my fridge of anything remotely resembling sandwich material. What's the point of cleaning it then? So it can be tidy for the minute and a half before the kids come home. Silly. You know, the calm before the storm? Sometimes the journey of getting the room tidy is satisfying enough, knowing it will be a memory before long.

And that is a good point that i missed, until Dina was kind enough to talk with me about it. Although life isn't tidy, striving for tidiness can be fulfilling. AS LONG AS we realize that we are fooling ourselves, JUST a smidge. Playing a practical joke on ourselves, really. We know we can't always be tidy, but tidying up a bit makes us FEEL like we are closer to the end result. And if we have 1 part of life that is tidy, well then that is the part we will show to the public, right?

Now, I come from an environment where perfecting ones self is just part of the package. It's what we do, it's who we are, it's how we roll. So perpetual guilt about falling short of that perfection is also part of the package. And so is tidiness. Or striving for tidiness. How freeing, then, for the notion that life isn't tidy can come into play. "WHAT?" i thought, sitting on the other end of the sofa as Dina dropped the bomb. " I have assumed that life WAS tidy, and i was the one dropping the ball!" WHEW!!!!

Did it occur to me that in an environment where we seemed to run around sweeping up after ourselves and others, that all these people occasionally dropped the ball? Nope. Not once. I assumed i was odd to not want to keep tidying up all the time. With plates of cookies for the downtrodden, and good-natured snooping on the police scanner,( just to see who's house the ambulance was going to, in order to keep them in our prayers, of course), the tidying up of self and others went on and i assumed the look of tidiness was real.

What a fantastic release to know that i could live next door to a freak, just like me, with a corner of the living room that has a hidden mess. Maybe they have a fridge that also has sticky chocolate syrup on the 3rd shelf, still not cleaned up after 2 weeks. ORRRR..... they might even have some lint behind the door of the downstairs bathroom. Gulp. Think of the possibilities!!!!! Well, its just a logical leap to think that the guy across the street may have a dark side too. Does it mean i will stop asking him for a cup of sugar? NOPE. After all, at some point i would have to supply my OWN sugar if i did that. Silly. I don't care if he brushed his teeth before bed last night. And do i keep myself awake at night about whether there is an oil spot on his driveway? um, no. I just think it's fascinating that it took me a while to realize that no one is caring whether my shed that has garden supplies in it is organized or not.

What the???? How did this happen?

2009-10-30T11:38:00.000-06:00

Ever been in over your head? For me, I have never had the experience of diving in to something over my head. Ohhhh, no. It's usually something that i dip my toe in, decide to go thigh high because i can handle the gentle swaying on my....hips?....., have no problem with the tugging of the water on my...torso..., and then...gulp!.... How did i get to floating flat on my back, hoping the fat content in my body and visualization of me with dorsal fins will keep me afloat in this pooh-storm? Now that i think on it, it's kind of my signature. In fact, if you are a distant, casual, or recent friend/relative/parent, you will have probably pulled me out of the pooh a few times. And honestly, the ones i really should be thanking are any recent/distant/casual guardian angels i've had the privilege of burning out. No, No! I have no illusion about me burning out my share, believe me. The latest one was last night. I'm going to chalk that one up to the guardian angel, lets call him Stan. Stan and i went with a friend to a 5 band punk concert at a place i'm pretty sure my 2 oldest boys would think was Suuh-LAAAMIN. they would have been right. I ended up in a mosh-pit. I'm not dead, don't worry. But that was the time that i went, "What the??? How did this happen?" Again, i didn't walk in the doors, and stroll down the isle to the 12 men and 2 women/beasts that were a spinning vortex of smiles, booze, and aggression. No, i started out in a rational, mature state of mind. As a side note, I had no idea there was mosh-pit etiquette. It goes like this: 1. Anyone, of any age, may mosh. Assuming you are allowed into the establishment in the first place. Basically, if you have the guts, we have the slams. 2. A few elbows to the ribs and shoulders are perfectly acceptable to the outside crowd near enough to reach. This lets them know you are interested in another partner (as the previous one just slammed her head on the cement floor again, got up laughing, but is a bit more woozy than normal.) 3. If anyone falls, all slamming and pushing ceases around that person while the guy/girl is picked up, dusted off, and put back on their feet, or carried to the nearest chair so they can finish bandaging the puncture wound that was inflicted by the woman with 5 inch stilettos, the result of a playful step on the forearm RIGHT before saying sorry and helping the unfortunate up. (p.s. the polite thing for the victim to do is to bleed OUTSIDE, so as not to alarm the rest of the crowd that moshing might be dangerous. no one needs to see blood when they are having a good time. really.) 4. Shaking a beer in a bottle and spraying it into the moshing mass and/or crowd that might be watching in horrified fascination is perfectly acceptable. This is what makes the night....interesting.... Please watch your step. The logical thing would have been to get away from this if i was not interested. That would be logical, however, i was ALREADY IN OVER MY HEAD, being stuck between the stage, acting as bodyguard while my friend shot pics for the gig she had gotten, and the fight-or-flight-reflex I was supposed to rely on, being stuck in neutral. Again, this didn't start out with the mosh pit. This started out with the 2nd experience as my friend's (lets call her...Flo...) "assistant". Flo has the hookup to some great shows. 1 All-access press pass for her. CHECK. 1 evening of Look-the-other-way from the bouncers for me, the lucky friend that gets to schmooze backstage with the bands, joke with the M.C.'s and enjoy the music on the pretense of being an assistant to the "official" photographer for a local radio/internet station. CHECK. Now, as i didn't do the concert scene growing up, and feeling slightly ripped of for it, i had no problem living my teen years again, this time to see what i had been missing. (dip of the toe) Besides, i reasoned, it didn't hurt to know what my boys were listening to now. (and it reaches my thighs) Lastly, i had already done this once and was an immense help to Flo, keeping people at a reasonable distance while she used the inside of the crowd/cattle guard fence to snap shots of the lead singer, bass, and drummers. (And, up to my bellybutton.) A few differences this time around: A. I had my own press pass. B. I had more confidence. C. There was no safety rail between the stage and the crowd. D. Did i mention i had more confidence? OKKKK. The night starts off on a great note. And if by great i mean the bands of choice were local scream bands, heavy on the drums and light on any intelligible words, then yes, great. I'm not knocking this genre of music. It's just new to me. But, as an observer, i can handle this. (Key word in my sticky situations seems to be OBSERVER) The M.C. is hilarious and i'm enjoying an easy conversation with he and Flo, looking at potential spots for Flo to work her magic. As the night progresses and the booze begin to flow, i again observe the distinct differences in logical choices people make on their first beer and their fourth. This is not new to me. where i grew up, there were not a lot of teenage things to do, so LOGICALLY, the crowd would turn to booze/partying (and toilet-papering trees/cars/people. Why? because we were bold, but not THAT bold.) My known role in this was always to watch others drink. I've been told i don't need any alcohol for me to be a spaz. I think it's true. I think most of you reading this know it for a fact. ANYHOOOO..... Like i said before, enjoying the entertainment on stage, off-stage, and back-stage was great. I was not a mom, a wife, or a survivor of the days batterings of appointments, arguments, and daily decisions. Nope. I was just me, and living in the moment.... A moment that was lengthening into alarm. I'm thinking the haze in the air wasn't COMPLETELY from the smoke machine on stage after the 4th band. I'm thinking that front and center isn't always a good idea, when the casual observation is that we are the shortest, most petite, and sanest people in the crowd. and I'm thinking that the black broken-in casual boots (you know, the ones with the deep crack running the width of the shoe on the left side?) will soak up whatever is on the floor. Dang it. This is when i look around, and that tingling sensation in my belly tells me i'm probably the only one in this place that doesn't exactly fit. It's ok, i reason to my belly. I'm just OBSERVING. Calm down. Back to looking for good shots, nice angles, and oh-click-on-the-fan-that-is-over-the-top-excited-and-tries-to-clamber-on-stage-but-her-shape-and-current-state-of-mind-prevents-it. Fast forward to the last band. The headliner. The legend band that everyone has gotten keyed up to see. Silly me. I had NO idea what that meant. Did i put together the facts? nope. Did i put together the clues that were warning me to move to higher ground? NOPE. Lets recap, shall we? 1. lots of people, front and center, no safety rail whatsoever. 2. late at night/early morning, and lots of booze flowing. 3. 4 other scream bands to whip the crowd into a frenzy, waiting for the main attraction. 4. no body armor or spikes at ALL. Silly me. I'm just an observer. Plus i have Stan, my guardian angel, don't i? he's a good guy. The M.C. introduces the band, the crowd goes wild, and the snapping of pics commences. At first, i actually thought i'd look at the stage and see the band. Or at least get through the band because, lets be clear, i was deaf from the noise, blind from the smoke, and my taste buds had turned to ash from wondering what was on the floor. (did i mention seeing the nice girl alternately yarking and squatting at the bottom of the stairs? All in good fun, i'm sure. She probably won't even remember the reason i will have lengthened my therapy sessions by 3 visits.) I turn to the stage and think thoughts like, "As an observer, i think this guy had the best power scream of the night. I am a bit put off by the drummer with spittle flying from his mouth. So this is what would be fun for my boys...." when WHAM! I'm elbowed in the neck. all in good fun, by the way. I turn around and see that the entire crowd behind me, Flo, and the 1st row has moved to make room for 14 entertainers who are checking for any other takers (thus the friendly elbow to the neck check). My thoughts immediately turn to Flo's last statement, which was, "Can you create a bit of space on my left so i can concentrate and get steady shots without anyone jostling me?" and i think.........ummm lets see if i can do this or not. Side note. when getting ready to fend off a band of drunk hoodlums, do these things first: 1. plant your feet. check. 2. visualize the bubble of positive energy surrounding yourself and friend (learned in a moment of zen) Check. 3. get the attention of the woman next to you who, with 2 beers in her hand (drinking from both AT THE SAME TIME, might i add), readily decides to champion your cause by saying, "un gotcha baaak, yo." And steps behind the oblivious FLO in her 4 inch heels, pushing and jostling the swirling assorted limbs coming at us, causing the ENTIRE MOSH PIT to come attack her, and us by proxy. It was at this time that it occurred to me that i was no longer an OBSERVER. I was a PLAYER. Yo. I'm thinking the bubble of energy worked. Or maybe the moshers saw the deer-in-headlights look on my face, and being the gentle-moshers that they are, took pity on me. Or who knows, they could have been taken in by the miracle of a woman chugging 2 beers at once. I choose to believe that Stan did a stand up job. The crowd missed me (and Flo) by millimeters, the beating that 2-beer bula took was welcomed and reciprocated, and time started ticking again. My body regained feeling somewhere on the ride home. Now the interesting thing is that, looking back, i find that Stan, or his predecessors, do a fantastic job of keeping me afloat through the pooh-storms. I just can't figure out why i get so many chances. I'm thankful, though, don't get me wrong. I could tell you about the time the raft i was on flipped over and Flo and i went through the rapids on top of the raft, no handholds at all. (Flo still has the halo that was given to her for keeping me calm while my reflex was to splutter, cuss incoherently, and drown.) I believe Jethro was the angel on duty at that time. Or i could expand on the time that i went on a train, current occupation as a newly licensed financial adviser, to visit family, but ended up chatting harmlessly with a wealthy, bored elderly gentleman who wanted nothing more than to pick my brain, be fascinated that i could be a mom/wife/career woman, and ultimately frown when he was turned down as i was invited back to his "cozy little car up front". Note to self: Do not divulge you know anything about money to a stranger in a confident way with no thought as to whether they will ask your advice, invite your opinion, shoot the hypotheticals, and eventually have a cozy 3-way chat with just you, the nice gentleman, and his stock guy. Even if it is all casual, hypothetical, and entertaining. My guardian angel that night was Evan. Now retired. I could even touch on that one night as a teen in the back of a car with 2 very drunk just-turned-21 yr olds careening down a mountain path right through the surprised looks of 2 cops and 2 parents that just happened to be looking for us. this turns into a police chase and involves dumping 2/8ths of a ton of warm beer and other assorted alcoholic beverages on the front lawn of some lucky senior citizen, and ends with me eating mints on the doorstep of my mom's house and knowing i'll be yanked out of school. WISH GRANTED. Nope, again i didn't die, wasn't harmed in any way and came out the better. Thanks Ed, Joe, and Bob the current guardian angels pulled from nearby to assist angel Jack with my current situation. But, i won't bore you. Needless to say, I have a lot of thank you cards to write (FAX? PRAY? how does one get a thank you note to those shaking, retired angels from long ago? And maybe they would rather have brownies anyway....) Each time, my reflexes are getting better. By the time i'm 80, i should JUST ABOUT be able to listen to the tingle in my belly before the waves go over my head and i pray that the pathetic doggy paddle will hold out a bit longer than the lack of good sense i seem to have. HMMMM i wonder if i'll remember the doggy paddle when i'm 80..... Man i hope i haven't run through all the sensible angels by then. Maybe i'll get the goofy one that looks pretty but can only count up to potato.....

Life happens. I just talk about it.: Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

2009-10-28T15:56:00.000-06:00

Life happens. I just talk about it.: Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

so about death and feet....

2009-09-23T23:03:00.006-06:00

Ever had your weakness turn into your strength? It's a bizarre twist to me. Sometimes odd things happen in moments of ....panic....or grief even. To me, anyway. I tend to let go of the script about how things should look in society and just.....go. Sometimes that is good and sometimes is turns out to bite me in the hindparts. Look at this, for instance: I used to hate feet. HATE them. I used to fixate on how ugly my toes were, how yucky other peoples feet looked, and even wondered what sorts of oddness lived in between the 2nd and 3rd toes of the grumpy cat neighbor 2 doors down the street. So imagine my surprise when, years later, i embraced and loved on some feet at a nursing home. Hmmm. Some explanation may be necessary. Several years ago, I was in a nursing home hallway, getting ready to visit my grandpa. He had just had a stroke, and some of the family were gathering around. Clearly, it was a somber occasion. As i geared up for this I thought, "The same man that used to call me 'kiddledid' and sneak me out for ice cream was not the same anymore", and i knew i'd be crying soon. So this was the mood as I walked in, and saw the "RESPECTFUL" society space that people gave him. Then I got a look at my Grandpa, and all I could think of was this: "Sheesh. He needs his toenails clipped!", because he did. Here was this dignified, strong, amazing man, and the toenails, well, they were just hanging out on his bare feet, getting long and unattractive. Grandpa wouldn't want that at all! While people were shaking their heads, tut-tutting or wringing their hands, his toenails had been overlooked, and they looked like they must hurt. I just assumed he hated nasty feet as much as i did, and being the unwilling occupant of such was not ok with me. What I did then was something that crossed the line. The TABOO don't-touch-him-he's-dying line. I grabbed some clippers. They were conveniently at a shelf by his legs, and maybe this is what gave me the motivation. Now he couldn't talk very well, if at all, and people basically talked at him, or around him, so when i walked up to him and just started speaking with him a bit, touching him, and rubbing his legs and feet, people hushed up in a hurry. I didn't notice them till later, in fact. I just did the natural thing. I didn't worry that there was some shocked looks on faces as i joked with Grandpa, the patriarch of the family. I just gave him a quick touch up with the clippers. I just assumed he was ok with me touching his feet. His legs. His TOENAILS. I took that risk without asking. The unmitigated gall, eh? Seriously, if I would have been conscious of the looks I'm now pretty sure I was getting in the beginning, I probably would have stepped away and apologized. After all, who was this young whippersnapper, coming in and being so assumptive? A few years later, my mom let me know I was very tender with him and had a way with people. None of the perceived taboo backlash ever did happen, but I thought it was because my mom did damage control or something. Later I realized that it worked out well because it felt right to me. I didn't ask permission, I just went with it. Life lesson learned. wahooo! It is still odd to me that no one had thought of dealing with my grandpa's toes, and maybe they were icked out about feet too, but I'm thankful for the opportunity to get over myself by doing some service. He still passed away. I'm still sad, and I wish he were around, but I loved serving him. Strangely, that was a good memory for me. It goes against the ick factor directly, and yet, feels natural and right for me. OK.... it isn't like it was some heroic thing. I'm not saying it to be about Grandpa at all, really. I'm just saying that sometimes the things that we ick out about can be turned around and used as a growing point. I know now that I have no problem getting into people's space when others will back away. In fact, while some people bake brownies and funeral potatoes for life's tragedies, and to be of service, I am more at ease giving a back rub, or holding the hand, or listening to the heartache. I would not know that about me if I hadn't grabbed those clippers in the first place. I just had known, up to the clippers point, that I was uncomfortable in "old people" places, and hated feet. 2 very shallow ways of being, looking back. Now when life gives me an uncomfortable situation, maybe something that I would automatically discount with, "um I don't do...that", (cooking, for instance...), I can choose to take it on and looking for the good that comes in growing up. After all, who am I to say I don't cook well? My dog likes my cooking. Sometimes. Now if I can just clip the DOG's nasty nails...Hmmmm another opportunity. For later.

Gratitude. It's the key to abundance. So why have i lost that key so many times?

2009-08-26T21:23:00.004-06:00

I think The Clapper is ingenious. You lose something, like light in a dark room. You clap for it, and BOOM! There is light! Now put it into play with my keys, which I am constantly losing. If I wasn't sure I'd look like a wilderness kid clapping to scare the bears away, I would hook the clapper on my key ring so I can hunt it down effectively at 6:33 AM when I'm running out the door to work. Hmmmm, now let's think about it for a second. I would be grateful for the Clapper, if it were attached to my keys. But, I would still trip over the cat, the last pair of jeans i wore, the unicorn Paint-By-Numbers set that my daughter was working on, and the book, "Dr. George Washington Carver" (it's a good read. i highly recommend it.). Because i still would run into the room, late at 6:33 A.M. and be in too much of a hurry to turn the light on! But that's just me. My common sense doesn't kick in until at least 8:07 A.M. i wish i had a clapper equivalent for gratitude. i mean, really, there are so many great things that come with life. Lessons, good or bad, have a consequence and a silver lining sometimes. But i find that the gratitude gets lost sometimes. Somewhere under the books, the pets, the business of life, the gratitude for those very things can get lost. And don't even get me started on lessons and gifts that are coming my way every day! The miracles that show up every day seem to fade into ordinary routine, until gratitude is factored in. For instance, I don't think about electricity, until a snow storm makes me frantically look for a flashlight (ANY flashlight, including the pink one under my daughters bed, or the pen light on my keys... which i can't find in the dark, without the Clapper). Also, I never think about the battery in Hoss, my ridiculous but comfortable vehicle, until I'm running out the door at 6:34 a.m., slide into the leather seats, anticipating the warmth of the bum warmer as i turn the key, and i hear the "CLICK-CLICK-C.L.I.C.K.-cli..." and then nothing. Then I'm thankful for the battery chargers that son #1 automatically has in his truck as he fixes me up and sends me on my way. You know, stuff like that. Gratitude is the key to abundance. It is just up to me to find the silver lining when the lessons that come my way aren't easy, or fun. Thus the Clapper idea. Of course, that would be too easy. When son #3 says he doesn't like my cooking (again), i could just clap at him, and I'd be grateful we had food at all. Or grateful that i didn't strangle him with a wet noodle. Maybe i should get a gratitude Clapper for him. Then he can be glad i didn't make him eat my hamburger/eggplant/noodle surprise.

So a trout walks into a bar, and orders some Spam....

2009-08-25T19:00:00.000-06:00

INFATUATION. Yark. Not because it isn't fun. Yark because, well, infatuation is the limbo of the harsh reality of love. There is a start. There is a middle, and sometimes, there is an end. Infatuation comes in like, ummm, like...like the spam on a hook to bait the unsuspecting river trout. Trout: Just floating along, maybe looking for a bug, or a bit of Flotsom to chow on. Maybe just feeling out the current. Then WHAM!!!!! A bit of Spam is just dangling along in the current with him/her. "What kind of goodness is this?" He thinks....And takes the bite of apparent goodness. Only, after he takes that first blissful bite, with maybe a bit of perma-grin as he looks around at his trout-posse, knowing THEY don't have Spam in THEIR mouths.... does he realize that this goodness comes with some commitment. And that's what I'm talking about. The hook. Now this hook is just there, shoring up the Spam of love, at first. We may even call it fun, a tool, or no strings attached....Spam. But there is, each time, a leee-eetle bit of e-ouch!-what-was-that?...ness.... It may even be that as long as it does not start to pull too much ,too hard, or too many times, that we can get used to that Spam flavored hook. Ok enough with the fish stories. All hooked fish end up getting pulled out of the river of comfort to be dashed against the rocks of reality at some point. Depressing? YOU try having a spam covered hook in your mouth, with all your friends laughing at you..... I guess what i think about infatuation is this: It HAS to be that alluring, because if we knew or thought about what happened AFTER the infatuation, we may just pass on it and go back to the safety of our ho hum lives. OH YEAH..., our lives seemed so ho hum, before infatuation came sniffing around. All of a sudden, it doesn't matter how late we stay up, how little sleep we get, how many dollars we may spend, or how many daydreams float by at work, as long as we can get just a LITTLE bit more of the elixir of love. DANG IT!!!!! And while we are at it....Have you ever wondered about how stupid we look to others when we are infatuated? like the fish with a hook in his mouth swimming around looking smug. What his friends see is a fish that's going to get it in the end. But the hook guy is happy about it!!!!!! Ok well , the same thing happens on dry land. Our friends look over our heads at each other and roll their eyes. Or when we are texting with that stupid perma-grin look on our face?..... Yeah, they roll their eyes then too. Now why do they roll their eyes??? BECAUSE THEY KNOW THE DIFFERENCE between love and infatuation, apparently. The only ones that don't get it are the ones going ga ga in stupid meeting places, like across a crowded KFC to get together for 1/2 hr of what-if-ness. Like i said before, Yark.

If he laughs at THAT joke, he must be a horrible guy....

2009-08-14T20:18:00.003-06:00

Always keep a quarter in your purse, just in case... Keep your ankles decently crossed.You never know who's looking..... Have a friend call with an "emergency" when you get in trouble.... Look in his bathroom medicine cabinet. THAT says a lot about him... If he goes for 1st, 2nd, or 3rd base on the first date.... RUN!!!! (and be very angry when he doesn't call later)... I have more. Every woman does. It makes us feel better when we are giving advice to an innocent woman. I think every teenage chick, and most pre-teens, have something like this in their arsenal. These are the tools that we have for the battle. Um, THE BATTLE.... The Battle Of The Sexes??? Yyeeah, it's still going on. At least that's what I hear. And fear. This is what I was armed with from the time Adrian B. got booted from my house because "girls don't play with boys" when I was ... 8? Little by little, Adrian, Matt, Steve, and...What's-His-Face... the guy with the curly hair and dimples????... got culled from the neighborhood play group and tossed into the boys club where trucks, trees, and anything that got them dirty and scraped up was acceptable. Us girls usually were led into Barbie play dates, dress up, and cooking. (For the record, I hated Barbies and cooking. My cooking attests to it.) I think it was just easier for moms of girls to get that look on their face... the one of disdain and just a leeettle bit of nausea, when boys got older (the unmitigated gall!) as their girls did too. And like a light going on around the neighborhood, mom's would tug on their daughters apron strings and tell them little things to make the culling a bit easier...."Well, you are getting too old to play with him. He is paying too much attention to you." And all of a sudden the question was, "Is that bad? Am I bad? I was having fun playing in the trees/scraping my knees/playing Barbie with him". The next thought being, "boys have fun this way, and girls have fun that way..." and never the two shall mix. All of a sudden, we were DIFFERENT. Instead of there just being friends, it was Boys, and it was Girls. We knew that already, of course, but suddenly it mattered to the moms, so it had to matter to us. The leap from friends to US VS. THEM looked like this: A. we are different from boys. B. mom doesn't like us to play with "different" anymore. C. Different must be BAD D. BOYS ARE BAD and must be watched out for.... I know. Guys, if you are reading this, you either have a story like this but it's turned around so the girls are the enemy, or you are scratching your goatee and saying, "what the?????" Does it explain why girls got so creepy from about 8 years old on? Now you know the secret. We were told you were the enemy. Its true. Ask any girl in G-ville. (They are all on Facebook anyway.) In fact, just look in my Facebook friends for the girl that was in your neighborhood. She's the one you used to hang out with, and then BAM!! kicked you in the shins when you passed them. For no apparent reason. Now you know.... Here's the reason I bring it up in the first place: I'm a little bit bitter about it. I lost some really good guy friends when I was 8. Well, I (being the stubborn girl I was) hung out with them, off and on all the way until high school. Maybe, Neighbor Friend Around The Corner, you were just as stubborn as I was, and that's why we didn't care what our mom's said, but still.... Guy Across The Street And 2 Houses Down, we got the short end of the stick because my mom and yours were of the same mind that we both were the devil to the other.... The point is...... Ladies....... What if the boys/guys/men in our lives weren't the horrible people we were supposed to watch out for? What if there are guys out there that are gentle, kind, and want whats best for them and us? What if, dare I say, we are so conditioned to watch out and identify the bad in the boy that we don't know what to do if a good guy walked up to us and treated us right? I'm pretty bold to say that there could be amazing men out there. I know it because at any point now I'll get some emails letting me know I've been brainwashed. Here is where I get really bold, though. What if it is the WOMEN who have been out of the loop? What if we are so worried, and freaked out about getting taken advantage of/ripped off/hurt (and sometimes for good reason), that we have forgotten how to be open to the good that a guy could bring to a friendship/relationship????? hmmm? I speak about this because..... well..... I was dumped. By a really good guy. A really really excellent guy. nope, not my hubby. although he is a good guy too. I'm talking about someone that is no longer able to talk to me because he has been forbidden. By his love interest. His love, lets call her Brenda, is not assuming I will seduce him, necessarily. She assumes HE WILL CAVE. For the reason that he is a man and therefore BAD, he must be reined in with the friends that he has. As in, no women friends. Did I mention I've known him all my life? No? Well, yeah, I'm bitter. But really I don't have anyone to blame but my womenfolk. Do we know lying, cheating jerks? yup. But the real question is, DO WE KNOW ANY GENUINELY GOOD GUYS?.....Cricket....Cricket..... These are guys that have been upstanding through life. Made mistakes, sure, like we all do.. But have learned from them and used them as stepping stones. Just like the goals the women who have struggled in life strive to reach. And here is the scarier question: Do I know any women who are genuinely good? OF COURSE..... (I look past my own flaws, don't I) :) And I look past the flaws of my friends and any woman I admire..... yada yada..... Do some of us women to know what to do with a guy that is just good? And, is it just me that flounders with how to treat a guy that isn't a perv, a creep, and a loser? I'm at a loss. Mostly because I realize that somewhere down the line, it went from guys hanging around and being in the club of life, to creating the "What does he mean by THAT comment" girl only club that turns everything into a nuance or need for a comeback. Not good. Not good for me at all, and Not good for us as the genteel, tender strong loving powerful compassionate ladies we are capable of. Competition and competitiveness just has it's drawbacks here. What if a guy wants in? What if he means what he says? What if he wasn't meaning what we thought he really meant? The questions all come down to this: Are we, ladies, strong enough to let that in? Guys, this might also answer the question of why, when you are being genuine, the lady you want to impress (or had no idea you were impressing) got that odd look on her face that says, "SURE your a nice guy. Sure I'll take what you say at face value" but the attitude is like being back handed by a tennis pro. I'd love the input, not from the moms that have never had anything go wrong with their kids, but the moms that were the kids. I'd love input from the guys that were put in their place by the women they unintentionally offended and didn't know why. Or the dads that have insight to us crazy women.... Or the men and women that know what to do when a nice guy/girl shows up in their space and they buy in. Not necessarily because they are infatuated, as this could be a co-worker, a potential friend of a spouse, or a waiter/worker/server that you see isn't out to make you bleed. But infatuation could play in just the same. Ladies? What input do you have as to knowing that there are jerks out there because we have all dated one, had one for a (possibly) brother/uncle/cousin/dad/grandpa/nephew..... but how to treat a guy that isn't a jerk? What if we have been conditioned to watch out for the bad so much that we don't recognize the good? Ever happened to you? And..... GO.

2009-06-12T00:01:00.004-06:00

Even though life isn't tidy, on the whole, i still want it to be. I strive for it to be tidy, clean, and clear of .... ew-ness. Sometimes i win, sometimes i don't, and sometimes it's a tie. Today however, as i found the strength i'd been lacking when one recovers from an appendectomy, i won in a big way. I got up this evening and decided that the bathroom/kitchen buildup was not good for me anymore, and set about cleaning. hmmmmm back up. i never decide to clean. I do, however, decide to just pick up that one thing and put it back. That leads to another thing...and another... until the counter is clear. At that point, i can't just stare at a bare counter that has fuzz/goo/gunk/funk (and that toothpick that is always hiding behind the stuff) and not wipe it off! so out comes the spray, the cloth, and i just pick one spot at a time. the end result is the same, true, but i have to trick myself. Otherwise, it's just too overwhelming. Also, i can't just do one room at a time. when putting things away, i usually go up and down the stairs so while i'm up the stairs, i might as well work on that bathroom. and when i go back downstairs returning something else to it's spot, i work in the kitchen for a bit. did i mention i get bored easily? and distracted? and like bright, shiny objects??? Well, this is how i get things done at the same time. I trick myself. and as i'm tricking myself into getting what i want by doing the mundane, i allowed something in. I allowed myself to zen out, and just clean. no music to distract me. no talking on the phone....after a bit. i hung up and just cleaned. and, i noticed me noticing me. This is what i saw: me, cleaning the tile in the bathroom over the bathtub: "you know, this caked on, nastiness that has sat here for about 5 years..... how did i let it get this bad????" me, grabbing yet another wipe with bleach and some other mystical property: "Well, retard, you have been tricking yourself into thinking this is a fight with your hubby. it is a tug-o-war about who will break down and clean this particular spot." me, realizing i'm having a conversation with myself, but see a lesson coming: "no! i can't be that petty! really? really, i've neglected this particular corner, where the economy size shampoo and manly man body wash sit, just to make a point?" I had, in fact, tricked myself into letting my pettiness make that one corner into ew-ness. I thought that if i waited for him to get a clue, or get tired of it like i had, then he would just clean it (to my satisfaction, nonetheless...) and i could bob my head in "there now, that's more like it" arrogance. all i did, though, is close the curtain more. odd, that.

2009-06-10T22:42:00.002-06:00

Have you ever googled yourself? We, as computer literate people, most likely have. I, as a busy person with life going on, haven't until tonight. Do you know how many me's there are out there? Apparently, i'm a singer, an executive, and a dorky student in texas that knows that it is " Deep Vein Thrombosis Awareness month" somewhere. Hmmmm, i should probably look up that need for awareness before i think of it as a dork trait to know about it. (maybe it's a life altering thing, and someone is suffering from it right now. i'm so insensitive. if so, my bad, and you may comment on it.) no wonder i can amuse myself so well. there are so many aspects of....well.... me. for instance, i had no idea that when i googled myself i would come across a blogspot, but not my blogspot. you know? i followed the link, and there my name was, but someone elses blog!!!! I got so excited!!!!!.... until i realized there was one and only one blog on this blogspot. "SUITCASES". um, yeah, the other me blogged about the correct way to shop for suitcases. How did i get so boring????? ye-ow-zah! of course, i'm technically talking to myself on here. a one way conversation, except for the nice guy, THEWIZARD, and thank you for making yourself known. Man, now i have competition, with myself, for THEWIZARD. It's between life not being tidy, or shopping for suitcases....... i'm worried. I hope you stay with the me me. I also didn't realize i was so many titles. mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter.... check. Now add to that GRANDMA (yikes, i'm not ready), publisher, caberet dancer/singer, talk show host, and trapeze artist. Yeah, i'm that good. So the next time you hear me say, "I'm every woman", I really am. :)

There once was a man from Nantucket.......

2009-06-09T15:58:00.002-06:00

I could end that little ditty so many ways. But i'll just say things didn't go well for him and he said CRAAAAAPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!! He threw up his hands, and kicked the dirt a bit, and cursed his misfortune. I hear stories like that. I see life like that, sometimes, you know when i'm driving down the street, changing a dvd, etc.... I have even been that guy a few times. Now to be clear, this isn't about when there is a little boo boo that gets brought to light. I'm talking about the rug being pulled out from under me. On a tall set of stairs. With stilettos on. And an audience. The bouncing and rolling and sliding in a downhill spiral that ends with an expletive and a groan. And uncertain clapping from the jerk in the way back. Just so we are clear. When life gives me lemons, i make lemonade...... who comes up with this positive crap? :) It is something for Person A to say to make themselves feel better about the chaos that Person B is going through, you know? How bout this? When life gives you lemons....... Throw them around a bit, hitting a wall or two and listen for that thumping sound as seeds go everywhere. After that, try to hit a do-gooder that calls happily about the mess you are in. Then, and ONLY then, in the remorse that you feel about nailing the do-gooder in the forehead, giving them a lemon-size shiner, notice that usually life will also give you someone, a Person C, that makes you lemonade from the mess you find yourself in. They don't give you a pep talk. They just easily wipe up or sweep up the rinds, the pulp from the walls and under the sneakers, and take what is left to whip up a lemonade smoothie. No fanfare, no need for thanks or awe. Just pulling you up from where you have you head between your knees, trying not to hyperventilate. Why is this? How does it happen that, after we have run out of all ideas on what to do next, someone else can look at the situation and say, "HMMMM, that does suck. Here's a lemonade frappachino, and i noticed that this is working for me." No drama. No judgement. Just a different perspective. And as quick as that, or as simple as that, there is a way out. A way through. The key? It is a DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE. There is a reason we can think outside the box for others, but not ourselves. IT is because we don't bring just ideas to the situation. We color them with our fears, assumptions, reasonings, and judgements about the ideas. This is what makes them OURS. It is also what makes them not always work. No matter how smart, intelligent, strong, patient, loving, amazing, talented, or adoreable we are, they don't always play into how to do life. No matter what we want to happen, the reality sometimes just doesn't go along with our personality, and our shoulds. Enter, The Outside Perspective. This is something that doesn't have to sift through our personality to make things work. No need to know our history, or drama. Just the facts, ma'am. Sound cold? heartless? Nope. i'm going to say EFFECTIVE. If we listen, that is. If we can get our ego out of the way....... And it's not easy, i'm the first to admit. I would just love it if all my ideas worked. In fact, i just assume they do, deep down. So when i'm struck by the reality that my idea isn't working, then my ego kicks in and says, "well if I can't solve it, how could anyone else???? I know the situation the best, therefore, i MUST know best....." Yeah, it's a load of CRAP. Sometimes we just need someone who doesn't buy into our drama. And i'm not saying our drama is not real, sad, harsh, or tangled. Just that it is OUR drama, and not that other persons, so they can think clearheadedly about it. Here's the point: Just because one person can think clearly about another person's dilemma and note a possiblity that wasn't looked at before, this doesn't mean that the clear headed person hasn't or isn't at the same time going through their drama. It's not that bad things happen to bad people, or unlucky people. Bad things happen. Period. But i don't see many ditty's about what to do AFTER the drama unfolds. Because not a lot of people get past the "DUN DUN DUNNNNN NNNNN NNNN" to see the "What's next?" in their own life. We, as people, are the ones throwing the lemons, sitting down trying not to hyperventilate, or digging a hole in the sand to place our head. It's usually others that notice that our bald head is getting sunburned while we sit there immobilized, or that a fire ant is ready to bite us on the butt if we don't switch positions. And that's good news. Trusting ourselves is huge. It is important as all get out when we are living life. But when the rug is pulled out from under us, it is also important to know the difference between the weiner that is spouting happy songs to you as he walks past, and the person that has a different perspective, letting you out of the chaos that has been created around you. How to do that? Listen to both people. Your heart and good sense will tell you which one to take aim at, and which to use as a sounding board.

Nevermind the mold spores... just keep working!

2009-06-07T16:47:00.000-06:00

Most people I know have seen "The Wizard Of Oz", either because they had to, they were dared to, or they were drawn to it like a train wreck. Me? I just liked the 3rd munchkin on the left. The one in the Lollipop Guild. I always got a kick out of him. Munchkin-man reminded me of a guy i knew in 7th grade. Ron, i believe his name was. This guy moved in to our school, and got in with a macho group right away. But, he had kind of a baby face that off-set the sneer he would wear in public. I imagine it was like this for the 3rd guy on the left of the Lollipop Guild..... 1st guy.: (lick the lollipop) "Hey. who's the new guy?" 2nd guy.: (kick an unoffending rock off the yellow brick road) "Um. I think his name's... Jeff." 1st guy.: (lick. lick. lick) "Maybe we should ask him to hang with us. He looks tough-ish." 2nd guy.: (kick an unoffending daisy in the head, and jumps back as it bites him in the ankle) "Well, he does have a great curl, right in the middle of his forehead, but have you noticed he smiles every once in a while? Not a good sign of manliness. Plus, his name's.... Jeff." 1st guy. : (bites the lollipop, reaches into his back pocket for the next one) "Look, my name was Marvin when we first met up. want to make something of it?And yours was Reuben. REUBEN, for the love of chicken! We can make Jeff work into something else. How bout......Chet?" And so, there were 3. At least, that's what i am assuming, because Jeff/Chet was quite moving in that role. Riveting, really. The thing that was the most interesting to me about that movie, Jeff/Chet aside, was the dude behind the curtain in the Emerald City. You know the one? The guy that ends up being the big enchilada. And the famous line is, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain..." Here's what is funny to me about this scene. It is still going on today, in so many roles. There is some dude or dudette behind a curtain, working knobs and levers feverishly, and what we sometimes see is the all important OZ of the corporate face. We say, "Wow. She/He went to Harvard/Oxford/BYU. She must be smart/intelligent/witty/sucessful...." And the followers keep following blindly. As for the dude or dudette running the show, he/she says, "Dang! All these levers and knobs. which one can make me look the best and still gives me the least amount of gas at the end of the day??" And life goes on living until ... SOMETHING... breaks the cycle. It could be flying monkeys, sure. Or...., it could be a curious, yet obnoxious girl on the cusp of independence that just happens to have an even more obnoxious pet, looking behind curtains and spilling dark secrets. In fact, if you live in my life, it could look like SOMEONE happening to, say, trip over a stray hose, and a bit of moldy tile that has fallen off the ceiling at work and ACCIDENTLY sends an offensive email up the chain of command. Possibly. ......And then going on a 3 month leave of absence. you know, I'm just saying hypothetically....Either way, someone, somewhere says, "UM, hang on.....something doesn't seem quite right. Why doesn't anyone else see that????" It seems to be that when people in charge say soothing words, the followers/workers/drones seem drawn to make the people in charge happy. Even when there are charging rhinos around. Don't get what i'm saying? Well, Ok, lets see at what point you might say the words, "WHOA!!!! This just isn't right...." About 6 months ago i was working at a place that had great team atmosphere, challenging work load and...... the work environment from a sitcom. We are talking cramped work places, faxes/copiers that were constantly breaking down, computers that were outdated, and software that was pathetically slow. Now you and I know that this alone is not enough for a sitcom. In fact, that could be any number of real life situations. What pushes it over is this: About every 3 weeks to a month, the old, rusty pipes of this place would break, leak, or bust. Who know's what triggered it? No one in charge seemed to know. It was always a surprise to them. What happened now? i'm shocked, they would say. It could be from the floor above us. It could be at the mens room across the hall. But it was always a flood. Luckily, there was always a plan for this. -ish... And the solution? FANS. Lots of fans. Fans to suck up the water, with hoses directing the flow. Fans to blow air on the waterlogged carpet, walls, and ceilings. Fans to keep us, seemingly, from talking to each other about how ridiculous it was to have to move past the morning yellow CAUTION tape, walk over the large hoses strewn around the halls, and slog past the puddles of shudder-to-know-what-is-in-the-water-this-time darkness throughout the workspace carpet. Oh, yeah. And fans to keep the smell...in?...out? around? As long as we kept our heads down and acted like all was normal, the fans were the only oddity in the office to the outside world of managers and uppers. No matter what, the fans kept the world running in our office. We just knew that if we had to step over or around a puddle or hose, we were supposed to keep working like everything was normal because "NEVER FEAR, HOSES ARE HERE TO CLEAN THIS UP". And you know what? Even though the look on people faces, across the board was disgust mixed with just a HINT of incredubility, we humored the guys behind the curtain!!!! We knew they were running out of options, and the veneer was wearing thin, but instead of pushing or asking questions, we wanted to sooth them. So each time a new leak/flood/waterfall/spark/drip would spring, and we got an email saying, "Nevermind the mold, just keep working", followed by a play by play of how things were not as bad as our eyes were telling us, so never fear and don't worry..... we would hunch our shoulders, look for a SARS mask, and trust that the big wigs knew what was going on and would protect us. Now i don't know how this happened, but i tried on the LEMMING route for about a week. It doesnt' fit me well, just so you know. I kept looking around and wondering, "Is it just me, or is this ridiculous?" I thought, well, i haven't been in the corporate workforce for a few years, so maybe this is normal. Who am i to rock the boat? No one else seems to be whining loudly about the stench, the look, the OSHA red light district here. I can just keep getting a paycheck and hope i don't get sick. are u alerted yet? yeah, me too. And, by the way, i did get sick. It took me 3 days to realize that while the fans were going as some kind of morale for us to know that things were drying out, i was nauseous and afraid of which barrel to barf in, for fear of what would splash back at me. No, i didn't call OSHA, but someone else did. thank goodness. I went to the dr. a few times and again, people were wondering why i was making a big deal out of it. sure things happen, ms. montgomery. Accidents happen. Have they said anything about mold? No? well, then, i'm sure it's ok...... we can just run a few more tests..... And off they went. So lots of co-workers were wanting the paycheck, and a few were grumbling. I simply took it up a notch. Was it rational? Probably not, but neither is wondering when i will get electrocuted as water is dripping out the light switches onto our computers. ew. Yes, i admit it. I did send an email up the chain of command that looked like this: "Lets go here, lets take this as far as we need to. We cannot keep this up. This has got to stop. People are looking to quit and it's becoming ridiculous. This is not healthy, fair or productive. Stop the glad handing and smiling and do something about this now!!!" No, i didn't want it to go to the v.p. and the 2 managers. Necessarily. Or, actually, i didn't want to be the only one to get slapped on the wrist, but hey, i'm a boat rocker. What came of it? Other than the email basically letting us know, "NEVERMIND THE MOLD SPORES, JUST KEEP WORKING!!!!", I yanked the curtain aside a bit and let others see the uppers scrambling for levers and knobs while looking panicky. I don't think they liked it a bit. I did end up on a 3 month leave to get my head straight, and they, with guidance from OSHA, moved buildings, fired a few knob turners, and brought back some dignity to the team. i'd call it a win. So now we have an orderly OZ back in place, but i am firmly in the relm of leaving the curtains alone for a bit. Unless mold comes into the scene again. That's just nasty. I don't care how far i have to follow the yellow brick road when looking for success, I'll know when to get off of it if i have to wade through mold to find it.

In the desolate places of life, sometimes you just run into a promising specimen.

2009-06-05T21:51:00.000-06:00

Death Valley.... 4 Corners.... 3 miles past the Kansas/Colorado border.... The drive around the Great Salt Lake, after exit 91, going west.... I-80, from Rawlins to Rock Springs in Wyoming.... I would lump these places (and all others that have no food/water/or bright shiny objects to look at) into the DESOLATE folder of my travel-a-mony, shove it back into my file cabinet of boring memories, and go out to play. Except for this. In each spot, and for no good reason that i can tell, ( and when i was at my most mind-numbing, bored-out-of-my-guts part of the trip, wanting to turn around and never speak of it again), something amusing happened. I either saw, or experienced something that made it JUST worth it enough to keep going. Nooo, aliens did not abduct me, (although i was begging for it. I mean, honestly, when my option for music was the gospel/mariachi/medical channel, or the all-sound-effects-all-the-time channel, who can blame me, right?) What did happen is some ......SOMETHING........ happened to pull me out of my self pity, let me focus for a bit, and that solved the problem enough for me to move through to my destination. It could have been that concrete Tree of Life sculpture (you know, with the big ol balls hanging off it?), or what i swore was a 2 headed hawk circling over a dead deer in a field. It could have even been that cattle truck wreck caused by the high winds, bad roads, and curve at milepost 176. Good or bad, they were heavensent to me, because they let me move forward with something else on my mind. Interestingly enough, I feel that being put on hold, pressing 2 to speak in my native language, or having to repeat my issue to several people in a row makes me feel just as desolate. When i call a number to get assistance with an issue, I'm assuming that they can assist me, they are qualified to do so, they have already had their morning coffee, and no one has peed in their wheaties. It makes me guffah at my self a bit when i catch myself dumbfounded as i'm being put on hold with the 3rd operator, somewhere around the world, who is very politely and enthusiastically letting me know i don't have a problem at all, that it is all in my head. "Really?" I think. "Am i this crazy/stupid/out of touch?" Is this what the assistance number is for then, for us silly people to be enlightened as to the reality that we don't actually have a problem, that WE ARE the problem? I'm assuming, as some others do, that we have to fight through this muddled question to get to the end result. "ok, i don't care who's the idiot. i just need my ......(fill in the blank with what my need is here)....... to be better!" So i press whichever buttons on my phone connect me to whichever man/woman/child is smarter than me in this arena, and grit my teeth while i go through the song and dance that is the customer service phone call nightmare. No wonder i am feeling desolate. WHO CAN SAVE ME FROM THIS??? And then, SOMETHING happens. SOMEONE takes pity on me. for instance, Jerry in Kansas. he is my savior this week. I needed something, i didn't know how to get that something to work, and he did. Instead of sending me around the world and back just to see if i really REALLY wanted his help, he talked with me. mano y mano. Yeah, i just pulled out the mano y mano bit. Because i felt like a person to him. I felt like he wanted to solve my problem. I KNOW!!!!! ODD, that. It was like that wreck on the side of the road all over again. You know they are out there. You know that you could happen upon it at any time, and yet when you are lucky enough to see it, to experience it, you don't know what to do with it until you are past it and have to appreciate it in hindsight. "What was that?" you wonder, driving by at 80. "Was that a deer? an orangutan?" "And what was the truck it was hooked to?" All these things go by as you make sure you are not the rubber-necker that is holding up traffic, but in your mind, you think up a plausible story to go with the flash of what you saw. How the truck had to have run up the side of the hill to get that animal smacked just right..... How old the deer was.. did it have a family?..... ...... ...... What? you do'nt do that? You might not have gone the desolate places i have then. The same thing with the phenomonen of having a live operator actually know what he is talking about, and be polite, AND do what it takes to solve the problem. "WHO is this genius?" "Why is he talking with me? shouldn't he be in a board meeting or something?" "what kind of donuts does he like, and where could i send a shipment to say thank you?" "Does he have kids or a love life? No how could he, if he is this dedicated to knowing an answer on this line." .... ... .... And it keeps me going through all the hoops and beeps that it takes for me to get back to Jerry, just in case i drop the line. Not only that, it keeps me wondering all the next times that i have to go back into the land of service operators. "How bout now? could i be lucky twice in my life? could i get another Jerry?" No! of course not. those only come around every once in a lifetime. I get pandered back and forth from Noah, who has forgotten to be interested in me as a customer, and Patricia, who is actually picking her teeth while on line with me. I can tell from the sucking sound she makes when i'm talking. the "thwup thwup thwup" sound of air going through her teeth. The wet smacking sound of the finger in the back of her mouth..... ew. She's no Jerry. But , i reason, Jerry served a purpose. Jerry kept me going when i wanted to turn back. Jerry will keep me going when i have to travel back into customer service land as the elusive miracle. Thank you Jerry. you were my Tree of Life in the desolate places of phone land. Please let me know where to send the Krispy Kremes.

Where else can i be pulled to my limits, and still have permagrin???

2009-06-01T19:25:00.004-06:00

I am usually a planner. OK that's total B.S. I am a planner when i need to be. It's what responsible people do. So i make a list before going to Sam's Club. I check out the movie times when i catch a flick with a friend. And i do get dressed in appropriate attire before heading off to work. I have also been known to get up and wear the same clothes as i went to bed in, meandering through stores and museums. Also, I do like getting a wild hair and just going to do something about it. YEAH....., i enjoy that a lot. Now, the good part of this would be being spontaneous, care-free, and thinking on the fly. The bad part is, i'm scrambling for the next solution. Can't really think about the end result, just going from step to step. And i'm fine with that when it comes to, say, an impromptu trip to Black Hawk for girls night out. Crab legs and the fine art of: gambling/boozing/people watching with faint distaste on their sneering face at the money going down the drain. What's not fun about that? Depends on which group of ladies i have roped in. And which mood i'm in. Note to self, never cross the 2 breeds. Unless you get a wild hair. Then, it's just fun to experiment. I like to watch all 3 breeds, actually. Not a drinker. or a harumpher. but i have done a bit of gambling. It's just so dang addicting to win!!!! CHURCH LADIES: Well, you can guess which category some fall into, complete with a *SNIFF* and a *HARUMPH*, completely ignoring the fact that they are in a Casino being part of the unstuffy side of Sears. CO-WORKERS: Oh my. They would be the ones to seek out the sniffers and harumphers just to plunk down some change and put on the most obnoxiously obsessive and downtrodden face to give the churchladies a good show. And let the drinking under the table begin....... Mostly when i go with friends, however, we just do the crab legs thing, and revel that no man we know or love can see the crab juice and butter running down our arms to the elbows, dripping off the table and onto our laps. We always order extra napkins, and then just dont use them. It's part of being able to say, "i'm every woman." We can be delicate, sensible, and responsible. And we can belch with the best of the menfolk. Mostly, Susie, i'm talking about you. Ok, and you, Debbie. I go through the night, regardless of which group of ladies i am with, and think, "what's next? how will this end? Lets get us all home safe and happy. Sometimes i can think an hour ahead, and sometimes i can't think to the end of the .....(round,belch,game,sniff/harumph). We just improvise. So i have, what i thought, was a good balance of adventure and responsibility...... What then, am i doing hanging by a rope across a river with just a helmet and harness letting me feel the illusion of safety? Getting some perma-grin, of course! I would not have gone, i don't think, if i knew what all my first rock climbing adventure would entail. Or if i planned the trip and knew what terminology to use. Someone else planned and i just showed up. Actually, I was lucky i stopped and got the right shoes (thanks patient co-worker with insight to the newbie state of mind). I got the treat of being a newbie and not knowing what i was in for. I showed up, they hooked me into a harness and then used words that i knew i should know, but had no clue as to the meaning. Carabeener. Top Rope. Trust. Stuff like that. "Are you ok using a (insert rope line of life, technical term) to go over the river?" Sure, i'm thinking. What is that, like a rope bridge? i can walk it with the best of them. Uh, No. Silly me. There's no walking in this story!!! Whenever there could be walking as a form of transportation, just know these action words will be filling in for them tonight: hanging, jumping, hiking hard core, and pulling your arms out of their sockets because that is the better thing to do than plunging to your death.... Why would you walk when you could do all that????? I had no idea . I was a newbie, after all. Just lloved being in the open air and nature. ok so back to climbing. We went over this river, right off the bat. Couldn't get to the mountain any other way, silly, so of course we don't wade through. We go over! It looked like this for me. i harnessed up and clipped on to a rope (3 ropes together, thankfully) over the river and pulled myself hand over hand to the other side. Such a piece of cake because i didn't think about what it entailed..... until half way across and i'm hearing the water rushing underneath me, and my arms aren't working anymore. But i just kept going hand over hand, pulling myself along. It was a rush! I put my thinker away and just pulled. I think i had a harder time getting my clip off the rope. Yeah, i'm that co-ordinated. :) Then there was an insane climb for me that i realized i am way out of shape for, but it was great. No rattlesnakes bit my shoes or legs. No bears ate me on the way. I did almost get my eye poked out by a ferocious branch. I emptied my pepper spray at it, and survived. When i looked up, all blotchy faced and puffing for my life, we were on the side of the mountain and watching a bunch of other climbers scaling the cliffs. We took a sheer granite face. What did i know? I just knew that we were going for "easy climbs". I was really scared because , you know, not a lot of handholds, it was looking like to me. "So this is a newbie climb, huh? ok then...." And i just didn't get into the details of it, again, otherwise i might have booked it back down the mountain. But Israel, the hubby of my co-worker, took top rope (is that what i'm trying to say? he scaled it first, did the rope secure things, then came down to let me on...) and just said, "it doesn't look like there are handholds or footholds, but if you get stuck, just stand up and reach, and they will always be there. So i did. I just believed. Put on my rented climbing shoes (which are magic, by the way. i can't believe they can stick so well to the wall!!!!) did the chalk thing, and i was on my way. and it worked. i just found a way. Nothing to focus on but the next step. not the future, not how i was going to get down (i had no clue, really) not focused on the top. Just the next handhold/foothold. mmmm ok, i did have one train of thought as i was on the wall. All the quick but amazingly accurate advice an old aquaintance gave me just kept playing in a loop through my mind. I kept my hips hugged to the rock, 3 points gripping it at all times, and trusting. Thank you, Jeremy. It didn't register that my co-worker was snapping shots of me, but i do have photos. wahoo! When i got about half way up, i slipped with my right foot. i just held on with the other foot and 2 hands till i could find a foothold, and it was there. It did not occur to me that i couldn't find another hand hold. Instead, it was, "where is it? Chalk on my fingers, look, look, look, feel, feel, trust that my muscles are enough and go! I forgot that i had a rope on, i think. Or maybe, i just didn't get the concept that a rope could hold me if i got tired. I just kept climbing and looking for the next crevice. I remembered the rope eventually, though. I distinctly remember a handhold not being as set as i thought, and i felt like i was just going to fall. "well, that was fun, and now the pain will start when i get to the bottom..." or something dramatic like that. Lightbulb goes on as i realized that that big beautiful man that was belay-ing me didn't let me die a painful death. I HAVE A ROPE!!! A lifeline. I get to keep going! Um, i got tired another 10 minutes later, and he just said, "lean back with you legs straight out. i've got you." I think that was the hardest part of the whole day. The trust that i could take my hands off the rock and not fall. Nevertheless, he assisted me in just walking down the rock face. Now this is very possibly an every weekend occurrence for rock climbing junkies, but when i got back on the ground, i woo-hoo'ed like i was actually the first one to scale that smooth face of rock. Like i had actually invented the sport myself. Like i had knitted the ropes and carved the clips myself. I felt like it. I felt empowered and a rush like any giving-birth-and-living-to-tell-about-it story in a women's circle. The thing is, I have taken steps in my life to move me forward. They have been risky, scary, and sometimes stupid. But it's paying off. And that's all nice, except that it hadn't had anything to do with me physically putting myself in danger, owning the wall, and laughing while I was scared spitless. (i was scared spitless. i tried. it just came out as a whistle. And a bit of hootzbah. Pathetic.) Being physically pushed and owning my 100% was something i have missed a lot. And is totally worth being so sore that my toe muscles need a massage. I'm going to the rec center and doing the hot tub soak. (Hope i don't get Foliculitis. Again.) And i will be downloading the pics to the computer because every time i see them i'll get perma-grin again. I'm ready for next weekend.

Happy D-Day!!!! No, no. The other one. Really.. But I will use that flag, thanks....

2009-05-06T19:24:00.008-06:00

I celebrate V-day. I'm going to be celebrating D-day soon also, on behalf of a friend or two. Possibly P-day, for many friends. I've even done several H-par-tayz. I'm not a veteran, and although i have much respect for the ones that gave lives and limbs so i could have the freedom i do, this is not quite that dramatic. But essential, nonetheless. I'm talking about this type of celebration: Vasectomy. Divorce. Pap Smear. Hot Flashes. These are things that can usually cause shudders, tremors, or even one to run the other way. So when i say ..... a party???? odd that. This is what is true. Sometimes the things we don't want are the sweetest gifts of all. Even though they don't come in bows and ribbons. Or with anything sweet tied to it. Period. No sweetness. Usually, what IS wrapped up with it is some of those heart flutters that feel like a whole ice cube went down wrong and got stuck in your gullet. Or, possibly, ,a bit of mucus, caught in the back of our throat that we keep trying to "hhh-hhhmmm. HHH-HHHHMMM" free but never quite gets dislodged. Usually, it is accompanied by the fresh kick-in-the-gut feeling that stays with us for days, weeks, months, or sometimes years. Its known that the things we dont want happening in the first place, are not even convenient. There are not many times that i have seen a parking spot open for (CRISIS HAPPENING ONLY SPOT). I don't see many half off hockey tickets for (SURVIVORS OF ALMOST WENT BANKRUPT...AGAIN) groups, or any buy-1-get-1 free coupons for (HOW DID I GET MYSELF HERE?) clubs. Not to mention the real world that intrudes at the same time with official papers to sign, money to pay to others, aowee's to heal, and fans and/or air conditioners to turn on and off while juggling personal hygiene products in a professional yet non-existant looking manner. Births. Deaths. Holidays. Birthdays. Weddings. We all can run to a store for a card to acknowledge the good and bad, the yin and yang of these events, but what about the rest? Well, they got the short end of the stick, that's what. So i've decided that whenever prudent, i can give myself permission to tack a holiday or celebration to it. It usually consists of lava cake at Chili's, or a nice hike. But the point is, the coming of age stuff doesn't stop with the norm. or the pleasant. My whole outlook on my blossoming into womanhood thing-ee might have been an incredibly different experience, for instance if, say, i didn't think i had...... CANCER. Yeah. I remember it clearly. One day i'm doing my business in the privacy of the privvy, and the next thing i know i am bleeding. "WHAT THE?????" Now you know and i know what was going on, being the grown ups that we are, or the teens even, or the near teens, if you have any sort of reasonable parent. I had, as we have previously discussed, grown up in "The Sound Of Music" movie, and i'm preeetty sure that there was not a scene where Maria takes the budding 11 year old aside and gives her the feminine talk. Not even on an outtake. Not even on a cut scene. Nope. Nada. What i got was a book given to mewhen i was 10, with instructions that went like this, "Honey? (sad, odd little smile) Read this, and let me know if you have any questions (small smile again, only this time with a tinge that said OH-PLEASE-DONT-ASK-ME)" and my bedroom door was shut. I was alone with an odd book that scared me a bit, but confused me more, and no part of it addressed that I would bleed to death at the tender age of 11. ERGO..... I must have cancer! i'm a very rational girl, can't you see? When i plucked up the courage to tell my mom i was going to die, she happened to blurt the news to my aunt as casually as if nothing were wrong. "oh!, Sharon just got her womanhood....." yada yada yada.... and that was it! Um rip off? Oh yeah, yeah, i thought i was going to die, and she was fine with it. Talk about miscomunications! Yeah, i did resolve it eventually (with my therapist, thanks again, Matt), but the point is that some openness and enthusiasm to the victim....er, person, and some perspective about the positives would have done wonders!!!! I have a friend who celebrates the coming of womanhood with a literal party. Orders fancy food in, movies, lots of chatting and divulging of secrets...... The girls are literally let into the club. I find that FANTASTIC!!!!! I was much more interested in being invited to the womanhood party than the cancer party. at 11, i mean. I think cabbage-patch kids and toe-nail painting would have been a great trade-off to the "i'm really not ready for cancer. i haven't even kissed steven mondragon yet" club. Yes, steve. you were my first crush. in kindergarten, remember? Great eyes, great....hmmm...yeah, me neither, really, now that i think about it. But at 11, well, I still had hope. Hmmm..... lets talk about life changing things. The things you don't have the good manners to joke about because that would be in poor taste. Oh yeah, cancer. Well i got my scare later in life. I'm fine now, and it could have been worse. In fact, my dad can attest to that worse part for him. But he will also attest to this: The worst thing that happened to him was the best thing that happened to him. When he got to face the fact that he could die at any time, he learned. HE LEARNED. He opened himself up for lessons and gifts that he just wasn't open to before. What an incredible gift. And he got to share that gift with me. Lots of pain there, don't get me wrong. But also some serious fantastic-ness. So that's what this is all about. silver linings are not just for other people. "WHAT? EVEN....(insert your worst nightmare here)?" you say. "yup", i say. even that. "....and the good news is" is that there is always good news. Even, gulp, in the bad stuff. Give it a shot. Go ahead. I dare you. I dare me. Ok, how bout this? dina, you gave me permission, so here is your P-day story. And i guess, your D-day story, all rolled into one. So Dina's getting a P today (for you men, it means yearly exam. pap schmear/horror for women that we all hate, but endure because we hate the horror of the what- if- we- don't- have- them, even worse) It also falls on her 15th anniversary of the marriage that is getting ready to finalize a D-day (again, that is short for divorce finalizing). Now could this day suck any worse? YES!!!!!!!!! it could , and believe it or not, that is just part of the good news. She could have had a tumor. She could have used the sparkly washcloth to make herself all fresh for the dr..., or she could have even still had leftover foliculitis (or little zit-looking things that come from hot tubs and look like chicken pox, all over the torso and butt area), like me!!!! but no!, instead, She chose to celebrate by going to a favorite restaurant of hers, seeing a fun relative, and of course to top it off, talking with me. We laughed, smiled, and belittled the littleness of the worse half of her 15 years. (i'm biased, and have a bigger mouth than she does, so excuse me while i stick out my tongue. she is much too classy for that. Plus, he's a wiener right now. After the divorce stops hurting, he may not be. we'll see....celebration comes in many forms. ) Alright, i can make this about Dina all i want, really, but how bout this? I still celebrate V-day every year with my hubby. (girls, that's vasectomy day.) Now, it does fall on my hubby's birthday, so we think that's a bonus. Was it scary for him. yup. painful? He says yes, i say, eh... so-so (he was coaching a soccer game the next day, for chicken sake!), but it was a passing of a stage for us. It was about us letting go of little ones and moving forward with the ones we had. gift? oh yeah...... Plus, how bout no pressure that i'll have morning sickness after a night of fun? that is definitely a silver lining. Now some would whine and moan about the what might have beens, and what can't bee's and all that .....stuff. LOOK. The only way to appreciate all of who you are, and be able to give all of who you are to others is by appreciating the good AND the not so good that comes in life. it's a package deal. I have no idea what to do about hot flashes down the road. i have friends that are having them now. will it keep me up at night? nope, because i'm not them. I'm me. If i need a hot flash par-tay to help me through THE CHANGE, then i'll call on those lovely golden girls, and i'm sure as heck here for them now. but there will always be the good with the bad. the cream with the crap. so, i dare you. when you are having the worst luck, the worst thing happen, the most vivid nightmare come to life, just tack at the end of the whining, "and the good news is?" and then LOOK for it. Let me know what comes up. I'll be there to celebrate with you.

Please pass the ointment. And that flashlight......

2009-04-26T22:13:00.006-06:00

We all have a butt crack. This is the blunt truth. Now, if you are reading on (knowing that my mother has, at this point, clicked the "off" button of her internet and switched to MA-JONG. We, in our house, did NOT speak of such things...) and am wondering why i would bring up the obvious, it is this: although we all have one, most people ACT like we don't. Some people don't want any reference to it, and although it serves a very important purpose, some think of it as separate and bad, sick or wrong parts of our bodies. Again, why would i point out the obvious? Because, life is like the butt crack. I received a sweet gift. I got to hot tub with Dina today, and during that short time we reflected on how, like some parts of our bodies that we may not be happy with, some parts of our past or present may seem distasteful, even if they serve a perfectly functional purpose. And we certainly don't want to TALK about something distasteful, for chicken sake. Even though it may be obvious to everyone else except us, we don't want to call attention to it. Story 1. I spent my growing up years fascinated by the knowledge that Thanksgiving Day would come around every year, and at that point a certain relative would come over. This relative was quite brilliant, loved to chat, and was also (to a 5 year old girl) ENORMOUS. The folds and curves of him were fascinating, but the Butt Crack that he toted over to the only chair that would hold him.... well, that was nothing short of miraculous. It went on and on. My brother and i secretly measured it once. It was exactly 3 blocks and a doll tall. (We were that good.) Now here is the thing. Although i knew it was an enormous butt crack to me, it was just part of our relative. It was ONE PART of this relative. With the same importance tied to it as the game he had so brilliantly taught me. The topics he bantered with me about. The laughs he laughed. It just was. But i did notice that he only made sure the chair was pointed in 1 direction, so his butt crack pointed to the wall at all times. Nor would he leave his post. He had some shame associated with his butt crack, or the fact that it was larger by far than his pants and shirt. Now did it stop us from playing or associating with him? Nope. But it did stop him from hanging out in the kitchen with the rest of the adults, and hey, i got to learn Othello because of it. Story 2. A man walks into a bar.... Ok, it wasn't a bar, it was a house. He asks his wife to look at his delicate area because he has some kind of .... fungus on it, and can't get rid of it. Now this is a man who is straight-laced, very successful socially, and cannot stand the fact that there is a flaw on his otherwise carefully cultivated and manicured image. Nevertheless, his body has made it obvious that there is SOMETHING that needs attending to. His wife, icked out as she is at the idea of the fungus, obliges her husband as he bends over, spreading wide, and shines a bright light in the dark recesses of his crack. The point? She wasn't icked, necessarily (NECESSARILY) at the bending and cracking, but at the fungus, which had gotten way past the point it needed to, because of his embarrassment of having anything wrong in the first place, let alone the location of the flaw. Needless to say, he did his own application of the ointment, and generously so. (Interestingly, he did not thank his wife for her dedication in partnership, but warned her of ever sharing this story to anyone. And, she doesn't do threats well, luckily for us :) Story 3. Me: After Dina and I get out of the hot tub, making sure i've secured the hot tub lid in place by balancing it on my back as i teeter over the side, climb down the ladder (did i mention they are still building the deck? um, i'm just that dedicated and excited to get in the bubbling mist of pleasure...) and walk through a bit of mud and grass up another deck and back in the house. It's been a good soak and we have solved all the mysteries of the universe. No, this isn't Dina's house. She was up for the adventure though, and let me tell you what. when i called her 3 days later with some news, she was rethinking the brilliance of my wild side. What news??? OHHHH That i had little itchy, red pimply looking dots all over my torso and BUTT! What i thought was hives brought on by a bout of stress at the thought of going back to a life less than ideal, turned out to be FOLICULITIS...... or hot tub rash, caused by not enough chemicals in the tub, mostly by 1st time owners who are newbies at it. hehehe And yes, yes Dina did get her fair share of them, too. :) On her birthday, no less. It's the gift that keeps on giving... We just got to own these little dots. with ointment, cream, and patience, letting our bodies tell us what it needed (chocolate, a good book, some sleep, and benadryl) it came to completion on it's own. And that is how life is also, i'm finding. Life is like a butt crack, or foliculitis, or any other odd fungal oddity. we don't always like what we find, or what we find that we have. but once we own up to it, and figure out what we can learn from it, we can move on, through, around, and forward. With or without the Othello. I choose just to lean in. I don't always choose the spiritual, mental, emotional, or physical fungus that comes into m;y life, but i can choose to suffer in silence, or get the best ointment out there, whether it is Othello, benadryl, chocolate, or even ....blogging about butt cracks.... it is what it is.

Ode To Bob....

2009-04-22T21:49:00.000-06:00

Computers and cookies, dishes and dinner, That is just really what makes Bob a winner. The romance, the kissing, The phase 2, the wishing. Better than vampires, better than Pride. Strap on, my friend, you are in for a ride. This isn't about me. I know! What a shock, But for friends whose phase 3 is afar, you both rock. On the phone, by the way, I was nosing around, And my dear friend Georgina, her jaw hit the ground. So to you, Georgina, and mostly to Bob, Be careful of schmidtting, and corn on the cob. Although, insists Bob, it won't slow me down, You will need some floss on this side of town.

So about loose ends....

2009-04-21T23:24:00.002-06:00

Nobody likes loose ends. Or any ends at all, really. It's why we have sequels, and prequels, as well as class reunions and Private Investigators, and haircuts. We can't have ends just.....hanging out there, can we? Well, not and be satisfied, at any rate. Take me, for instance. I'm on a current journey about tidying up loose ends. Taking a trip down memory lane to dig deep into old memories and jolt some meaning, some ...AHAA! That's why that happened..... so i can tuck it back into the recesses of my memory. And take comfort in the fact that there are no holes in that particular part of my life. Hmmmm.... I don't know of many people that like holes either. Potholes, black holes, even old comfy quilts that have worn holes in them. They all need to be patched up, fixed up and explained. Again with the tidiness.... Why is this? I think it is because we don't want to do maintenance. We are, as a human race, selectively lazy. Yup, i said it out loud. We will work and work and work very hard...... so we can relax. Let things build up, like laundry, dishes, unresolved pasts.....etc... and then have a desire in one weekend to tidy things up so we can put off the upkeep for a little bit longer. Usually it involves a pep talk (ok you can do this. you want a clean....insert untidy part....., so buck up happy camper!), a bribe (as soon as this is DONE, we can......insert motivation, usually including chocolate or spending money), and a trip to the chinese food restaurant for hot and sour soup. Bad-a-boom, Bad-a-bing. There is a start, and an end. Tidy, right? The question i am now wondering is, at what point is the cost of the tidyness worth the trip it takes to get to that point? How many bad memories need to be relived in order to find out what happened in one particular spot in time? Or, how many people does it take to track down the answer to the burning question you have always wanted to know? At what time does the burning curiosity just not get to be satiated, at the expense of time, money, and/or heartache? I'm going to say it depends on the burning curiosity. I, for one, was willing to track down a music teacher, hound his son, badger half of my hometown, and travel back and forth from state to state, in between snow storms, just to find the answer to these questions, "Where the heck did he go when he retired? How is it that he just disappeared? Is he dead? Does he still look like Indiana Jones?" You know, the regular burning questions that we all have. And i have no idea if it is worth it to anyone but me, and the faithful tuba player that sent his solo to me. Thanks, sir. It has been worth it to me so far, i guess, but i wonder if i will really get to the real question, "Do i matter to this person still?" That's the whole point of going down memory lane, right? The class reunions, the private investigators and the healing of self or others. It's about, "Do i matter?" I'm thinking that i'll find my answers when i'm ready to accept that question. I'm 35, for the love of chicken. It's about time. They say that when people write a story, it often gives more insight into the author than it does into the plot. You caught me. This is, in fact, about me. Again. I'm finding this in-SATIABLE desire to wrap things up. This is the first time, however, that i've wondered if i wrap the things up i need/want to, then what????? Well, hubby would probably say i'd move onto wrapping his things up. or the kids things. Basically get nosy and butt in more. Or, i'd just wander around the house, tweaking things juuuussttt a bit, here and there. just to give myself the satisfaction of still fixing something a bit. Maybe, as i talk to people, heal, clean up, and move forward, maybe it won't be about the tidying up anymore. Maybe it will just be a new beginning, which is much more desirable than an ending. What if the journey ends up being not a clean up of loose ends, but a start of a new journey in a different space, a whole, clean space? Welll-elll-elll! Then it might just be a jumping off point to see if i am about maintenance. I, in point of fact, do matter. To me. And that is what is needed for the filling in of holes, the mending of loose ends, and the moving forward.

The Bank Of The Universe is on line 1. Please hold.....

2009-04-21T00:44:00.001-06:00

The thing with the Bank of the Universe (or as many call it, "one man's trash is another man's treasure") is that it doesn't have overdraft. No need for overdraft protection. There aren't even any fees attached. Just the realization that there is enough. BOOMM! Now, that's a pretty bold statement, i know. But lets just take a look at a few situations in my life. 1. I had acquired, through sad circumstance, a houseful of furniture, clothes, and various nick knacks. Much emotion was attached to it, and i had a hard time letting some of it go, but there was ONE thing that i had no problem giving away. (i ended up giving it all away, i believe, except some candles and a spatula....great spatula.) The thing i could just let go of, no problem, and even laughed about, was an enormous fur coat. It was a size 1, and lets be clear. i'm ....not. It was big, furry, and there is no way to hide the fact that, although luxuriously soft, IT'S A FUR COAT. I just happened to let it be known that i had an extra fur coat (really, i did use the term "extra fur coat") at a Sunday 3 hr long activity, and it just so happened that the person that talked about it with me was a size 1, couldn't seem to find a fur coat her size, and had always wanted a coat JUST LIKE IT. Really. There were tears and hugs. odd, that. Could be coincidence, but lets look further... 2. I was in a room once where we were asked to put on a piece of paper some things that we really needed, but were all out of ideas as to how to acquire. Then also, list all the things we had just lying around. things that were just "extra". no matter how small, how large, how expensive or cheap. alive or dead. didn't matter. just the extra. So after i thought for a minute, i put down the 2 tennis rackets, and the jewelry box in the closet. 7 sets of sheets that we were given for our wedding ( never opened), and the various fat/thin/short/tall clothes that are never quite worn. the shoes that look great but don't match anything. the lazy boy recliner in the garage. the non-running car that just needs some work, out at hubby's dad's place, and the 2 lawn mowers that, again, just need some work. you know, the normal. Again, the phenomenon: After going through the room and seeing the lists of needs and wants, all things extra, from pretty much everyone in the room, were called for, and all things needed were accounted for. down to someone's need for a college tuition, 3 cars, 5 cats, a parrot (alive, not dead), and 12 jobs. And my lazy-boy recliner. there were, of course, extra things that weren't needed, but it was amazing the amount of ABUNDANCE is in the world of us. 3. National Annual put-your-crap-out-on-the-curb-and-the-city-will-make-it--disappear day. Now, about 4 days or a week before this predetermined day, miraculous things happen. Stuff just appears out of nowhere. There isn't a time when i see anyone bring anything to the curb. it just appears. In fact, it looks something like this:

I drive down the street and notice a swing set just sitting on the curb. I turn the corner and see a 4 poster bed, complete with coverlet. Now, this is right next to 3 bundles of sticks and an upside down toilet. 2 houses down, the entire downstairs den has been remodeled because all the sheetrock and lumber is there on the curb, along with the computer desk, the computer, the lights, and a board game of "LIFE". At the next corner, I discover the curb decorated with no less than 3 dryers, a washing machine and 5 mattresses. The light comes on and i say, "ohhh! it's THAT time of year!" This is my cue to rifle through my back yard/garage/closets for the stuff that didn't sell at the garage sale, didn't sell on the "craigs list", or ended up in the rain for a week and a half before putting it under a tarp in the far corner of the yard. This year i was ecstatic to bring out 28 boxes we stashed in the garage, the trampoline frame with 11 missing springs (making the whole thing unworthy of the spot in the backyard), an old furnace, as well as getting rid of 3 computer screens, 2 large desks, and a partridge in a pear tree. Nothing out of the normal for the family spring cleaning, but here's the phenomenon. We had 4 days to go and in that time, my kids and i counted 23 trucks meandering by (none of them marked "City", and most of them with at least 2 kids and an in-law in the back. Oh yeah, and an impossibly high load of scrap metal already perched precariously around bike frames/major appliances, and toys), rifling through and gathering the things i had so carelessly thrown away. Anything made of metal or with cords on it made someone very happy. They knew just what to take, and what to leave. It was something they had planned for, counted on, and had a system of. RINGLEADER AND DRIVER OF 1987 FORD TRUCK, WHITE, WITH A TRAILER TOTED BEHIND IT: "Mother, you take the miscellaneous cords and any bike rims or frames. Sissy, hold baby Joe's hand while you dig through the rubble. We don't want to leave him behind like last time. Uncle Ed, wrap that bungee cord tight! it's got to hold up for 7 more trips. I'll take the scrap metal, major appliances and bed frames.". No kidding, within 5 minutes, anything deemed of worth was gently picked up, acquired, and the rest was placed nicely back. Not one out of 23 left my "junk pile" messy. What does this say to me? I have underutilized my junk, 1st off. Maybe it's made someone else's life a bit easier. don't know. I'll never know who they are. they smiled and thanked me, but that was it. I had extra, they needed what i had, and boom. a transaction was complete. no fees needed. That was the outflow. Now, during this same time of year, but a few years back, my boys (10,8, and 4 at the time) knew of something that i wanted. BADLY. A lovesac. Not a beanbag. A LOVESAC. They are enormous pieces of furniture, indestructible, and great for indoor flips/jumps/throwing pets/sisters/assorted missionaries coming for dinner, into. And quite spendy, at the time. Out of my price range if i wanted to have food, home, and other extras. So when the time came for all the treasures to come out of peoples homes, and very VERY unbeknownst to me, my 3 proud boys come up the street ROLLING AN ENORMOUS LOVESAC.... looking beanbag down the street. Bless their hearts. Neighbors were coming out of their doorways, dogs were barking, and some guy in a bathrobe was clapping like it's a parade. OHHH my boys were proud that they found what my hearts desire was. How did i dare tell them that the flotsom and jetsom from the street was all over it, or they had left a trail of little beanie things streaming from the zipper that didn't work, for the last 3 blocks, or even that it smelled like pickles,gasoline, and wet muskrat? I didn't. i was excited, and when they went to school, it got picked up with the rest of the stuff at the curb. don't ask, don't tell. (They wondered where it was for a minute or 2, but then got interested in grasshoppers, so i dodged a bullet.) At Christmas time, however, we did receive an actual LOVESAC, so all was well. We now have a rule that once something is on the curb, ANYONE'S curb, it stays there. no bringing things home. We can let someone else enjoy the muskrat scents. ew. So it brings me back to The Bank Of The Universe. It's waiting, on line 1. Would you like to take that call, or screen? I am learning i do a bit of both. I do not need a parrot, any more flotsom, or another bedframe. I will, however, be on the lookout for a trip to the beach, a job that doesn't involve flooded basements and OSHA visits, and also a girls night out. So if you are the Bank of the Universe calling, please leave your number at the beep: BEEP!

When high class takes a big crash...it looks like this.

2009-04-11T14:34:00.001-06:00

One of the biggest pulls i have in facebook is that up to now i have not been bombarded with lewd or crass ads. I'm finding that part of that is because of the choices i have made as to whom i bring into my circle of friends, as well as who is able to see my facebook page. I could blithely send farm town requests, or whatever, as well as receive things and think, "um, do i REALLY want to be this froofee?" Sometimes yes, sometimes no, but no harm, no foul. Every once in a while i would go really wild and take a "which tic tac flavor are u" survey. I'm mint, by the way. Wint-O-green. The way i would find these novelty things is by seeing what others had put in their history, as we all well know. For the record, my stripper name is Lacy GlitzDixon, my superhero of choice is The Flash, and my color is RED. Lucky, eh? And i feel preety high falutin. Until this morning.My kids, 12 and 7, got a kick out of surfing the facebook with me for a few minutes when we ran across a little thing we could do. ..... sent a blah blah blah from yada yada yada gifts. We looked at the gift and laughed out loud. I thought, "we should go there and send a gift also. So as we clicked on the application, we picked out a lovely gift to send to 20 friends. The most well thought out friends that are probably reading this now. The gift of choice? of course it was a face to face toilet :) Who wouldn't want a face to face toilet as a gift? Think of the possibilities.... So as we finish our list and click send, the funniest thing happens. And when i say funny, i mean WHAT???? HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?????? Because a very large amount of lewd, crass and inappropriate material pops up right around the "thank you for sending this gift to your friends" note. The look on my kids face was priceless. It was that of confusion as i slammed the lid of the laptop down. "Hey! I was still looking at that!", and the look on my face was "I have just exposed my youngest kids to the porn industry!!!" So sure, you have now gotten the quirky toilet joke gift, but you have now also gotten the link that says, "please note, Sharon is a giver of the nasty. Please enjoy her new found sense of humor". For the record, I did not thoroughly look through the site before sending it. That would be my bad, and would make me the person that you hear about in the statistics that is the NEWBIE. Relatively so, i guess. If you see something that says sharon has sent a face to face toilet to..... 20 people, including my family, friends, and co-workers, please use your filter and your good sense. Or go right ahead and revel in the knowledge that I have brought the nasty into your life. My bad. My apologies. My goodness....

No NO! NOOO! The Sound Of Music WAS my life!!!!!!

2009-04-10T21:02:00.001-06:00

If you have seen the musical, "Sound of Music", you will have some distinct impressions. Uplifting? Possibly. Schmarmy? Oh yeah. Catchy tunes? Dang it! Yes. Now substitute the main character in the movie for my mom, Mary S., and you can say the same things. Well, actually, there were a few distinct differences. For starters, to my knowledge, my mom was not a nun that got kicked out of a convent to find her way into independence in Austria. However, she did have 7 children, 1 stubborn man, and a large amount of home to tame. How did she do it? The same way Julie Andrews character did. By talking, or singing about her favorite things. Noooo?... really. I used to think that Frau Maria stole my mom's song about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. I didn't know why bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens would be so great for my mom, but seeing as how she was up every day at 5, in the kitchen, singing happily, i just assumed she was a little off her nut. Did i mention there were 7 of us????

The general philosophy was the whole kill-us-with-kindness-thing. mmmm maybe not KILL us, per se, but kindness was the only acceptable way of torture. If i was fighting with my brother, did we get to finish it? ohhhh no! WE had to hug! and tell each other SORRY, and we LOVED each other. ( I'm pretty sure there wasn't an MGM movie song that went along with that scenario, but i would have enjoyed seeing it. 2 kids in lederhosen, hugging it up while singing and trying to stab each other in the back.... or something like that. It bears looking into.) You know, that's some seriously creepy stuff to do to kids....

It used to make me very angry that she would NOT change with the fads, the times, the decades, or the crowd. Her home, her standards, her rules, her very space was non-negotiable. GRRRRR! No matter how i argued, yelled, or bombarded her with reasonable requests, she stood firm.For instance, ME: "Mom, I'm just friends with him. We are just going for a walk, then we will hang out at the park." MARY S.:"I understand, i still want to meet him, and have him come here to hang out. in public rooms. with doors open. around other people. But THANK YOU for talking to me first, and would you like a cookie?" See? Completely non-negotiable. hmmmmmm Another one. ME: "Why do i need to be out late? Wee-eelll, because me and Gemmie and Lee-Ann are...blah blah blah, excuse excuse excuse....see through see through see through....sweat beading on my brow... wiping it away...blah blah blah.....very sincere expression....triumphant look as i explain why it makes sense" and MARY S.: "Thank you, Sharon, for explaining such a well thought out plan, however, you will need to be home by curfew, as explained before. Would you like to make doughnuts with me?" SEEE???? No way to sway her, move her at all!!!! And complaining to my friends would do nothing at all, because they would say things like, "um, yeah, your mom is so nice! she always has doughnuts for us. She never yells, what's wrong with you?" I never could figure out what was wrong with me that my friends saw her as so nice, and yet there was something....some way that i knew she was tricking me into doing what i didn't want to do, and yet being so polite! How could i be mad at her politeness???? A stroke of genius, that play.

She sang all the time, too. When waking us up, she would sing smarmy songs. When cooking, getting us ready, breaking up arguments, getting us ready for bed, breaking up arguments, at dinner, going to break up arguments on the way to church/school/or other dreaded tasks.... always singing. I think it was her defense mechanism. We would be hypnotized. "What is she singing?" we would wonder. "Why am i singing it in my head?" "Dang it! Now i'll be singing it all day long!" And we would stop our reasonable argument about why the shirt i had on was first come first serve, no matter who's it belonged to. I could tell this was also Julie Andrew's strategy in the movie. Those kids looked up at her with the strange, puzzled look on their face that i thought at first was adoration but now i see was hypnotized paralysis.

Well, when watching the movie "The Sound Of Music", I never really considered the role the dad played. Honestly. Check him out. He provides the fortress. He is the harrumphing, no nonsense man that will take no horse-play. He is the CAPTAIN, for heavens sake. Just like my dad. Again, with a few exceptions. Um, Christopher Plummer had more hair, for instance. My dad has more of a Jean Luke Picard look going on. Even back in the day, just add a horseshoe of red hair, and you would have my dad. Another difference is that my dad would want to be stern. OH how he would want to be stern. And we would so not take him seriously. There is a dinner scene in the movie that captures this difference so well.

Christopher Plummer demands that his children are there at the table, on time, dressed well, and ready to eat. No nonsense. As did my dad. The difference was that we didn't have 22 takes to get it right, so someone always needed to go to the bathroom right before the prayer, the phone rang right after he started asking how our day was, and 4 kids would dive over the table to get it, or inevitably, SOMEONE KNOCKED OVER A GLASS OF LIQUID. Now, we knew my dad would yell, would have that one vein on the temple of his shiny forehead that would pump harder and harder, and my mom would put a restraining hand on his his hand, saying, "Now honey..." We knew it, and knew that we had gone over the line. It happened at night, at dinnertime and yet it was like we would forget every day until this magic moment. But then, someone would snort. I'm going to say it was Don. He was able to time the unthinkable just right. Sometimes a pea, a bean, or some liquid would shoot out the nose at the same time as the snort and make it even more effective. ( I usually blamed him for things whether he did it or not anyway.) This would get all of us going, and .....the spell was broken. No more mean, stern father figure. Dad would mumble something about "HOOLIGANS", and eat silently for a bit while mom smoothed things back into order. Man i love that guy.

The last thing i will say about my life being like the movie was the pranks, and the kids entertaining each other. Now i do not remember at all rowing a boat in a lake together, or escaping from one country to another with military chasing us, but i do remember performing songs around the piano and at church together. Wow, that was .... something. Mom and dad all proud of the kids getting along for 5 minutes so people would think we looked and smelled nice. We could keep a pitch, my oldest brother could play piano,close enough to pinch us if we didn't sing, and the rest of us didn't know that turning down a sacrament meeting performance was an option. But the playing music and singing stuck and we still love to sing together now. For the record, I do still pinch my brothers in a song at every chance i get. We would also play together. When we weren't fighting, we were play fighting. Logan's run, to be precise. Rubber band guns, forts, and yelling we all ok at my moms house, but we couldn't say "Shut up". So we learned really quickly that we could prank each other, we just had to do it POLITELY :) If there was no evidence, and we looked innocent, we obviously were. Again, something that was picked up from the movie. When Maria is walking up the stairs and feels a frog in her pocket from the little angels smiling up at her, i recognize the same look on those kids faces as the ones on my older sisters faces when they lock the boys in the rooms and run downstairs, knowing that when the boys go out the window, down the roof and in through the front door, they can just blame us younger kids. No harm no foul.... We all break into a big song, the lights go down, and the neighbors clap as they call my parents, again, to let them know they are a leetle bit worried that things may be out of hand while the grown ups are away at the Stake Center....

When I crept downstairs, it was already IN the soup....

2009-04-09T20:07:00.002-06:00

When i think of birds i think of either inside birds or outside birds. Inside birds would be thanksgiving turkeys, chicken tenders, etc... things i eat. things already dead, to be clear. AND birds that have already been processed, to be precise. Then, there are the outside birds. The nice Look-honey-the-geese-are-flying-south type that fly overhead, or the ones that dodge the grill of HOSS the suburban by 3 inches on the freeway. Whether in a zoo, at a park, at the beach, or in my trees of my front yard they all come to this for me: They do not belong in my house because they are OUTSIDE birds. A. They have not been decontaminated, de-pooped, or de-scented. B. They most likely have cooties. C. They have wings and feathers that make that flp flp flp noise that is ....creepy. D. ...... I have more, you get the picture. Basically, they are rodents to me, or food. Depending on the packaging. Now, why am i obsessing about this? Whe-eee-eeeelll i'll just let you know i have a cat who is a freak and LOVES to bring the outdoors inside. Birds, to be precise. This afternoon was the most recent, and was the least traumatic, but you should know this 1 thing about me. IT STILL FREAKS ME OUT!!!! Now, i'm not talking about ew, icky. I'm not even talking about whack it with a stick to get it out of the house freaked out. I'm saying that i can deal with my 4 kids diapers and barf, growing up. It's not pleasant, but i deal. I dealt with the birth, didn't i???? I deal with a lot of unpleasant things. But the bird in the living room thing. it looks something like this: 1. flp flp flp.... bang bang, and sometimes a ka-blam. 2. i open the door of my bedroom, creep downstairs with a ....bag, shoe, star wars light saber, or hair dryer hooked to an extension cord, in an effort to fluff it to death. whatever is handy and makes sense at the time. 3. i see feathers, the bird flapping, or will see the cat with that really proud look on its face that says, "oh you gotta see this one! it's flappin around like it's going to make it outta here!" 4. i scream uncontrollably, dropping whatever i had in my hands, and run upstairs to wake micah up. why yes, it usually is in the middle of the night. All i can think of to say is, "blah blah! get it get it.....bird bird bird....i did the barf of all the kids, you get the bird......ew ew ew ew ew!!!!!!" again, making total complete sense at the time. 5. I then jump on my bed, under the covers, and push micah off the bed. He works his magic, the bird is gone, and life goes on. Was I always like this? Nope. The first time i couldn’t figure out what that noise was. We have a doggie door that the cat uses. And thankfully so, because i refuse to be any pet's servant. So hearing the flap open and shut is a normal part of life. This particular night, though, i went downstairs to see if my top ramen had finished boiling. Side note: I only like Picante Beef flavor, which i feel is a very grown up flavor. Not kid like at ALL.... Anyway, I walk down my stairs and notice that there are feathers around the floor. Odd, that. So i get a broom to sweep them up. Sweep. Sweep. Then i notice they are in the living room too......hmmmm follow the trail, wondering what's going on? nothing in there. nothing in the kitchen. I look downstairs where there are feathers in the computer room. At this time i hear noises coming from the kitchen and notice that the cat is on the half wall! This is a huge breach of etiquette at my house and i get ready to swipe her down when i see her go to the top of the fridge! Again, how dare she!!!! grrrr. DANG cat.... And that's when i notice her looking down at the stove. At my top ramen. Now a part of me wonders, "Why is she stalking my Top Ramen? She doesn't even like Top Ramen, does she?......" And it takes me a good 2 seconds to walk up the stairs and realize that boiling along with my top ramen is her flapping prey. Yeah, i did get to smell it, see it, and yark a little in my mouth. The rest was a blur of the squealing/screaming and running for the husband. We have an understanding. I will now happily feed the dog/cat, deal with teenage drama, do errands/appointments for kids. His clear role is to rescue me from rodents who drop out of the sky into my Top Ramen. I think it's fair.

Alright..... Lets go here. Lets just get this out in the open

2009-04-08T13:36:00.002-06:00

Alright..... Lets go here. Lets just get this out in the open.

Dishwasher machines. They are supposed to make my life easier, right? It's why i have one. It's why we all have one, otherwise, we would stick with the whole Rinse-your-dishes-down-at-the-creek fad that was so popular a while back. Why then did i spend the last hour doing the jigsaw puzzle that was the dishwasher dance??????

First, the rule of rinse and stack. Its a good idea, just for sanitary reasons. No critters need to eat leftovers. No smells from days gone by need to waft into my living room in the middle of my piano practice at 10:30 pm. It's a good thing, but does it happen near enough? NO! And why is that? Because, of course, it's redundant! We all know the dishes are going to need to be washed. The reality is that no one wants to put the clean ones away, so the clean ones get used, and the dirty ones stay on the sink until a grown up harumphs enough to bring a minion about to right the situation, or actually does it themselves.

Now, if there happens to be any kind of crisis, lazy bout, or bit of spring time weather, those dishes will multiply and replenish the sink. Quickly. Thus the dilemma this morning.

1. Open the dishwasher door and see 7 clean dishes left. Put them away.

2. Start to fit the pans into the dishwasher bottom rack, seeing that I don't want to hand wash them. After all, that is what DISHWASHERS are for, right?

3. fill the top rack with glasses, those big utensils that never fit anywhere else, and assorted measuring cups that the boys have used for cereal bowls, launching pads, and torture devices of the pets and/or sister.

4. turn the spinn-ee thing-ee under the top rack to make sure the water will distribute correctly, only to find out that it is stopping at the large pan that i have shoved in on the bottom rack.

5. pull out bottom rack, scratch my head for a sec, and move things around. "This should do it", i say at least 7 times before i actually get it right, wasting roughly 26.8 minutes.

6. slowly straighten my back only to find that it has become stiff. As stiff as if i had stood at a sink, washing dishes for, oh say, 30 minutes.

7. notice that i have started the dishwasher without soap in it.

8. stop the dishwasher, put in the soap and notice that once again, the water is not disbursing because that dang pan has become dislodged when i shut the door!

9. Repeat step 5 for another 12 minutes, including unloading the entire bottom rack and reloading because now, it's PERSONAL.

10. slamming the door, starting the dishwasher, and looking for a stiff drink.

It's a good thing i don't drink. I do not, for the record, think that dishwashers are saving anyone time. the wash cycle is 80 minutes, do you realize that? Sure, it will sanitize my whisk, and get the grunge off my one thing-ee that i use to scoop ice cream and cookie dough, but really i'm ready to take my stuff to the creek. well, at least have my minions do it for me.