What Are You Talking About?

Ahhhhh, this is really nice. It's 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and I have the time to write. Of course, I have nothing to write about. All the time I'm running around like a chicken-with-its-head-off, blog ideas are fighting for mind space. I compose whole books, complete with chapter headings, while I'm frantically multi-tasking. I never write anything down because I am sans head. I'm considering one of those small, compact, itty-bitty personal recording devices so I'll never, ever, not-in-a-million-billion years forget anything again, that have been advertised all during the holiday season, but Christmas is over and I haven't seen the commercial in hours! I think my phone has a message feature (personal, not the voice mail, I'm not daft). It's actually the ONLY feature on my cell phone - my cell phone sucks - but I forget how to use it, and when I need it, I'm never near the manual to look up the instructions.

Nope, not a darn thing. The grandsons won't be over today, the wash is in the spin cycle, I've cleaned the pellet stove, run the vacuum, worked-out at the gym, and answered email....tap, tap, tap. I have a book, the paper, and a couple of magazines to read, so that's compelling. I could compose a couple of more email messages, and clean the TV screen. Hummmmm...

I'm trying to decide if I want to take my laptop with me to jury duty next week. I have books reserved at the library that I hope, hope, hope will be available. But, if I have my laptop I can write. "They" (the person(s) who write the instructions for jury duty) caution you about bringing a laptop or cell phone. They (the laptop/cellphone) cannot be taken into the court room and must remain in the jury room, and no one is responsible. Of course, it IS a courthouse, with guards and authority, but also a lot of criminals awaiting trials...so what to do, what to do?

Tall One sent me, via email, a very interesting (in a good way) scenario involving morality and proselytizing that I could respond to... if I felt like turning my mind inside out. Maybe I should just bury my head in the sand. That often works, until the gestapo arrives for the children.

I could turn on the TV. But, I think the only things on are "Oprah" and/or "Dr. Phil" and I am so not going there. I have some shows on the DVR, but that seems shameful in the afternoon. Except for Saturdays. Anything goes on a Saturday.

Yes! The washing machine just called me with its pleasant, but persistent chirping. I will go transfer wet clothing to the dryer and begin another wash load. Hang in here with me. Maybe inspiration will strike!

Uhmmmmm....ok, nothing. Daughter called, and while I was on the phone with her, I lit a candle - coconuts & lime - and thought of something I needed to do. It was on the important side. But, I got side-tracked with the candle and talking and now I can't for the life of me-or-those-I-hold-most-dear remember what it was I should take care of!

I just noticed the light is on in the bathroom upstairs. In order to be as "green" as possible I need to go and turn it off immediately. I feel much better now. Al Gore would be so proud in his gas hogging, electric sucking, multi-million dollar mansion. But, I'm not bitter, just relieved, that he's so knowledgeable. What was his graduate degree in again? Oh, that's right, he doesn't have one! In fact, in researching this blog entry, I can't find what Al Gore's undergraduate degree from Harvard was in. Anybody know? Not that it matters, really, I don't have any credentials. Just a huge ego, and too much time on my hands. But, then again, I didn't make a movie about my passion for moderate exercise combined with common-sense healthy eating. Even though I know a lot, can try and contact experts who would appear if I threw money at them, and can bull-shit pretty well if I have enough time to think and spell check.

Man! There goes that washing machine again. I'll be right back....

I got a little hungry so I made a snack of two Wheetabix biscuits, a banana and some 1% milk. I'm living my convictions. Not to mention how repulsed I will be if I gain one more ounce this holiday season, and there are still Christmas cookies laying around. Well, they aren't laying, actually, there are some arranged decoratively on a plate, and more in the freezer - not so decorative, but...fresher.

What are Wheetabix biscuits, you may wonder? Well, I first had them in Ireland. In the bed-and-breakfasts Tall One and I stayed in, we had a choice; a full Irish breakfast consisting of breakfast meat, breakfast meat, and a side of breakfast meat, or a small ala cart assortment of Wheetabix and milk, and in one B&B, a banana! I chose ala cart, breakfast meat troubles me. Wheetabix is England's (God-save-the-Queen) answer to shredded wheat, thus Ireland has it too. It's much better than shredded wheat, and I really enjoyed it, plus, it kept me regular. Why are you eating it now in the US of A, when you were in Ireland five years ago? Well, I'll tell you. We found a store in the city that sells British imports, "pip-pip", "I say", "jolly good"!

I'm finished. Time to check in on face-book. Priorities.

Joy in My World

Well, well, well, or should I say, "ho, ho, ho" - in keeping with the holiday spirit. Christmas season, 2008 is in full swing and I'm in pretty good shape. Ok, I have the beginnings of a head cold, the major gift purchases are still vague ideas, and Nana's holiday party is tomorrow, but the cookies are baked, the food ready for tomorrow, and the few presents I need a.s.a.p. are wrapped and ready. The decorations have been up forever, since before Thanksgiving, and the photo cards have arrived, suitable for addressing, and I picked up the stamps today. The gift to California was sent when I got the stamps. I'm heading out to Ohio, on Wednesday. Celebrating with Tall One's side of the family the following Sunday. And, we wind up the festivities on Christmas Eve...end of post a la 12/12...it's now 12/20/2008!

I did indeed, survive Nana's holiday party. It's pretty much the same every year. It's pretty much the same every party. Which is ok. I know what to expect. Five times a year, Nana and I get together with the-sisters-from-Redding. Four birthdays and a Christmas. We vary the menu; pizza, subs from a shop, or home-made party tray. The key is more food than four people could eat in a lifetime. We exchange gifts. Sometimes they're worthy, sometimes they go directly into the Goodwill Box. But, it's always good to see the sisters. They are really, very, very nice...and they love Nana. Which is helpful.

I flew out to PhD's home on Wednesday. It was eventful in a bland, blase sort of way. We had a "bit of weather". Some minute amount of snow, and the first leg of my flight was delayed. As I waited in line to find out if I'd make my connection, The lady in front of me was barely surviving her altered itinerary. Thirty minutes later, it was my turn. Turned out, I'd make my second leg. "We should have an easy button", chirped the ticket agent...and he went on to tell me EVERYTHING about his kitties...as in kitty cats...as in substitute children. They are trained to come to a bell. He calls him before he leaves the house, because one of them has a tendency to "sneak out". He is an adoring, attentive master/daddy. So, I proceeded on my way.
PhD and I had a really, really, really nice visit. His new apartment is lovely. His life is happy. We did eat in an authentic Greek restaurant, that I would frequent if I lived in that city. The pitas were exactly like the ones Tall One and I salivated over in Greece.
We watched an episode of "Intervention". My life will never be the same....
The six hour drive east was thoroughly enjoyable. For me. I hope for PhD. We talked about everything and nothing. It's strangely gratifying to realize your child has grown to successful adulthood. Big sigh of releif...again....I've known for sometime that he's capable.

And tomorrow is the Tall One-side-of the-family traditional Christmas family get-together. For awhile, a couple of years, we'd assemble over a dozen pizzas. We (the children and spouses) LOVED this! MomMom did not. Three years ago, she decided to host the Christmas gathering...in her condo...and provide and prepare the entire meal. It almost killed her, it did destroy the condo. So...we're off the pizza, back to the sit-down meal of ham or turkey and all the trimmings. This year, I got a little jiggy with the menu. We're having ham loaf...complete with trimmings. I think it'll be ok.

The Christmas cards are in the mail...I swear. I might have to bake MORE cookies, but only because I want too. I've been eating them hand over fist...or head over heels, enough to worry the scale at the gym. There will probably be a separate post about the-my-side-of-the-family traditional Christmas family get-together. And, you won't want to miss THAT!

Tonight we ate Chinese. I can't tell you how tickled I was to find a box of free sushi with the order! Complete with wasabi sauce. I love wasabi. Really, I would marry it.

JOY to the world...

Thankfully Surviving Thanksgiving.

Here I am, the last day of November, 2008. I remember reading the book, "1984" and thinking, "we still have time".

I survived Thanksgiving with nary a scratch. Two days before I was ready to flee. By the day before, I was contemplating the advantages of suffering a debilitating accident. The day of, I resigned myself to endure and was desperately seeking for positive imagery to focus on. As the guests started to arrive, I practiced deep breathing, but after a 5 minute conversation with my much appreciated sister-in-law, Married-into-the-family, or Mitf for short, I knew I would make it. And, I did.

Nana was even more charming and pleasant than last year, MomMom completely coherent. My brother's wife, Hypochondria, couldn't make it so that insured a pleasant time for him and his adult daughter, and therefore, the rest of us. The nieces and nephews are getting older, so there's not the constant need for attention. And, my grandsons were, as always, perfect little angels.

The meal is traditionally scheduled for 1pm. A couple of guests arrived a wee bit late, but that worked to my advantage. The potatoes refused to get done! They were doing a little, "nah, nah, nah" dance in the humongous aluminum cooking pot, that I only use for the mass feedings at holidays, and perhaps someday, for funerals. I had thought that I had added enough liquid, but as the late arrivals came in through the door, they greeted us with, "What's burning?", "Is something burning?" , so I should have had a clue.

PhD and Master's came later. Master's has a complicated family situation that requires much traveling around burdened by massive quantities of angst. Master's handles it so well. Maybe she's used to it, maybe she's just a tough little bird. She looks wonderful. She has legs that won't quit and an ample bosom. She's lost a little weight (not that she ever needed to) in anticipation of an upcoming cruise with her mother. PhD looks good, too. They seem happy and content. A mother can't ask for more. They did, however, forget my Internet liquor order that I had to have delivered to their home due to the inane liquor laws in our state. Lucky for them I possess a degree of maternal instinct, and lots of leftovers...I feel no need to kill and eat my young.

And, in just over two weeks, I'm flying out to see PhD during the aforementioned cruise. We'll drive back east to pick up Master's and then PhD and Master's will drive back home. I haven't seen their new apartment, PhD and I will probably try one of the Greek restaurants in the area the night I'm there. And...I....will NOT forget the Amber!

This Is How We Celebrate

"I'm a good daughter, don't listen to that inner voice. I am a good daughter." Oh, yeah, I talk to myself...constantly.

Yesterday I looked into the abyss that is "old age". It's taken me until now, the medication has taken effect, to summon the courage to relate my experience.

At 7:30am, I left my home and began preparations for accompanying 78 year old, Nana, to the American Music Theatre's Christmas Extravaganza. Nana had paid for the tickets months ago with her credit card, which I used when calling for the reservations. Apparently, I use the telephone, very, very well. I got seats in the "special" aisle row in the balcony. We need the aisle row because there are no steps to negotiate, and Nana uses a walker. The American Music Theatre is set up for the geriatric and the infirm (not one in the same, but not mutually exclusive either). At any given performance, looking over the crowd from above, it looks like a sea of cotton balls, punctuated by the occasional gleam of a bald pate, or the unnatural orange of a die job gone bad.

The show began at 10:30am. "Why", you ask, "did you need to leave three hours ahead when Nana lives four miles away and the theatre is a mere 30 minutes from Nana's home? Were you walking?" No. First, I did Nana's weekly grocery shopping, which consists of 14 cans of cat food, various frozen dinners, and a quart of milk. She does indeed own a cat, have no fear. The shopping is always done on Wednesday, and even though we were going "away", that wasn't cause to make an exception. Most weeks, Nana comes along and takes me to breakfast. She always pays...because I "do so much".

The shopping took about 30 minutes. I then proceeded to Nana's, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Another 20 minutes, max. Nana swapped walkers. She has her indoor walker, which is identical to the outdoor walker that she keeps at my home and I cart back and forth on the days we go out. She doesn't like to use her indoor walker, outdoors. It will get dirty and ruined. She is convinced that her walker's wheels were destroyed going into and out of her granddaughters home...about twice a year. There is an exceedingly rough patch to negotiate over the gravel parking area. She also ruins her wheels navigating the "damaged" sidewalk leading to her condo.

It takes a few minutes to go down the steps. She still, very bravely, has to do steps when we go out. Her condo is on one floor, but there is a private entrance and that involves steps. We get to the car and load up Nana and her walker, and we're off. We must have spent more time that we anticipated "getting organized" because we arrive at the theatre at 9:15am. This allows us to choose a prime handicapped parking space. But, not first choice, as there are a whole lot of people that got there ahead of us. We sit in the car talking (I speak to this woman at least two times a day, everyday, there's not a lot of news), mostly about celebrities, because the theatre doesn't open till 9:30. And even if you go in then, you can't go to your seat until about 20 min. before the show. It's reserved seating, but you'd be surprised how important it is to be first in line.

At 10:00 we make our way inside, take the elevator to the balcony and find our seats, after admiring the beautiful Christmas decorations. It's the beginning of November. I'm practicing my deep yoga breathing. I need to park, "Jenny", Nana's walker out in the lobby, and before I can get back to my seat I'm blocked by massive groups of slowly moving, bitching, old people. It's too hot, too cold, too far, too dark. They can't see the seat numbers on the tickets. They're huffing, and groaning. Thankfully, no one is collapsing, and I know it's taking me too long to get back to my seat and Nana. But, I'm stopped, I have to wait in line, even though I've been to my seat and my tickets have been confirmed. You don't ever, even give the appearance, of cutting in front of a group of seniors. They are daunting.

I finally see my opening and excuse my way past the hoards. Nana greets me with, "That took you a long time, did you stop at the bathroom?" My frequency of use is of great fascination. I either go too often or not often enough, and always at inappropriate times, apparently. I'm serious. Nana reminds me to use the facilities before we leave the house. I am 52. I will "hold it" till my bladder explodes.

Even the ushers at the theatre are elderly. But very nice, for the most part, and equipped with flashlights and reading glasses. There's nothing they, personally, can do about the temperature or the wheezing. But, they placate with programs and coming attraction information. Finally, the lights dim, fashionably late, and the show begins. The only thing that can save me now, is that I actually like Christmas music. I do. My eyes tear up over "The Little Drummer Boy", even Whiteheart's rendition.

So, in spite of the tacky decorations, the obligatory soprano, the bad hair piece on one of the featured male singers, and the strong resemblance to a Lawrence Welk show, there are things I enjoy. I liked the fiddler. I appreciated the costumes, although not of my taste, or anyone's taste unless they are older than 65 and attending a formal wedding. The piano player was real good. But, the nymphet dancers where not to my liking, and when they donned animal costumes, I started repeating the "om mm" to supplement the deep breathing. I cringed when the ventriloquist appeared, but he turned out to be OK. The long, boring, embarrassing skit where two grown people portrayed obnoxious children, a la Lilly Tomlin, and the Elvis impersonator sent me into hyperventilation. If I would have had one, I would have been breathing into a paper bag. The "om mm" was now a silent scream.

But, I've lived to tell the tale. Almost. After the show, Nana insisted on a "good dinner" at the local Old Folks Restaurant. The prices are to die for, the food is from cans. She always insists that I get a "good meal". This is translated: "Order what I tell you too...or die...!" Oh, yes, I can be intimidated. By a geriatric nazi. She is a dictator...and I am her cowed, brainwashed, sniveling, daughter. I get the damned flounder. But, some how manage to convey to the waitress, without Nana's knowledge, that I want the "smaller portion". Thank god. It's all I can do to choke that down!

Dinner over...we head for home. Nana seems content. That makes me content. Maybe this will be the last year, and a happy memory...or I'll do it again...'cause I'm a wuss.

Autumn Muse

Fall is a lovely time of year. The leaves are really coming down, which provides hours of amusement for the grandsons... and Tall One. Tall One is at Home Depot, or it's first cousin, Lowe's, with Surfer Dude. There is no place on earth they'd rather be. Unless, it's Disney World, and Disney World doesn't sell lumber.

Tall One's project du jour is the compost heap. He is building an enclosure to keep the weeds, grass clippings and other organic debris at bay. It's situated behind the small shed he built a few years ago. The shed was supposed to house the lawn tractor and it's accessories, but the lawn tractor's accessories are now too high-fallutin', hoity-toity to stay in the shed. They are living in the garage. This is only acceptable because we have a two bay garage, and my car still fits on the other side. I have grown accustomed to parking in a garage.

Last year, or was it the year before?, Tall One invested in a leaf collecting device that he hooks to the riding mowing. It looks as if he's pulling a small, noisy shed around the yard. In actuality, it's an unnatural combination of a shop vac, mulching mower, and temporary storage system. Tall One appears to drive this contraption, willy-nilly, helter skelter all around the grounds and then empties the contents out by the side of the road where they wait (get blown into the neighbors yard) for the borough leaf collectors to take them to their final resting place (land fill). I am way too unskilled (a woman) to operate this state-of-the-art monstrosity. Suits me. It's just silly.

And, I should probably say a word or two about the pellet stove. I'm still a bit skeptical. It hasn't really been so cold as to give the thing a real challenge. And, surprise, gas/oil prices have not continued to escalate...in fact they haven't even bottomed out from the nose dive, so I can't make a judgement on the fiscal feasibility. I'm not convinced that "saving money" was the real impetus anyway. I think Tall One saw it as a cool toy - hearkening back to the primal desire to provide shelter for his shivering family - and he's a bit of a temperature wimp. Remember, he's the one who lost the pissing contest on "who's-gonna-turn-the-central-air-on" - not that I'M keeping score. Nah, nah, nah, nah,nah!

There may be a pellet shortage. The local hardware store is "rationing". But, the 42,876 pounds of pellets we've stock piled DO fit on the leaf collector's side of the garage, so there is THAT. Let's hope the floor holds. I was concerned about the smell. Yes, we love the smell of wood burning in the winter, but when burned constantly, for heat, not aesthetics, everything begins to reek of baloney. So far, there's no discernible odor except at start up, power down or if standing directly down wind of the ventilation pipe outside on the deck. And, I've cleaned the stove twice by myself, and once with Tall One (never again) and it's this-side-of-inconvenient. It's only about a quarter as filthy as the wood/then coal stove of our early years. As long as the ashes don't do lasting damage to my very cool, very pricey (ye gads), lavender vacuum cleaner that I had to purchase because our whole-house vacuum system is terminal. There's a short...somewhere...so the damn thing never turns itself off. You have to go all the way downstairs, through the shop, and flip the switch. And, heaven forbid we actually find someone to service the thing. It probably would have cost less than the replacement Dyson. But, I'm sure the extra expense will be absorbed by the pellet stove, after it pays for itself, by working part time at McDonald's. This is all acceptable - if not prudent.

There is one thing I really like about the little pellet burner. In the morning, it casts a truly cozy glow.

A Better Man, and Sensible Shoes

I have a cold. I didn't feel too badly until I woke from my two hour nap on the sofa, and now I feel stuffy, yucky, and just generally mean. But, all's not lost. I have my new lap top, which I love, seriously love. I'm sitting in MY chair, covered in a fleecy throw, drinking MY ginger ale and orange juice and typing on My laptop. It's not at all cold outside, but it's almost dark (at 4:30pm, don't get me started on daylight savings time changes) and I'm quite cozy, miserable cold aside.

I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the Pearl Jam song "Better Man". You know the lyrics, "...blah,blah,blah... Can't find a better man... blah,blah,blah...". Well I can't for the life of me figure out if they mean that this girl is so pathetic and void of self worth that she can't find anyone better than the lout she's stuck with, or, this guy is so good there is no one better, really, and the chick's a selfish bitch with issues not limited to an overwhelming desire to destroy all the good life's given her, probably because of her pathetic lack of self worth. And 'round and 'round we go. Once again, I probably oversimplify. I'm sure that Pearl Jam is stating something profound and soul changing if only I weren't so thick.

Also, I'm reading a very interesting book. I don't normally read non-fiction. I need to escape, chronically. But I heard about "The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes and Why" while reading the gardening column in our borough newspaper. I know, it's confusing, but those are the facts. Anyway, there is a physiology and psychology to survival that can be tapped and exploited in horrendous situations, and this book explores all the possibilities. In the midst of all the horror, I read something today that I find riotous - and I quote - "On 9/11, women were almost twice as likely to get injured while evacuating, according to the blah, blah, blah. Was it a question of strength? Confidence? Fear? No, says lead investigator Whatshername. 'It was due to shoes.'" That is hilarious. Can we be so vain as to wear foot gear that will actually cause injury? Of course, this is not news! Bunions, hammer toes, sprained ankles, broken ankles, bad knees, torn tendons...women are why podiatrists are born.

We are idiots, we deserve to be injured in catastrophes! We MUST be protected from ourselves....and terrorists. Our new Glorious Leader (can't find a better man) will guide us to a better reality. We'll sacrifice all our money and earthly possessions, including our uncomfortable, dangerous shoes. We'll start dressing for comfort and function, 'cause style's become passe (according to the example of our Glorious Leader's Glorious Wife). Let's go with something we can work in, something that will stop calling attention to our weak, subservient sexuality, something that will "make" us all equal, and hopefully, apathetic. Perhaps, a loose fitting pajama in a neutral color, a la "The Peoples Liberation Army". Or, a long, loose flowing robe like garment...I think they're called "burkas". At the very least, that's stick with sensible shoes, something we can survive in...'cause, apparently the Apocalypse is coming. Joe the VP said so. Within six months.

This is not a cold induced rant...this is a public service message...I'm being extremely insightful in a clever, entertaining way...heed the warning...

And get rid of the heels....(oh, that's good, too!).

The Story of the Red Stove

And, because friendship can never be overrated, and because I DO need to reminisce about happy things, I'll tell the story of the red stove.

A saw the perfect wood burning stove at the store - I forget which store or where the store's located, please feel free to use your imagination. It's red. True red, not fire engine red, not maroon, just perfect red, with enamel-like finish in a classic configuration, with a glass front. Pretty much the epitome of a grand New Hampshire heating device. Even in the store's display setting, among lesser specimens and species, this was a standout. A could envision the red stove installed catty-corner in the house, snuggled next to the big screen, warming winter nights (and days - it's always cold in NH).

The price was apparently right, or right enough to bust the budget, so A inquired of the shop keeper. The stove was sold, to Mark and Steve, two years before. Of course, on further cross examination, A determined that Mark and Steve hadn't paid for the stove, they were checking on building codes, or viability or if the stove would clash with the Moroccan art or whatever, but for two years the stove sat gathering dust and even an interested party with cash in hand couldn't budge the store owner's loyalties and/or word of honor. Could Mark and Steve be contacted? No? Could their last names be given so as to track them down? Either that was a breach of confidentiality or the surnames were unknown. Poor A, you think, throw up your hands and continue the search for the second most perfect stove in New Hampshire.

You, apparently, have never met A.

She called once or maybe it was twice in the coming weeks, checking on the stove, or Mark and Steve's whereabouts, but, everyone was still waiting (it seems everyone in New Hampshire is very patient, except A, but she's not a native). So one Saturday, A gets a truck, a strong friend, and goes to the store. "Hi, I'm here to pick up a stove for Mark and Steve."

And let me say, we really enjoyed that stove...and the story.

Missing A...and B too.

The music swells. A wonderful weekend in lovely New Hampshire, at the peak of fall color...

Yes, this could be the beginning of a romantic fifties movie, but it was a whole lot more fun. And we didn't have to don formal-wear or drink martinis (yuck).

Fade to flashback....

We met A for the first time in Greece. No really.

We sat with A and G at one of the round tables in the hotel meeting room, where our group had gathered to be oriented and plied with ouzo before beginning our tour in Athens. They seemed nice. But, after consuming great quantities of ouzo, Tall One thinks inanimate objects have personalities. The next day, in the hotel lobby, before heading out on the tour bus I talked briefly with A. She had lived for a time in Greece and was familiar with Athens. She used the word "xenophobic" in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was in love.

That night (our second in Greece), we stayed in the quaint village of Delphi. All two streets of it. Tiny little town. We had a romantic room in one of the small hotels, really small. Our window opened up to the view overlooking the mountain side. The floors were marble (actually all the floors in Greece are marble, there is lots of marble, not so much wood), the plumbing ran cold, and A and G had the room across the hall. Ron and I strolled the streets (there were two) and decided on dinner in one of the small (little, tiny, couple of dozen seats) restaurants. It was wonderful. Tiny white lights, candles on the table, amazing food, way too much wine....

After dinner, we stopped at a cafe for some dessert and noticed A at one of the tables (G was asleep at the hotel). We invited ourselves to join her, and after a few more bottles of wine (SMALL, single serving bottles), we closed that cafe and moved to a bar. Well, the bar had Scotch, and apparently a fairly decent selection, as it turns out. A is a Scotch expert. So, we are now conducting a Scotch tasting while solving the problems of the world. There were still a few people at the bar (looking back, probably the help waiting for us to leave so they could close). But, we truly had no concept of, or care for the time. With that, G storms into the bar, fairly ranting (actually, really ranting). "It's two in the morning and the hotel is locked. I looked *everywhere (*author's note: remember, two streets in Delphi and I'm pretty sure our bar was the only one still open), you're coming back right now!" Now, G was talking to A, but let me tell you, when dazed by countless drinks (pretty drunk) and when confronted with an angry woman chastising anyone at two in the morning, you revert right back to twelve and guilty. Not only did A leave immediately (you never saw anyone settle a bar tab so quickly) but Tall One and I followed right along...meekly...apologizing... We had no idea what to expect the next morning, and being with a tour group, one irate woman can have an impact on the entire experience.

Well, G handled it beautifully, she really did. We saw them waiting for our bus and with a big smile, G said, "I'm feeling so much better this morning!" Probably because she suspected our hangovers. But, we continued to talk with them, lunch with them, and our second to last night in Athens we all went to the Plaka together for dinner and ended up in the hotel lobby drinking wine (do you see a pattern). It was truly delightful. We left for the airport together and promised to keep in touch, which we did.

Which brings us to New Hampshire, where A lives in a small college town with antique shops (ok, one), general stores, great dining (really great), and hiking within hiking distance. A and G are, unfortunately, almost divorced (an interesting story, but no one's business) and A has a new girlfriend, J. I'm pretty sure J never yelled at anyone for anything. There's also a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, named B, a chick magnet.

The weekend we visited, the college was celebrating parent's weekend. We walked through the art show, astounded by the yellow and purple paintings of the Yellow and Purple Man. Apparently all his painting are in yellow and purple, every year, every painting, all yellow and purple...we didn't buy anything. What I did buy was a box full of books at the LIBRARY BOOK SALE (oh, joy)! I also bought some handmade soap at the General Store in another small town whose name I never knew, but can find out if it ever matters.

And we ate, we really, really ate....a lot. Probably the most memorable meal in a weekend of memorable food was lunch at the Inn on Squam Lake (of "On Golden Pond" fame). We began with the Ginger-Ice Cream-in-Molasses-Cookies-sandwich, 'cause we know priorities. Then I had the best BLT on the planet. I even could have gotten it with avocado, but I don't like avocado. Seriously, I know why people eat pigs! And just the right amount of mayo, just to enhance, not drown. Then, for dessert we really needed to sample the Pumpkin-Ice Cream-in-Molasses-Cookies-sandwiches. Tall One got the ice box key lime pie. That was good too. Better than good. But, seriously the ice cream sandwiches were worth a first born.

We walked, we talked, we didn't solve world problems, but we probably created a few (like tight pants). We didn't drink too much, we didn't stay up late enough. It was chilly, and we kept the fire going all weekend in the greatest red wood stove ever. And there's a story to go with it. I'll save that for another time, when I again need to reminisce about good times with good people, and remember that friendship can never be overrated.

New Season!

OH, Holy Cow! I was going to start some profound post on a truly socially revolutionary topic that would challenge and change the thinking of a whole generation and perhaps usher in an era of world peace and make government obsolete (cause I'm sick unto death of this election coverage!) and health care affordable, and trans-fat good for you...but this is so much more important!

The new season of "Desperate Housewives" starts tonight! Hooray, bring on the band, and the wine and cheese! Start the fire, crank up the volume, and turn off the phone! The girls are back! Can you tell I'm psyched?

I (actually, "we", Tall One is as much a fan as I) got on the bandwagon late. It was sometime after the SECOND season. A dear friend of mine (and dearer now for the joy she's wrought) told me about the DVD collection that her sister had bought her. It was the first season of "Desperate Housewives" and she'd just finished watching it and would I like to borrow it? Now, I had heard from another friend, whose opinion I trust, that "DW" was "not what you think it is". Eerily compelling observation, with a tinge of a dare...So, why not? We were into the summer, series hiatus's and there was nothing to watch on the 4389 channels of satellite TV....NOTHING I tell you...

We are so hooked! We devoured the first season, by then Dear Friend loaned us the second season and we were almost up to date. Thank God for show reruns on the computer. Yes, Tall One and I actually huddled around our 15" computer monitor to watch a few episodes that we couldn't catch in repeats. Now you know how sad we are...but it gets worse....or better...

The girls have become some of our best friends. The only friends we hold dearer are the cast of "Nip/Tuck". Seriously, Tall One and I have talked about Christian, Sean, and the gang like we know them...but we're not talking about them now! We're talking about Linette, Gabby, Brie, Susan, and even Edie and Katherine. Yes, it's true, I can't remember the names of immediate family members, but I know all about these women, and their husbands, former husbands, and kids, neighbors, extended families, hideous crimes, psychotic breaks...and secrets, so very, many secrets. WooHoo, they're back, and guess what I'm going to be doing at 9pm tonight! Recording the show! That's right! I can't be trusted to watch (or be able to watch) a show at 9pm on a Sunday night. I might be tired, I might be inclined to read, I might still have the grandsons over...At any rate, I TAKE NO CHANCES! And I will probably want it watch it twice. I love my DVR!

I have even visited the official website. I took the "Which Desperate Housewife Are You?" quiz. I was hoping for "Linette", but I scored higher for "Brie". I just got finished watching some "Highlights" and "Moments on the Red Carpet". I wish I had time to re-watch last season, even though this season apparently "starts fresh". Ohhhh, I'm giddy as a school girl on prom night...

If only I could garner this much enthusiasm for finding a cure for world hunger...

Rethinking Priorities...

Things are slowing down. By things, I mean me. I was lighting the grill last evening and happened to notice the loose, wrinkled skin on my arms in the very unflattering setting sunlight. I have a few "age spots" on my arms and hands. I have cellulite on my legs and butt, pockets of fat deposited on my thighs, and lines around my lips. Some days my eyelids really droop, and I have beady eyes to begin with, so the effect is less than stunning. I have a cluster of spider veins on my calf that looks like a perpetual bruise. My waist is 4" bigger than it used to be. I'm at the high end of my weight fluctuation.

I can't exercise like I used to. It's not a matter of will, physically, I'm not capable of the effort. For over ten years I lifted weights at the gym, with and without trainers, three to five times a week. I'd precede or follow that with an hour of cardio. I added running to the mix ten years ago, and used to run to and from the gym (four miles each way) in addition to my workouts. My job was physically demanding. I've always walked a lot. I spent one summer with Tall One riding bikes. Now, I'm down to a half hour of exercise...most days. I took a yoga class that I really enjoyed, but I don't have the motivation to practice at home. I run three miles...occasionally. I take an hour-long cardio-kickboxing class once a week. I had been walking three or four times a week with Daughter and the boys, but now that she's pregnant, her hips have separated and we don't get out together as frequently or go as far. I haven't lifted weights in maybe two years, since I began training to run a marathon, which almost killed me. Seriously, I was sick or injured for the entire 10 months of preparation.

I have agonized over these changes. I have railed and fought, and pissed and moaned. I was committed to the fight. I read all the articles about all the seniors accomplishing incredible feats of strength and fitness; ultra-distance running, mountain climbing, triathlons. Have you heard about the man who runs marathons pushing his adult son in a wheelchair? The grandfather climbing Mt. Everest with his adult grandson? The wizened old 70 year old completing his 50th triathlon? Women have babies at 50 now, for crying out loud! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ME? What am I doing wrong, or at least, not right?

Well, last night, out at the grill, glancing at my aging arm, I thought, for the first time, "I don't care". And today, as I write the litany of deterioration, I think again, "I don't care". As I consider the accomplishments of those much older than I am, I think, "Good for them", not "What's wrong with me?". This is perhaps one of the most profound "thoughts", yet. My expectations are slowing down, too.

In my 30's the goal read, "Get better", in my 40's, "Stay good", now, in my 50's it reads, "Slow the deterioration", or "Manage the decline", or "Get out of bed and take a shower, you miserable wreck!". Increasingly, I'm thinking, "whatever". I wonder about our parents and grandparents. Parents in the "greatest generation" were old at my age. Really. They dressed differently and sat a great deal. They had friends their own age, listened to old music, and marked the days to "retirement". Granted, they had been through the Great Depression, World War II, and raising children in the 60's would have prematurely aged anyone! But, I'm wondering if we Boomers aren't the true mutants. We cling to our youth. We deny our maturity. We defy the natural ravages of age.

We've modified our diets, increased our aerobic capacity, monitored our bone density and muscle to fat ratio. We've nipped, tucked, and injected. We're experts at HRT, homeopathic medicine, and stress reduction. We change careers, take college courses, and start long dreamed of home businesses or "second" families. We move to "communities", or the mountains, or Spain. We're fabricating faux-youth at the expense of experience, maturity, and social ease.

WE NEED TO STOP! Take a deep breath and take inventory. I'm in my 50's. My children have grown and are fully functional. My grandchildren are stunning. My parents are aging rapidly and need quite a bit of extra consideration. I love my husband and he loves me. I can still run three miles. I practice controlled breathing. And I could die right now, this minute and have no regrets. That's good.

I want to climb Half-Dome with my son-in-law someday. I want to run with my grandson. I want to hold my new greatly anticipated grand-child moments after my daughter gives birth. But, I also want to read that great book with a glass of wine, sleep for nine hours and still take a nap if I need it, and at least once a week eat something that I shouldn't and not worry about it. I want to count "thinking" on my list of accomplishments for the day. And count "walking" as exercise. I want to cooperate with, not struggle against the inevitable decline. It's natural, normal, and inescapable. I'm not aging on purpose.

If I strive, I will strive for balance. Calm, mature, moderation. I will eat well, drink more than I should occasionally, laugh, watch movies, read, and write. I will not sacrifice the "good of the many" on the alter of "me, me, me". I will do the very best that I can...and I will enjoy everything that I have to do. I will be content.

To Rant, or Not To Rant.

I'm bound and determined to post something today. I'm not opening my bottle of wine or starting to read my new library book until I do. I'm in the mood for a rant, but haven't been able to get up the energy. So much lame stuff has been touted out as news lately.

1). Raising the driving age/Lowering the drinking age

2). The double standard for Republican Women

3). This headline on the internet, "Depressed Moms in Violent Homes Twice as Likely to Hit Kids, Spousal arguing also increased frequency with which mothers slapped children, study says"

I probably don't even need to add my commentary...but, it's my blog.

Re: 1). Ok, let me see if I've got this straight. Legislators, at the urging of insurance company lobbyists armed with statistics, want to raise the legal driving age to 17 or 18. Apparently, 16 year-olds are not mature enough to drive 1/2 ton vehicles at ludicrously fast speeds while drinking a coke, eating a Big Mac, listening to their ipod, and text messaging their friends. But, a year of two later they have it all together, just fine thank you. I've never seen a thirty year old talking on their cell phone, applying makeup and drinking coffee while driving, have you?
And, the heads of our illustrious colleges and universities want the drinking age lowered, to let's say 18, to make alcohol education more feasible. The students'll listen better after a few beers, maybe...
How about this? Let's teach our children about choices and responsibility and consequences from infancy. We as their adult role models could demonstrate socially acceptable behavior instead of just educating them with hollow words and ineffective programs? Just my opinion....

Re: 2). A few days ago on a national morning television program, I heard a pollster (you can't get much higher credentials these days) ask, in regards to Sarah Palin's Vice Presidential qualifications: "Shouldn't she be home in Alaska, getting her son ready to deploy?" What the....?
I am the anti-feminist, Bizarro Women's Rights Girl. I chose thirty years ago to stay at home with my children and I'm still basically, there. I honestly and truly believe that there is no higher calling, no more worthy occupation than keeping a home and raising children. And, I was offended. Nobody ever said anything like that about Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi and got away with it. But the commentator is sort of nodding his head and then they're asking each other about Governor Palin's responsibilities to her special needs child, and I had to physically leave the room or risk smashing the TV. Perhaps it's PMS....

Re: 3). This was a U.S. study. Please God, let it have been privately funded...but, I doubt it. And, now I AM going to open that bottle of wine...

A Hair Raising Story of Passion and Loss.

It's been over six years and I still miss Robert....

In the complicated way of poignant love stories, it all began with Brenda. The children were small, and I was bored. We were in a tight... ridiculously tight... "national security alert" tight...financial situation and I couldn't afford any mistakes. The stress of saving for necessities, let alone frivolity, was taking it's toll. I desperately needed a change. I was frightened, but determined. I saw the ad, in the local Merchandiser, and called the number. I left the children with a neighbor and drove to the address along the main highway leading out of town. It was an old farmhouse, situated next to a trailer park, replacing the cultivated fields or cow barns. I had been told not to knock, just to walk in, and I did. I was greeted by a tall thin woman best described as a red-neck Olive Oil with really bad fashion sense. She gave me exactly what I asked for, and I was home again in less than an hour, exhilarated, and only a few dollars poorer.

Our relationship continued for fourteen years. There were a few really bad times. I'd go home, look in the mirror and cry a river. I'd vow to change. But, I always went back. Her husband joined her in the business for a few years, but the pressure destroyed him. She had young assistants now and then, but they only lasted through a time or two. I never knew what happened to them. I begged, finally convincing Tall One to see her a few times. The price was right, but he had different needs. She moved her "studio" once. For awhile there was fresh paint, and the carpet wasn't stained, but, it always smelled the same, ripe with strong, stale chemicals. She wasn't much for conversation and she rarely smiled. I wondered about her teeth. She'd turn surly if her daughter wandered in. There was a decided lack of maternal instinct. I stayed because I didn't think I had a choice. She knew too much.

And then the day came when she said she was leaving. She could work anywhere, but her husband had to get out. Too much baggage, too many damaging memories. A better climate. I said Goodbye. I was more relieved than I would have imagined. I would have been too weak to end our relationship myself, but I'd been dissatisfied and uninspired for a long time. I thought it would be good to be free.

I had wanted to regroup, weigh my options, start fresh with a new perspective, but, I floundered. Time is relentless and before I knew it, I was desperate. I would let things grow for as long as I could and then I'd take matters into my own hands. But I was unskilled, I didn't have the right "tools", I was afraid I would be humiliated. So I moved from "professional" to "professional". Sometimes paying too much for inferior service. Sometimes leaving with the glimmer of confidence that I'd found a new someone to meet my growing demands, only to be disappointed eventually. There were pretty young blonds with sparkling mirrors and scented candles. There was an old blue rinsed grandma wearing pince nez and too much perfume. I would travel miles to overpriced swanky salons, and walk to dilapidated store fronts along our deteriorating Main street. I was restless. I never stayed at any one place more than a few months.

I was in the midst of a long dry spell. My emotions were out of hand. I was a wreck, and needed badly the fix I had been denied for so long. I stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the homemade cardboard sign in the dirty window and copied down the phone number. That evening I called, and a few days later I walked through Robert's door for the first time.

The tacky furnishings and gaudy decor assaulted my sensibilities. But, I quickly recovered. I'd been in worse places. Brenda's accommodations had been sparse and utilitarian. I stayed, choking back my revulsion in his dusty fake foliage, because he was my last hope. Spinning the sad, sordid tale of his life gone wrong, he worked efficiently. When he handed me some lubricant and a towel and told me finish myself, I knew I had found the answer I'd been searching for. At home the smell of stale tobacco and something I didn't want to think about clung to my clothing, but, the face in the mirror was transformed. It wasn't just his years of experience, or his expertise. Robert was magic, and I was in love.

I'd know right away when it was time to go back. Things wouldn't lay right. There'd be the feeling of loose ends, stray wisps that no one else noticed, but I'd feel keenly. He was always the same. Always sure of his skill. He knew what I needed. He'd always make me finish. But, even as he had renewed the hope in me, he was hopeless, profoundly sad, and, over time I began to sense the underlying sickness.

I missed a rendezvous, I couldn't call to cancel. I left a message apologising and begging for another chance. I never heard again. Shortly thereafter, Robert's handmade sign was replaced by one that read "For Rent". I tried to find him. I left message after message, pleading, until the number was finally disconnected. I still don't know what happened to my dearest, darling, hair stylist.

I have good hair, very forgiving, and it grows out quickly, a blessing and a curse. My daughter recommended Debra, and I've been with her for a few years now. She has a nice shop, two cute dogs, and I'm comfortable there....but, I still miss Robert...

Salsa and DST.

I feel so free! Not only did I finally submit my essay for the kind consideration of the judging panel, but I also sent in a 250 word travel story to a different publication (this, under the duress and unsolicited advice of Tall One). The essay provides a potential $3000. windfall, the paragraph, a trip to Tasmania. If I weren't already retired, I'd start making plans! Fortunately, I handle disappointment well.

The tomatoes are happening, in large quantities. I planted five tomato plants this summer, four different varieties. And they've all survived and thrived. I've cut up a couple for sandwiches and salads. The rest of the ripe ones, I've made into salsa...and canned. I haven't canned anything in 25 years. Preparing and canning dozens of quarts of peaches with three toddlers in the kitchen brought me dangerously close to collapse. And, Tall One became convinced, with minimal shrieking on my part, that even though the produce was truly delicious when home-canned, it wasn't worth the additional price of psycho-therapy.

Yesterday, alone in the kitchen with only Dr. Phil for company, preparing and canning the salsa was more fun than I remembered, and not nearly as difficult. So, now I'm on a roll. I'd like to do some "salsa verde" using green tomatoes, and one other "traditional" salsa recipe. Then I'll use some of the tomatoes (a whole huge bushel) for tomato sauce. All this has the built-in benefit of providing useful and appreciated Christmas gifts. I am the domestic goddess....if no one dies of botulism.

It's starting to get dark earlier. And, I should be thankful for "Daylight Savings Time", but I'm not. I'm actually quite bitter. DST has been obsolete since the invention of electricity, and now that they've lengthened the "switch" from March through November, why bother changing things back... or forward,.... oh, whatever? It's unnecessarily confusing, and nobody, NOBODY, gets up with the sun and goes to bed as it sets. Maybe we should, but we don't. Even our senior citizens get up at 4am, not dawn. The only place in the United States that's light at 4am is, 6 months out of the year, in Alaska. So, why do they have daylight savings time in the parts of Alaska where it's either 24 hours of daylight, or darkness? Or, do they? It's not even a proper reminder for changing the batteries in smoke detectors. The batteries die before the first Saturday in November and aren't even broken in by the second week in March. There's no consistency.

I would prefer my own lighted, climate controlled atmospheric bubble - since regulating the entire world to my preferences seems out of the question - that I could manage according to my whims. This has been a warm, dry summer. Usually, that suits me. However, I would like it to rain, at night, so that I don't have to water any plants, and occasionally all day, torrentially, so that I can sleep-in and read. I want it to be cool in the morning, and there should be a nice breeze in the afternoon when the sun is overhead. Now, that's just summer. I have definite opinions on the other seasons, as well.

Hawaii does not follow daylight savings time. They have a bubble.

I'm in a Descriptive Mood....

Originally written 8/11/08.

I have fifty two years of experience, memories, and life on which to draw interesting entertaining anecdotes, and I'm sitting here staring into space (actually, staring at the desk top, real not virtual) trying to figure out what to write about. And now I've gone and ended a sentence with a preposition. I could delete "about" but I'm past that. Oh, hell....

Life should be like making movies. If you don't like a scene you get another take....or two. Do-overs till you get it right. But then we'd need writers and a director and gaffs and best boys. Traveling with an entourage could get pesky. I do like the idea of a soundtrack. Life should be accompanied by music. Please note my suggestion.

I'm entering an essay contest. Oh, yes, indeedy. It's not as easy as it sounds. It's much more difficult to write to a specific concept than to just ramble grammatically. I have to submit something soon. Time is running out...and so is my patience. It's an essay for god's sake not the Sonnets of Shakespeare. I'm feeling confident, although I know first prize will go to a cancer survivor. And how can you argue with that?

The contest, however it resolves, will be a test of my writing resolve. I'll look for more contests and continue to write with a specific objective. It will be good practice.

I'm reading. I'm reading and I'm thinking about how the words are going down on the paper. Some writers are so descriptive. Maybe all writers are so descriptive. I have to start describing things. Ok, here goes.....

The Desk:

The desk is not my favorite piece of furniture. It never has been. I didn't really like it the day Tall One brought it home. It's nondescript wood veneer with ugly, badly carved drawer pulls. I suppose it's intended to look old, substantial and classic. But, it can't pull it off. It's like a homely child decked out in faux pearls and plastic heels. You smile indulgently, but nobody's fooled into thinking this is Jackie Onassis. The contrast with older/newer/better things in the room doesn't help. The computer compartment on the right, hosts a hinged door that's decorated to mimic the drawers on the left. Bad idea. Above the door, that we keep open all the time for ventilation, is a pull out desk top extension that we've never used. On the left are two drawers, a file cabinet and a desk top extension that we do use, mostly to keep the grandsons out of the valuables when we're foolish enough to try and work while they're awake. The desk top holds, in addition to the 17" flat screen monitor (I had to locate a ruler for the dimensions) and speakers, placed smack dab in the middle, is a picture, to the left, of Tall One and I dancing and smiling at our son's wedding. Behind the picture is the lamp, one of a set of three, that we purchased in a Palm Springs boutique. The shade consists of three panels of translucent vellum that glow a coppery orange when lit. There's a special name for it that I just can't remember. In the far right corner sits a chest of little drawers, picked up in an antique market, that holds things like stamps, check books, paper clips and stapler. It's solidly built of real wood and the back is made of a thin sheet of metal, as are the the insides of the drawers. An old wooden pencil box with a sliding metal lid sits immediately in front of the monitor. And, a tile coaster, rarely used, lays beside. There are two flat, impossible to read calculators in front of the many drawered chest (not sure why we need two on display, I think I'll put one away), and invoices, checks and various miscellaneous papers and notes scattered about. A few pens and sticky-note pads add to the function and chaos.

Ok, now I have to take a break and straighten up.

The Last of the Character Obsessions

Started 7/22/08

For a few days now I've been mulling over my limitations. I do have them. There is no debate. I didn't use to think so. But, experience is cruel, and, the reality is that I have true "breaking points" and legitimate conflicts of interests. In the midst of this emotional self scrutiny, Daughter and Dude revealed that Tall One and I will be grandparents for the third time. This is monumentally good news! Joyful, celebratory news. But a bit of a two-edged sword coming in the middle of my reflections. I've moaned and groaned a bit in "Bogus Journeys" but I'm not quite ready to leave the subject.

In opposition to my "ungiftedness", there are some qualities that stand me in good stead.

I am organized. But, not obsessively. Most of my drawers are categorized, but not compulsively neat, and I have closets and an armoire that need seriously professional work. I can make a comprehensive shopping list, plan a get-together, and accomplish a to-do list with reasonable success. I almost always carry wipes, chap-stick, ibuprofen, and breath mints. I once placated a hyper-active toddler in a grocery store with an entire pack of tic-tacs. It was NOT my finest moment...but, we both lived to fight another day. I carry Kleenex in my car. I can pack for a week long trip in a carry-on.

I am low maintenance. I am not beautiful. Apparently, I am "cute". I remember these notebooks we passed around in Junior High School. We called them "slam books". You would write the name of a classmate at the top of each page, and then exchange the books with friends who would write a comment below the name. Anonymously, of course. Some of the entries were brutal, but invariably the ones below my name would be, "cute and nice". In seventh grade, no one wants to be THAT boring. Now, in my 50's, cute will have to suffice. I really don't want to be gorgeous. That is just too much responsibility. Even beautiful requires too much commitment. "Passable" is non-threatening, and it does afford me the extra time and money I would be spending on make-up and hair products. This helps when packing my carry-on.

I'm just intelligent enough. Without a degree, of course. I made good grades in high school, a hundred years ago. But, then I really didn't take challenging subjects. I followed the "business course", with bookkeeping, typing and Business Math and Business English, just the essentials. I had one year of Bible College. Does any of it apply anymore? Absolutely not. It meant little at the time. But, I read. I stay current. I attend cultural events. And I travel (with only a carry on). I'm not afraid to try new things. And, I'm not afraid to fail. And, these things will keep me viable and relevant.

I am accommodating (my carry-on complies with airline standards). When I know another person's needs or preferences, I am truly happy to oblige. When I say, "it doesn't matter, I don't care", it truly doesn't matter, I really don't care. I don't need to pick the movie, or the place to eat. I don't mind changing my plans to fit into someone else's expectations. I'm flexible.

And, I'm sure I could come up with some other outstanding characteristics, but I'm boring myself. I'm done obsessing.

Random Ramblings....Demented Mind

Ok, let's see, what day is it now? I'm having a serious problem remembering the date. I'm still fairly good on the day of the week. The problem is my cell phone. Have you ever experienced the enigma where you look at your watch and, when you look away, you promptly forget what time it is. So you look again, and the same thing happens? That's what I do with my cell phone and the date. At least I think that's the problem...or dementia.

As I'm sitting here typing, I'm again reminded of my lust for a laptop. I want to be able to write in front of the T.V., or on the deck, or at the little coffee shop in town. Wouldn't that be cool? To take my laptop to the coffee shop, order my latte (with skim milk), and sit at a table in the back and "work". How incredibly artistic does that sound? The only thing better would be on Friday afternoon's, after the lunch crowd (or lunch trickle, it's not a large town) I would get an outside table at one of my two favorite bars, order wine, and "work on my novel". Very Ernest Hemingway! I wouldn't wear a white linen suit or a hat, though. But, still...

Looking out of my window, well, not exactly looking out, but over at my window, I see that some of the ivy we have covering the outside wall is actually growing in through the window frame in two places. I should cut that. But, I'm not going to because it really looks quite nice. I know I'm compromising the structural integrity of the whole building, but, did I mention it looks nice. The ivy stays. I just have to make sure it doesn't try to root on the window sill. That just causes a mess. And the whole house can fall down, but I don't want permanent root tracks on my window sill.

I made chocolate chip cookies yesterday. I really like to bake. I like the whole experience of baking. Measuring, mixing, making the cookies the same size, filling the cupcake papers, kneading the bread, icing the cake. It makes me feel very domestic and maternal. I am domestic and maternal, but there aren't too many daily situations that make you feel that way. Nope, changing diapers doesn't do it. Nor does cleaning the toilets. And, taking care of the litter box is just demeaning!

Ok, I'm puzzled. About a lot of things, actually. But, right now I'm thinking of the term "dog gone", as in, "That is so dog gone funny!", or "I'm so dog gone happy!". If the dog is gone, that's not funny or happy or applicable to anything really. I found out where the term "dog days of summer" derives. The constellation Sirius, with the dog star being in prominent position during the months of June, July, August....blah, blah, blah. But, that doesn't help me with "dog gone". Dog gone it! Larger really likes the term "tough beans". And, when you think about it (or say it out loud) it is funny.

I didn't do any lawn care today. Instead, I washed the laundry room floor, down on my hands and knees, with a scrub brush and a bucket of water. That takes me back. Remember the days before "Swiffer"?

One day, I noticed that there were a lot of small, leafy, branches under our nut tree (I don't know what kind of nuts they are, they aren't edible, they aren't acorns). We hadn't had any storms or strong winds and I was a bit puzzled. The other night when Tall One and I were sitting out on the deck, we got the answer. We watched two squirrels building a nest. They would gnaw off a small branch and then carry it to the designated construction site. Occasionally, they dropped one.

And, I don't think I told you about the daring duckling rescue. One evening, at the beginning of summer, or end of spring, I noticed a family in our yard. Our yard isn't along the road, you have to walk back our driveway a short distance. They did not look familiar, like visiting family or near neighbors. The father (I'm assuming he was the father, he was the man with a woman and a small child) was standing on the fringe of our property, pointing excitedly into the drainage field. I went out on the deck to tell them to leave - not really, I wanted to see what was going on. There, marching across the grass and heading into the new development was a mommy duck followed by her dozen little, fluffy, baby ducks. They were so cute - and loud! What a ruckus. Everyone peeping and little webbed legs pumping to keep up. Mom was quacking out a cadence to rival the best coxswain. And, then I saw it - she was waddling directly over the storm grate! And, don't those cute, fluffy fellows follow right along. And - you know this is coming - one of them fell in!
I didn't know ducks could wail, but this little guy was shrieking his lungs out. And, Mommy was fairly frantic. And, the other little ducklings were all, like, running around bumping into each other and Mom, and I was, like, "Tall One, ducks, grate, hurry!", and running across the field. (The family-in-our-yard was no help, long gone. I don't know who they were or from where they came or to where they went.) Tall One and I tried to find something to put through the very small openings of the metal grate that baby duck could use as a ramp, but nothing from the construction sites was working. Tall One was on his way back to the house to see what he could find, when maternal instinct took over and I LIFTED THE GRATE!. I am very strong. Tall One came back and we removed the grate completely and put a board into the drain and baby duck waddled free. What a reunion! Legs churning, useless wing buds straight out to each side, peeping double-time he joined his brothers and sisters and, I'm assuming much relieved and grateful, Mom, who had watched our efforts not too far off. I think she waved her thanks, as they resumed their march to find water suitable for swimming. Or a McDonald's.

And, now I don't remember why I needed to know the date....

Where Was (Am) I?

I'm waiting for the boys to finish napping. The house is hot, not unbearable, but uncomfortable. We still haven't turned on the air conditioning. Last Sunday, Tall One suggested it. I knew he would...now I'm just being stubborn, not-so-silent martyrdom. I'm working on an essay for a contest. Now, I'm having grave concerns that my talent is limited. All right, it is limited, but sometimes I can convince myself of brief moments of true genius. I'm either being realistic, or I'm in the throes of peri-menopause. I have awful cramps (pity, please), I'm losing gallons of body fluids (and yet I'm bloated - shake your head with me), but the very, very worst symptom is the thick, foggy, mental state. I had lunch with a new friend, I don't know her that well or for very long. I started a story and forgot the point, I couldn't remember any names of any of the people we were trying to discuss...... (ended 6/3)

And, here it is, over a month later, and I'm just now getting back to this post. I'll get up in another minute to fold some wash, and who knows, it could be next year till I try and work on this again...
But, no, it's only a few HOURS later. Obviously, the boys have gotten up from their naps...IN JUNE. They are now ready to graduate from college (joke...). And I have no idea where I was going with any of this...

I'm tired of menstruating. Seriously. I'm 51 years old, I was finished birthing at 25. It's time. BUT...what happens then? Probably worse than what I'm dealing with NOW, because, really, it hasn't been as bad as it could be. I'm not dealing with night sweats, I don't have severe mood swings, and my periods are still fairly predictable, shorter, and no more painful than they ever were, except for the perpetual fog. That is really annoying. Really, really, annoying. But it's only really, really annoying for three or four days a month. (No man in the world would put up with even THAT.) The rest of the time it's just really annoying, or annoying. Sometimes, for a few hours at a time, I can think clearly. When that happens, I drink a glass or two of wine. That get's me back to annoying.

So, to what do I have to look forward? Weight gain? Hair loss? Brittle bones? Skeletal deformity? Dry skin? Loss of sex drive (Tall One's rolling his eyes right now, he thinks that's already happened.)? Just shoot me?

I'll gain a shit load of money saved on feminine hygiene products. Isn't that a racket, ladies? I didn't pay too much attention to the specific prices of products before the "budget" - which I am acing, I'll have you know. I bought what I needed, stocked up when I had coupons. At this stage of life, I'm not too sure that I want to "stock up". Any month now I could be selling the surplus on eBay. And....this stuff ain't cheap! I'm thinking of reviving the "rag". Literally, ripping up the bed sheets! Reusing! Shouldn't Al Gore be pushing an environmental angle? Wouldn't THAT be the study? (Oh, don't get me started on "Studies" - another day, another day...)

My handbag will be lighter. Won't have to carry the "pouch of products". I wonder if I'll still need panty liners? I hope I won't still get cramps. It's my understanding from some of the reading I've done, that some women get cramps like clockwork even without bleeding. That would be my luck!

My body is changing. My waist is definitely thicker. But, this just puts it more in proportion to my hips. You know that phenomenon where you try on pants that fit over your hips and you have room to carry a draft horse in your waist band? I still gravitate toward pants with drawstrings, but stock sizes are fitting better. I don't have to wash my hair as frequently as I did when I was younger. But, I still do. And, I have gray. But, I'm ok with it. My skin bugs me, it's loose and cellulite ridden, but, I'm not doing it on purpose.

So, really, I guess it's mostly the muffled, forgetful, unfocused state that I'm railing against. And, I don't know if that will get better or worse for lack of hormones. Stay tuned.

Not Sick Enough...

Began on 7/1
I'm a little ashamed of my lack of consistency in posting to my blogs. I haven't been doing much writing at all. Well, I'm resolving to do better. Lucky, lucky reader...
It's been over three weeks and my poison is a faint, shiny, reddish "scarring"....all over my body! I'm confident it will be physically invisible at some future time....the emotional scars may NEVER fade. I still itch. It's generally manageable during the day when I'm preoccupied, but I wake up at night clawing at my arms and legs. Nana recommended Gold Bond lotion, and that does help initially. I bathe in it, frequently. The only thing that keeps me from drinking it (besides the warning label) is the strong slightly rancid menthol smell. Now that I'm feeling better, I'm back at the yard work, but I'm really paranoid. Vague, green, leafy, weeds make me cringe. There's poison lurking in disguise. I was mowing and weeding over the weekend and I'm like a "complete-scardy-girly wuss"....and I'm rarely intimidated, hardly ever frightened. Every day that I wake up oozing-running-soreless is a day of thanksgiving. I didn't realize how truly miserable and sick I was until I started to feel better. I actually think, now, looking back, that I was walking delirious.

The larger grandson was quite ill last week, running a fever of 105+. Surfer Dude called me at 2am to come stay with Baby while he and Daughter took Larger to the E.R. This is NOT a call you ever want to receive! Ever. I can not emphasize this enough. By the time I got to their home (approximately 32 seconds after hanging up the phone), Larger was at least coherent. I sat with him a few minutes while he told me that he was going to see the doctor and taking his mobile cranes (construction equipment, not birds) along. I said a silent prayer of thanks for children's Tylenol. At 6:30am I got the all-clear call! Larger was coming home. E.R. Doctor didn't know what was causing his fever....but, if it didn't go away Daughter and Dude were encouraged to schedule an appointment with the pediatrician, Dr. Over-react. I seem to remember the medical profession being a lot more confident and decisive when I was a kid.

Do any other 50 year olds remember going to the doctor as a kid (or having a doctor make a house call!)? They would look you over, tell your mom what was wrong, and write a prescription for penicillin. In 48 hours, you were better, but still not allowed outside. Simple, straight-forward, awe-inspiring, complete confidence. This sort of blind faith in the all-knowing healer continued to my early twenties. I remember my first brush with disillusionment. This was the beginning days of multi-physician practices. You never knew who you were going to see.

I was twenty one, newly married, and feeling really sick the majority of the time. I was missing work. Some days I was nauseated, some headachey, some fatigued, and then there were the combination days involving any and all of these symptoms. I was not yet pregnant. I went to the doctor, wondering if the birth control pill I was on could be causing any of this. Of course not. Silly me. So I went through an entire battery of allergy testing. Not a single positive reaction. They gave me ALL of the skin tests at one time (they usually broke them into two or more sessions) because the first batches showed NOTHING. They then gave me a shot under the skin of my forearm. This, apparently, was to indicate an allergic reaction to myself. I know, I couldn't get anyone to explain it to me in more detail. But, this did produce a HUGE reaction. I had a hive the size of Rhode Island (and about the general shape) around the injection site. So onto allergy shots...I still don't know what THAT was supposed to accomplish. I only received one or two, because, by then I WAS pregnant (and very disillusioned)...and feeling exactly the same way I felt when I consulted the doctor...only worse, much, much worse. (Later, much later, five years later when I had finished with pregnancies, child births, and nursings, I was consulting with my Ob/Gyn about taking Progestin for irregular periods. I mentioned my "problem" with birth control pills and he immediately reassured me that it was indeed the Estrogen in the birth control pills that caused my "allergy" symptoms!)

Next, there was the mystery breast infection. Actually, it wasn't a mystery at all. I was nursing our second child, my breast was bright red with an obviously plugged duct, I was in pain, running a fever of 102 degrees and very, very sick. Classic breast infection. Did I mention I was nursing a baby? Breast tenderness (read: excruciating pain)? Fever? Oh, and this was my SECOND breast infection...Knew the first one WELL! But, the doctor (different from Dr. Allergy) just wasn't so sure....
"Maybe we should do some blood tests?"
"UHHHH, when will we get the results? -gasp-"
"Day or two, Monday for sure."
"-pant-gasp-groan- I really can't wait that long. Can we begin antibiotics for a breast infection?"
Very annoyed,"I suppose if you insist, I'll give you a prescription for just enough pills till I get the test results, then we'll go from there."
If I would have had the strength to be annoyed... -finger-, "Fine."
Do I really have to tell you that the blood work was normal, and the infection cleared considerably in the two days it took to get the results. I then received the prescription for the remainder of my 10 day course of antibiotics...from the receptionist.

Next, the horrible incident of the scalded four year old. My In-laws took the three kids out for a fast food lunch. Older Son wanted hot chocolate. Sure, give the child anything he wants. And remember, these people were dealing with a five year old, a four year old and a two and a half year old. Things got out of hand quickly, and Older Son spilled the hot chocolate into his lap. Immediate blistering, sonic screaming, panicked grandparents!!! No cell phones in those days, gang, I got a call from the high school clerk working the counter. THAT is really not a call you ever want to get!! I was barefoot, painting the living room, and, thank God, Tall One was at home (it must have been a Monday, market was closed, long story for another time). We went and picked up Older Son and took him immediately to the mega-doctor practice and they did see us right away (it may have been the horrendous screaming...mine). The doctor took one look at O.S., shook his head and sighed, "Oh, this is bad, this is really bad..." I resumed screaming. We filled out the child abuse forms, talked with an additional nurse and a psychologist while O.S. was being treated, and left with antibiotic cream, bandages, and directions for changing them. We were to schedule an appointment with our Pediatrician within two days.

I don't know if I have EVER felt this bad. Incompetent, unworthy, neglectful, irresponsible, just generally without any ability to properly care for a house plant let alone a CHILD! The Doctor had been nothing but doom and gloom, predicting permanent scarring, the nurses and psychologist were cold and/or rude. We received at least three full lectures on proper parental supervision. These people weren't subtle or tactful. And, my son was in pain, poor little guy, and he never even got to eat his fast-food treat! I made the appointment with our Pediatrician for Wednesday. Until then, I dutifully changed bandages and cared for the children in my very best, but obviously inadequate, way.

Wednesday appointment with the Pediatrician. I carried O.S. into the exam room with my head hung low in abject misery. I had no idea what I was in for, but I deserved it. Dr. I-love-kids came in, greeted me warmly and told my son he was going to take off the bandages and look at his boo-boo. The man was actually smiling at me. Didn't he know what kind of person I was? He unwrapped the gauze and still talking pleasantly to my son said words that I had never hoped to hear, "This doesn't look so bad!" I immediately started to cry, hysterically.

Dr. I-love-kids couldn't have been kinder. He assured me there would be no scarring. I was taking excellent care of O.S. The abuse forms were standard. The rest sounded like major overkill, and at the very least should have been handled a little more delicately, but you can't fault authority for trying to look after a child's welfare. Everything was fine. "See you in a week to check on O.S.'s progress. You're a good mother, just look at this beautiful boy! Would you like another tissue?" (me thinking, "No thank you, Doctor, how about a Valium?")

We never went back to the Mega-practice. Not to this day. Not for emergencies or weekend on-calls. Never. Three strikes and you're out!

Now, my General Practitioner is a dinosaur. I've been going to him since he bought the practice from Dr. Older-than-dirt over twenty years ago. He's more of a personal friend than a physician. He's all by himself. He treats mostly old farmers and their wives or people from the trailer park without insurance. He has weird hours (takes an hour and a half for lunch, and works every evening till he's finished), the same nurses, and, until just a couple of years ago when he moved to new improved facilities, the oldest physician's office in the country with the equipment to match. He's in his mid-fiftys, but you swear he's the same guy that made house calls when you were five, prescribed penicillin, and really believed he knew how to make you better. He does. And, I trust him.