Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da…

…La la, how the life goes on!

I’m done waiting for things to settle down around here. I started this blog at the end of 2006 while I was taking time off to deal with a health problem. If I knew then what I know now, I think I would have actually enjoyed that time.

I won’t bore you with all the dreary details, but the longest running stress (that isn’t over yet) is that out of the last 21 months, 12 have been paycheck free. Some days my mind runs amok with this and goes into full blown OMG-freak-out mode. And yet every single morning I wake up next to my wonderful Joe in our bed in our home; my children are available for me to talk to and love; my parents are just a phone call away; our vehicles are still parked in our garage every night; and I’m obviously getting more than enough to eat since I continue to wish I would lose weight.

The point is that the stress is there, but nothing in my life has changed. Well, unless you want to count the illusion of security I once had. You know, that thing that lets you plan for tomorrow, as if you somehow have control over it. I won’t lie – I’d LOVE to have that sense (illusion) of security again. But if it never comes, I think I’ll be ok. Insane, maybe, but ok.

God keeps track of the number of hairs on my head. He bottles my tears. He has promised never to leave me or forsake me. He even takes care of the sparrow. And yet still I worry. I fret. I have ulcers. I get crabby. I know better, but like a wayward sheep, I wander away and get lost in the darkness of my own head. Apparently, those Ovine Secrets of the Baa Baa Sisterhood are still alive and well within me.

Tomorrow will be here before I know it. And another tomorrow after that. And in about six months’ worth of tomorrows, Joe and I will be grandparents!

Indeed, life goes on.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da!

Holy Hiatus, Batman!

I was gone but now I’m not. I wish I could impress you by telling you that I spent the last six months on an arduous journey of personal discovery or on a mission doing some great humanitarian work, but I have been here doing this and that, things and stuff. Some days were more things oriented, and other days it was all about stuff. Mostly, though, I just tried to maintain a healthy balance between this and that because, much like the whole here and there thing, it’s all relative. This becomes that as soon as it’s no longer this; and that become this when it’s no longer that. Yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah. I think it probably has to do with possession being nine-tenths of the law or something, but mostly it just makes my head hurt.

Since I was gone for so long, it seems only fitting that I make a grand entrance as I return.

You may recall that my theme song accidentally became Wild Thing a while back. Feel free to refresh yourself on the back story. Sometimes Joe still hits the Wild Thing button on the kitchen window sill when he hears me get up, and I still give it my all as I prance down the stairs. Well, truth be told, I don’t prance that early in the morning. In fact, I believe I’m incapable of prancing until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee. But I prance in spirit as I come down the stairs to my theme song.

A few days ago Wild Thing filled the air as I appeared at the top of the stairs. Since there are no children at home to scandalize, I was only wearing my slippers and a big denim shirt which I did not even bother to button. I gave Joe my most seductive smile and made it down the first three steps just fine. But then I'm not sure what happened because I made it down the rest of the stairs in a most unladylike manner. Picture legs flying out from under me, shirt flapping open, a slipper shooting wildly up in the air, and me going all the way down the stairs on my rather ample rump.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.

Boom.

You could say that I most definitely had a spring in (on) my step(s), though it was more like a thunderous bounce.

I’m ok. Everything hurt for a few days, from my neck and back to my ankles and wrists, including and most notably, my tailbone and my dignity.

But it does make for a grand entrance, doesn’t it?

Neither Here Nor There

Well, it’s been a whole ‘nother month-plus since my last real post. You know, the kind with lots of words. Sometimes I wonder if we’re each born with a quota of words and maybe I’ve used all of mine up already.

Dang.

I guess I will be forced to post in the form of interpretive dance from here on out…

For a while I was overwhelmed after all the chaos of settling my Grandma’s affairs, getting Liz off to college, adjusting to the empty nest, and then Joe’s job loss. I didn’t write because I was tired. Flat. Empty. Blah. Things have been better for a while now and life is good. In fact, it’s been blissfully boring and calm around here but still I find I’m at a loss for words.

Sometimes I think it’s nothing more than what’s become habit -- the longer I’m gone, the harder it is to come back. And sometimes I wonder where it is exactly that I’ve gone since I feel like I’m still here. And then I wonder just where the heck “here” is because if you ask anyone where they are, they will say, ‘here.” But if I’m here and you’re not with me, that means you’re there, because wherever you are, if it’s not here, it’s there. I can never be there because wherever I am, it’s always here. Sadly, this means that I never really get anywhere because I’m always here. So when I say, “Are we there yet?” the answer is always no. Because wherever I go, here I am. But even though I can’t get there, I’ve still been there. It’s just that it was here while I was there because there becomes here as soon as I arrive, but then it goes back to being there when I leave.

So there you have it. Or here you have it? Whatever. It’s not much of a post, but it’s a start as I try to come back from wherever I’ve been, even though I never left and have been right here the whole time. I might be the only person in the world who can get lost without ever going anywhere!

Easter Fun

We've got a pretty good sledding hill right
in our back yard.

The Hag

When my lovely daughter Liz was about 14 or 15, she was having boy troubles one day and in a moment of high drama, she burst into tears, threw herself facedown onto her bed and declared that she was “just an old hag.” Anyone who has mothered a teenaged girl knows that boys are only one of the many ingredients necessary for high drama. Hair, shoes, acne, big brothers, parents, homework, full moons, and hamster deaths can also be the catalyst for these special moments, as well as about a gazillion and two other things.

On this particular occasion, though, a certain horrid boy was the main ingredient, and so I shifted into that gear we moms shift into when we need to listen and comfort and reassure. I confess that inwardly, I wanted to laugh. How could this adorable little person sobbing in my arms call herself a hag? And not just a hag, but an OLD hag??

She cried, I hugged and soothed, and eventually there were no more tears and she realized that the world was not, in fact, coming to a tragic end.

After a sufficient period of time had passed (maybe 3 hours), the fun began. At our house we never kick a person when they’re down, but when the moment of crisis has passed and it is safe to laugh, laugh we do. And tease. We also tend to run things into the ground by looking at them forwards, backwards, sideways, upside down, and every which way possible to make sure we haven’t missed anything. We all (Liz included) found great hilarity in the hag comment. The most fun we had was in coming up with a partial list of words that we called:

HAG VOCABULARY

Hagdom: The state of hagginess
Hagginess: The essence of a hag
Hagification: The process by which one becomes a hag
Hagalicious: A word used to describe a pleasant hag
Hagathon: A hag race, usually held as a fundraiser for hag causes
Haggai: The book in the Bible about hags who love God
Hagnabbit: A swear word wherein the name of a hag is taken in vain
Haggravation: What a disgruntled hag feels
Hagoraphobia: The irrational fear of hags
Hagstory: The history of hags
Hagolosophy: The philosophy of hags
Hagopolis: The city where many hags live
Haggette: A young hag
Haggle: 1) The gait of a hag, similar to a duck’s waddle; 2) A group of hags, similar to a gaggle of geese; 3) How hags dicker over the price of a car
Haguar: The sports car of choice for hags
Hag lady: A homeless hag
Hagazine: A periodical that hags read
Hagpie: A hideous bird
Hagu: Spaghetti sauce for hags
Hagite: A hag directly descended from the orginal ancient hag tribe
Hagism: The prejudice toward or hatred of hags
Haggot: A vulgar term for a gay hag
Haggae: Hag music
This Old Hag: A TV reality show where pretty young girls are given extreme makeovers to become old hags
From Hags to Riches: A TV reality show where hags compete to marry a millionaire
Hagnum P.I.: A TV show about a hag who is a private detective living in a mansion in Hawaii with a stuffy British guy and two dobermans

I am happy to report that Liz, an adult now, survived all those adolescent storms. Storms come and storms go and sometimes they leave behind something exquisite and beautiful. That's my Lizzie.

I Love My Coffee

This one's for Cherie.

(I love you anyway.)

Wild Thing

It's Groundhog Day and I'm poking my head out of my burrow. There are shadows all around, but I'm going to try to come out of the warmth and safety of hibernation a little more frequently, knowing that longer, brighter, warmer days are ahead.

To update you on the most important things: Joe's dad is a model patient and, though they won't know for another 4 months or so if his heart will return to its normal size and function, he has been able to resume many of his usual activities, albeit on a reduced schedule. We are grateful that it wasn't time for him to leave us yet. We are looking forward to a weekend "up north" with him and six of Joe's seven siblings in a couple of weeks.

Joe is still unemployed, but things are starting to percolate again and he is getting calls and being interviewed. He has a superb network of friends and associates who are looking for jobs on his behalf and giving rave reviews when called upon as references. He has said more than once that he feels sort of like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life." It's hard to describe, but picture being knocked flat on your face and when you turn to get back up, there are more hands than you can count reaching down to help you up. It's no surprise, really. Joe is one of those people who goes through life caring for and valuing others. If you're lucky enough to be his friend, he's got your back. And I guess they've got his.

I sure didn’t know that my “little break” would stretch past the two-month mark. I guess I got a little overwhelmed with the many changes that have recently occurred in our life. Not surprisingly, I felt a certain amount of grief for Joe’s situation. Even though I know good things will come to him on the job front, I was sad to see a job he loved come to an end. Surprisingly, the thing that has overwhelmed me the most is a residual grief of sorts over an event that brought me a huge sense of relief: the death of my grandmother. She was an untreated paranoid schizophrenic and very difficult to care for. But I did, all by myself, for 15 years. I am learning that death doesn’t bring instant closure.

These past two months of Joe's unemployment have been a little slice of heaven. Thank God we like each other! It's quite a leap to go from a normal 5-day work week routine to 24/7 togetherness. As the time has stretched on, our lack of routine has become the new routine.

If I had to list my most favorite little part of our routineless routine, it would probably be what happens many mornings when I come down the stairs for that first cup of coffee. Joe often gets up a few minutes before I do and gets the coffee brewing. In our kitchen is a musical button that Liz got for me last year as a joke.

The back story on the button: For a time my cell phone ring was "Wild Thing." I chose that setting because a) I'm so NOT a Wild Thing; and b) my cell phone hardly ever rings. When I was having a routine eye exam a little over a year ago, I had my cell phone in the breast pocket of a denim shirt I was wearing. We were at that point in the exam where the lights were dimmed and the cute young doctor and I were nose to nose, separated only by that big clunky apparatus that I, the patient was looking into while he, the doctor looked deeply into my eyes as he changed the settings on said apparatus and quizzed me on how things appeared. At that point my phone, which I had forgotten to silence, began to ring loudly, filling the room with its rendition of "Wild Thing! You make my heart sing! Etc., etc., etc." I tried to ignore it and pretend I didn't hear anything, but the doctor leaned around the clunky apparatus and, with a twinkle in his eye and eyebrows waggling asked, "So... is that, like, your theme song?" I was glad the lights were dimmed because I know I was beet red.

When Liz came upon a "Wild Thing" musical button at the Hallmark shop, she couldn't resist and one now sits on the kitchen window sill. It has become the routine that when I come down the stairs and Joe is in the kitchen by the coffee maker, he will hit the button and I will descend in style to my theme song.

Evidently, I am Wild Thing. At least to Joe. Hear me roar.

Name That Tune

Wouldn’t it be fun if every once in a while, life was like a musical and you knew precisely what you should be doing next because everyone around you suddenly broke into song? Everyone would know the words, of course, as well as all the moves to the complicated yet perfectly choreographed dance that would accompany the song.

Or maybe just a little background music now and then to provide a little clarity. You know, a happy, jaunty little tune when things are going along without a hitch like, say, when you’re at the grocery store and you’re trying to decide between the blueberry muffins or the chocolate cupcakes. Cue a few ominous notes, however, when you turn down an aisle and are about to encounter someone else’s contrails.

Life is full of change and the more it changes, the more I learn that, well, it just keeps on changing. When Lizzie left I was looking forward to whatever comes next. I still am. And now so is Joe. The company he has been with for the past 10 years was sold recently and his job responsibilities are moving to Boston at the end of November. We are not.

I’m thinking it would be kind of nice if tomorrow morning when we came downstairs in search of that first cup of coffee, we were greeted by a nice group of people who could sing and dance at us to give us a few clues about what comes next.

Well, maybe they could wait until after that first cup of coffee…

Note To Self

Self, do NOT try to boil an egg in the microwave.

(Boom!)

There was a time when I knew that. But this morning I guess I forgot.

*sigh*

Cleanup On Aisle 7

There oughta be a law.

This morning I was innocently doing my grocery shopping and I turned down the chip aisle, heading straight for the Doritos. Suddenly, I was gasping, coughing, and my eyes began to water. I had just walked into someone else’s fart cloud.

There were three or four people further down the aisle in front of me, none of whom were looking particularly guilty. Worse, there were two people coming up behind me.

Damn the Doritos! Full speed ahead!

I didn’t want them to think I did it!

I went to a completely different section of the grocery store and tried to get a new start and a fresh perspective, but the stealthy stinker made his presence known two more times before I completed my shopping. I have no proof, of course, but I narrowed down the field of suspects to three different people who were always in the vicinity when the aromatic assaults occurred. I couldn’t get away!

Since I believed complaining to the store manager would be futile, all I could do was try to steer clear of the offender. I did glare meaningfully in their direction a couple of times for good measure, but to no avail.

Public farting is certainly not the biggest scourge on society and I’m not suggesting it should be a felony offense. But dang, shouldn’t there at least be a few rules or some sort of etiquette for when the ill wind blows? Like if you absolutely can’t hold it in, for heaven’s sake, aim high and away from other people! And maybe carry a sign to warn folks if you’re particularly potent on any given day.

Or just stay home.

Give a hoot (not a toot). Don't pollute!

4, 3, 2, 1...

We leave for Paradise in 4 days.

I can’t remember when I have been this excited for something. Every cell in my body is jumping and buzzing with anticipation. I wake up every morning and feel kind of like I might implode or spontaneously combust out of sheer excitement.

The first week after we dropped Lizzie off at school I just sort of shut down physically and mentally. It went beyond missing my baby girl. After all, it IS the goal – we raise them to leave us. And it is a good thing when they grow up and are ready to leave home, especially when they do so as gracefully as she has. She is ready. We are ready. But it still hurts to let go.

I think I shut down because I am tired. For the first time in over two years, I don’t have anything major looming on the horizon that requires getting ready for, responding to, recovering from, or acting on. The biggest adjustment, of course, comes from losing the roles of caregiver to the last child at home and my grandma. The child is an adult and the grandma was in a nursing home, so it’s not like these were full-time roles in the physical sense. But for about half of my lifetime I was the first responder for the good, the bad and the ugly with my children, and my grandma was thrown into the mix for 15 of those years. Sadly, the bad and the ugly outweighed the good with Grandma. But that’s a whole ‘nother post…

I woke up every morning this week tired. My body actually ached. My neck, my back, my stomach – everything. Oh, and in case I wasn’t having enough fun, I stressed myself into being two weeks late and had to take a pregnancy test. Wouldn’t that have been a blast – drop the baby off at college and then have another one! Whee!

*sigh*

Happily, I am feeling great now.

The island awaits.

Brace yourselves for happy chatter and photos galore.

Aloha!

Numb and Number

It wasn't pretty, but it's done.

The goodbyes have been said and Liz is safely ensconced in her new college surroundings.

For the first time in over 23 years, I am a mom without kids to interact with daily.

Liz will be fine. And so will her parents.

But dang, that was hard.

I Do All My Own Nude Scenes

But not in public and never in a crowd.

A few of you have suggested for our upcoming vacation that I forego the swimsuit altogether and go to the beach in my altogether. As carefree and fun as that sounds, the only thing worse to me than the idea of being naked in public is the thought of being naked in public in a crowd.

Obviously, there are plenty of people in the world who prefer the nude scene to the more conventional and clothed way of life, but for me, um… no. For one thing, where do you put your keys? Your money? Your phone? And where do you look when you’re talking to someone. I am easily distracted and I get the giggles reeeally easily. I have a feeling I would be distracted and see things that would strike me as funny. I also have a weak stomach and I have a feeling I would see things that would make me a little queasy.

A few years ago I read about a group of nudists who chartered a plane to the Bahamas or some other such fun place. The deal was that once the plane reached an altitude of 30,000 feet, everyone could take off their clothes. Once they began their descent, I guess they had to put them back on.

Just think about this for a minute. Unless you’re traveling first class, there isn’t a lot of room in those seats. There is usually a fair amount of inadvertent bumping and jostling that goes on, and without the containment factor that clothing offers, there would be more things to bump and jostle.

And what if you’re stuck in the middle and the guy next to the window has to use the restroom? What is the etiquette? Does he put his rear end in your face as he squeezes by or his, um…

What if the hot coffee spills in your lap? Or the ice-cold Coke? What if you drop your pretzels or nuts?

How do they clean the plane when the nudists have departed? Do you want to sit on the upholstered seat that was recently occupied by a fanny au naturel?

There is a reason when I wake up from one of those I’m-out-in-public-and-just-realized-I’m-naked dreams that I call it a bad dream. I'm fairly comfortable in my own skin, but I don't think I will ever be too sexy for my shirt or any other article of clothing, at least not in public. And I’m ok with that.

Besides, with my luck, the day I decide to parade around in my birthday suit on the beach will be the day the cops are out enforcing the “no public nudity” law and I’d be arrested, finger-and-who-knows-what-else-printed and a CNN camera crew would just happen to be passing by.

Aloha!

On the heels of dropping our youngest off at college in a few weeks, Joe and I are taking a dream vacation to Hawaii. Just the two of us. We consider it a belated 25th anniversary gift to each other, as well as a grand way to initiate ourselves into the realm of empty-nesters. It will be a welcome retreat from one of the most exhausting years we’ve ever had, and it will also serve as a brief procrastinatory tool for me as I put off figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. The baby is leaving the nest and I no longer have to take care of my grandma… a double whammy of sorts for me.

Joe will play a lot of golf and I plan on becoming a semi-permanent fixture on the beach. I might even (attempt to) play one round of golf with Joe, just to say I played one of the courses at Turtle Bay.

We are leaving in less than six weeks and I am on a mission to find a new swimsuit.

Oh.

Em.

Gee.

Trying on swimsuits in front of a full-length mirror makes me think, “Who cares about things like Global Warming when there is an even bigger problem occurring on this planet? Too Much Gravity.” The rate at which the gravitational forces have increased over these last 20 years leads me to believe that 20 years from now I will be dragging my rear end behind me and tripping over my—well, never mind.

Victoria’s Secret is going to have to come up with an entire new line of anti-gravity foundation garments. Kiss the lace goodbye, ladies, we’re looking at new technology that will involve ropes, pulleys, wheels, and maybe even hydraulic mechanisms.

Meanwhile, I think I will abandon the swimsuit idea and just call Omar the Tentmaker to see if he can make me something cool and airy to wear on the beach.

*sigh*

Got You On My Mind

Today is our 25th wedding anniversary. He is in Boston and I am here.

*sigh*

Happy Anniversary, Baby! Hurry up and come home!

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It's been a crazy busy summer around here... My parents are packing up to leave tomorrow morning after a wonderul 2-week visit here with us. We buried Nana's ashes last week and I am almost finished settling her affairs. (A great deal of energy was expended on my part worrying about the prospect of seeing some unkind relatives at my grandma's service, but I was spared when they didn't show up or acknowledge her death.) Next up will be getting Liz ready for dorm life. After that, a much needed vacation for Joe and me.

In addition to or as a result of all the chaos recently, I have been in a bit of a funk. When I can't write, I know I'm in a gloomy place in my head.

It happens.

And then it passes.

And that is good.

Thank You

Thank you to all who have left such kind comments on the passing of my grandma, or passed comments on to me through Joe. Your words are comforting and I treasure them and you for taking the time to express them.

And thank you, Cherie, for the beautiful tribute you put on your blog. I don’t know what could have been more perfect than to watch a little girl sing so purely the song that has come to define my grandma.

I am up to my ears in making the funeral arrangements, cleaning out her living space, sorting her things, and making the necessary phone calls. Her possessions are few at this point, as they got pared down with each move into a different part of the facility she was in as her care needs increased and her need for “stuff” decreased.

Over the past 15 years, many times I have found myself ears-deep in dealing with everything involved with each health crisis, each hospitalization and each move. I can do this one last time. But I am tired.

Someday maybe I will write about my grandma. There are many stories to tell... but not yet.

I will see you… later. I almost said I will see you when things calm down, but that seems to be the running joke around here. So I will just see you later.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

My Nana died today. I am honored to have been by her side during the process. And that’s what dying is, a living, breathing process.

A nurse from the assisted living facility called me yesterday morning to tell me that they thought the end was near. Anyone who has stayed by the side of one going through the dying process knows that “near” can mean anything from 10 minutes to 10 days to 10 weeks, etc., for it is impossible to know the length of one’s journey.

Naturally, when they called, I had just gotten off the elliptical trainer and was sweating like a pig. These kinds of situations never pop up right when you’re leaving the hair salon, looking good and feeling fine. I flew to the shower to get cleaned up, fearing I would not arrive in time, not wanting my grandma to be alone. I needed her to know that someone who loved her was with her. Maybe I needed her to know that more than she needed to know that, but I felt a desperate urgency to get to her.

So I hurried and rushed and cried all the way to the assisted living facility. I walked into her room to find her sleeping. She slept all day. A parade of kind people made a point of stopping in, having heard that she was leaving soon, to tell me how much they loved her. Nurses, aides, hospice workers – they all wanted to say goodbye. The hospice chaplain came and prayed with me. I cried until I didn’t think I could ever cry again. Nana slept through all of it.

At some point in the afternoon, when I finished a phone conversation, I saw a frail old woman sitting in her walker seat right outside my grandma’s door. She was weeping. She had been making her way slowly down the hall and when she got to Nana’s room, she knew what was happening and she wept. I held her hand and we cried together for a few minutes, and then she slowly continued on her way down the hall. I was so touched that this woman would weep for my grandma.

Nana continued to sleep all through the day. Then something magical happened. Sometime during the evening, while my cousin sat with me, Nana opened her eyes. She looked right at me. And she smiled. She smiled! She knew I was there! What a gift that is to me. She slipped in and out of this eyes-open awareness as the night went on, and I told her I wasn’t going to leave. I told her what was happening and that very soon she would be with her beloved Susie, the daughter she lost to a brain tumor when she was 8 years old. I held Susie’s picture up for her to see while I spoke, hoping she could understand. She stared and stared at that picture. I called my mom and held the phone to Nana’s ear so she could hear the sound of her eldest daughter’s voice one last time.

Eventually she was no longer opening her eyes. Her breathing was becoming labored, and she seemed to be wincing in pain and becoming agitated. I became agitated as well, not trusting myself to know what to do. Thankfully, my cousin, who had recently traveled this road with her dad, made a phone call to the hospice nurse and she arrived shortly thereafter. Thus began the morphine doses, and with that, I realized I would not likely see "her" again. And I didn’t. She slipped into a coma but she seemed peaceful.

I stayed the night in her room, making the best of a recliner and a fan, trying to keep comfortable in the over-heated room. The room could have been somewhat cooler if I had been able to keep the door open, but if I kept the door open, Bruce would wander in. Bruce is a very young Alzheimer patient. He is sweet and friendly and has absolutely no boundaries. He is a child trapped in the body of an at most 60-some-year old man. I am told that he was once a brilliant man and an avid golfer, stripped by a cruel disease of his brilliance and ability to know what to do with a golf club. He wanders the halls endlessly, for what else is there to do? As I said, he is young when you compare him to the other ancient residents. He rearranges the furniture in the lounge. He pushes chairs up and down the hall. He goes in and out of other people’s rooms. He sets off the alarm on the emergency exit countless times each day. He chats with anyone who will listen, even though his chatting consists mostly of jibberish. He is so sweet it makes your heart squeeze, but he is a handful. His main fascination with my grandma’s room seemed to be the two baby dolls she has toted around for the last couple of years. I was told that he recently became a grandpa to brand new baby twins, and those dolls made him think of his grandbabies. Before the staff was able to get him to stay in his bed and go to sleep he made countless trips to Nana’s room last night, but my cousin became quite adept at ushering him out, chatting with him, and distracting him long enough to get him back to his own room.

I think I might have slept last night for two hours or so, if you tallied up the minutes here and there that I was able to doze off. In the early hours of the morning when I was, indeed, asleep, I awoke to the sound of the door closing, only to discover Bruce was back again, looking for those dolls.

At that point I gave up on the idea of sleep and watched the day dawn through the cracks in the blinds on the window. Gradually the building came to life with the sounds of the residents waking up and breakfast being served. Nana was comatose, no longer reacting to having her forehead stroked or her dry lips swabbed.

An aide from the hospice came and gave my grandma a sponge bath. She did so with a tenderness and compassion befitting the finality of the occasion. I took comfort in knowing that Nana was clean and comfy as she continued on her journey.

My cousin came back bearing GOOD coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a couple of newspapers. We visited for a bit and then Bruce spotted us and made a beeline for his new best friend, my cousin.

In the early afternoon, the music therapist from the hospice came by to tell me how much she was going to miss Nana and she offered to sing “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” to her. She knew that was my grandma’s favorite, and when I explained that she loved it because it had been Susie’s favorite, she offered to sing it to her one last time… “Somewhere over the rainbow... Skies are blue... And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true…” More tears.

Nana’s breathing became more and more mechanical. It was sort of like listening to a respirator, only it varied: deep, deep, deep; shallow, shallow, shallow; then nothing. During the nothing periods, I would look and see her carotid artery pulsating, and she would eventually go back into the cycle of deep… shallow… nothing. The nothing stages grew longer and longer, but still I could see the pulse in her neck.

One of the facility’s aides, a wonderful young man named Bosco, had been very attentive all day, both to my grandma’s needs and mine. “How can I make her more comfortable?” “What can I get for you?” A little after two in the afternoon he came in to check on Nana. He shifted her position on the bed and swabbed out her mouth. He told me how much he had enjoyed getting to know my grandma and he administered her medication. We chatted for a few more minutes until my cell phone rang.

It was my dad calling from Oregon to check on things. Not five minutes into the conversation with my dad Nana took a huge deep breath and then she stopped breathing. As always, I looked at her neck for that little pulsating spot. Nothing. I looked longer. Nothing. “Hang on, Dad. I think she’s gone. Let me call you back.” I put my hand on her chest and she made a couple more noises in her throat, but still no pulse. Nothing. She was gone. I went and got Bosco and he couldn’t believe she was gone so quickly after he had just tended to her weak but living, breathing body. He bowed his head and prayed over her body and that touched me deeply.

I called my parents back and my mom answered and I told her that her mother was gone. We blubbered at each other for a moment and agreed we would talk later. I called Joe. I called my cousin. Someone else called the cavalry because the room was soon crowded with people giving me hugs.

While I waited for Joe, I looked for Bruce. When I found him, I gave him Nana's baby dolls. He was delighted and immediately kissed them and tried to feed them his ice cream bar. It makes me happy to know they will be loved.

Next thing I knew the funeral home was calling me to tell me they would come at my convenience to collect my grandma’s body. I waited for Joe to arrive and then I called them. They came. Bruce hovered at the door. He looked sad. He knew it was sad. Bless his heart. The funeral home people closed the door and I watched them carefully wrap Nana up and cover her body with a regal red cloth. We followed them down the hall and aides and residents stopped to watch with an air of reverence and awe. Determined to stay with Nana to the very end, as I had promised I would, I watched them load her into the van and drive away.

As I said, I was honored to accompany Nana as far as I could on this journey. I will never forget our final hours together and I will never forget that final breath.

I am emotional, but I am not sad. I am picturing the reunion Nana is having with Susie and the rejoicing that is going on in heaven with her arrival. The rejoicing that is going on Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

[This is all so fresh. I had to write it down before it disappeared into the crevices of my brain. It’s choppy and disjointed and deeply personal which, as some of you know, means it might disappear from my blog as my track record with deeply personal posts in the past demonstrates. I am not looking for people to tell me I’m a saint for taking care of my grandma. For some reason that's what people say when they hear about Nana and me -- that I'm a saint, I've earned my wings or halo, blah, blah, blah. I disagree. She needed me and I was here. It was the right thing to do. I just needed to talk about it because I’m awash in the experience.]

Rumbles and Booms

It was a dark and stormy night…

No, really it was. Sideways rain, lots of lightning, big thunder, cows flying through the air. No, there weren’t really any cows flying through the air, but the tornado sirens went off and I've seen The Wizard of Oz and Twister, so it could have happened.

The sirens sound in our town whenever there is a severe thunderstorm warning and if we ever do have a tornado, I’m not sure how many folks will pay attention. I always do because I love wild weather and as much as I want to see a tornado, I don’t want to meet one. So usually at the first rumble of thunder, I’ve got my computer on and my radar pages up so I know exactly how excited to get.

Last night the storm was loud enough to wake me up and as I lay in bed listening to rhythm of the falling rain, telling me just what a fool I was – I mean listening to the rain and the growing thunder, I counted. One, two, three, four, five… Was I counting to measure how far away the lightning was? No, I was counting to see how far away Lizzie was. It’s a time-honored tradition in this house that if there is a big middle-of-the-night storm, the kid(s) will come to me. Sure enough, in a thunder lull, I heard the tap-tap-tap at the door and Lizzie came in. I got up and on our way downstairs, the sirens went off. I told Lizzie to go back and tell Joe that the sirens were going off, though that is sort of like telling a rock that the wind is blowing. Having grown up in Minnesota, Joe is fairly laid back about the whole storm scene here. Not careless, just more relaxed than I ever could be. I love storms too much to want to miss them!

I remember the first “tornado watch” that was issued shortly after we moved to Minnesota several years ago. It was to be in effect until 1:00 a.m. and do you know what Joe did? He went to bed at his normal time! I couldn’t believe it. How could the man just go to sleep and risk waking up in Oz? I stayed up and waited for the storm. If we were going to Oz, I wanted to stay up and watch. When the storm arrived, eight-year-old Peter was awakened and we snuggled on the couch and enjoyed the most vibrant electrical storm I think either one of us has ever seen. And that began the tradition of these middle-of-the-night storm watchings.

Peter is married now and living happily ever after with his bride, and Lizzie is leaving in the fall for college. I know I still won’t sleep through the middle-of-the-night storms, but I wonder if I’ll get up to watch them alone.

Well, maybe just a little to make sure there are no flying cows.

If A Tree Falls In The Forest...

If a bee gets into the house and nobody is home but Pam, does she make any sound?

That question was answered yesterday with a resounding shriek. Well, several actually. I was home alone, sitting on the sofa in the family room, minding my own business when I became aware of a very large bee hitting the window. The wrong side of the window.

Arming myself with a shoe, I bravely, yet cautiously approached the window with every intention of smashing the bee to smithereens. "I can do this," I thought. "I MUST do this, I added." Then the bee buzzed, the shoe flew up in the air, the flailing and shrieking began, and I found myself locked in the bathroom.

It occurred to me that if I was in the bathroom, the bee would have full run of the house and the thought of not knowing where it would end up was slightly more horrifying than the thought of doing battle with it. Besides, I KNEW that bee would go upstairs to my bedroom and wait in my bed. It's in cahoots with the spiders, you see, and they are forever conspiring to terrorize me... I am so on to them.

I peeked out the bathroom door to make sure the bee wasn't hovering nearby and when the coast was clear I made a run for the broom closet where I knew I'd find a can of Whoop-Ass -- I mean wasp and hornet killer. (That's not very ladylike, but I've always wanted to be able to say that I "opened up a can of Whoop-Ass" ever since I heard that phrase.)

Back to the family room I went. The bee buzzed and bonked the window and I stood poised, can of W.A. aimed at the window, just waiting for him to land. He did, and I sprayed and I shrieked. And missed. He buzzed and bonked and landed again and I sprayed and shrieked again. And missed again. This went on for about a minute, buzzing, bonking, spraying, missing, and shrieking. (My shrieker seems to be wired to my trigger finger.) Finally there was so much spray and foam on the window (and wall), that it was puddling in the window track. The bee eventually made enough contact with it that he succumbed and fell into the puddle and died.

I had a brief moment of feeling bad for the bee, wondering if he left a bee wife and bee kids behind, but then I got over it.

Maybe part of my love of the ocean stems from the fact that there are not very many bugs on the beach. I did find a stingray on the beach once (on the Oregon coast, of all places), but he was easy enough to avoid and he couldn't chase me.

Loss of dignity through involuntary shrieking and spazzing is one of the reasons I don't garden, go on picnics, or go hiking through the woods.

*shudder*

Get me to a beach.

54 Years!

Today my parents are celebrating their 54th wedding anniversary. They met when they were 12 and my dad says he can still remember what my mom was wearing that day. They went on their first “date” in the 7th grade, which consisted of walking to the movie theater to see “Gallant Bess,” followed by a soda at the neighborhood drugstore. (That was the same drugstore where I met my husband many years later!) After dating on and off all the way through high school, they eloped when they were 19.

Happy Happy Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Freeze Tag

I’ve been tagged by Joan to come up with 10 interesting habits or facts about myself in a friendly game of Freeze Tag and then tag 10 other people who have not been tagged yet. So ready or not, here's my list:

1) I lived in 4 different states and one American Territory and went to 7 different schools before graduating from high school.

2) I once lived in Pago Pago, American Samoa. (That would be the American Territory.)

3) I took hula lessons when I was a kid and became the top performer of the Tahitian dance in my class. I could really shake my booty.

4) Not only can I shake my booty, but I can shake my eyeballs – this comes in handy when I want people to think I’m putting a hex on them.

5) I never get full when I eat tacos. If I make them at home, I am always the last one eating because I just keep eating until we run out of taco shells. It’s embarrassing. Some day I want to find out exactly how many tacos it would take to fill me up or make me explode. I’m hoping I would get full before exploding, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

6) I’m afraid of spiders, mice and bees especially when they’re in the house.

7) My feet are always cold. (Unless I’m on warm pavement or a tropical beach.)

8) I’m allergic to anything with fur or feathers. And cockroach carcass dust. (Yes, I was tested for that when we lived in Hawaii and my reaction was off the charts. They also tested me for food allergies at that time and there were only 4 foods I did not show a sensitivity to: lamb, pears, rice and green beans.)

9) My husband and I were born at the same hospital, a little less than two months apart. Our mothers, who did not know each other, had two different doctors who were partners in the same practice. (It is conceivable that we could have been just feet apart from each other while our mothers sat in the waiting room while pregnant with us!) Our birth certificates were filled out by hand by the same person. Our mothers share the same birth date, one year apart.

10) I can write backwards rather fluidly.

That was hard but here’s the harder part…coming up with 10 people who haven’t been tagged yet. Okay…here goes: Mom; Cherie; Allie; Lisa; Sandy; Lucy’s Mom; Ann; 3inone; Chili Pepper; and Rohan. Have fun!

The Duck Whisperer

A couple of weeks ago when Joe and I were leaving the bank, I saw a duck. We see ducks and geese all over the place around here, so it’s not like it was the first time I’d ever seen one. But this duck was just sitting there in a little grassy spot at the edge of the parking lot. An odd place for a duck. Maybe it was an odd duck. Or maybe it was hurt.

“Look!” I said to Joe. “A duck! Wait a minute, is it a duck?" We were quite a ways away and I squinted and tried to focus. "It looks like a duck… But what is it doing just sitting there?” I went back and forth on the subject and Joe didn’t agree or disagree. Like so many times, I babbled while he just tried to make sense of the moment.

We continued on our way, cautiously approaching the duck, and I continued to debate whether it was indeed a duck. “It is a duck… isn't it? Oh – look! It just moved its head. It's totally a duck!”

We didn’t want to scare it, especially if it was hurt. But if it wasn’t hurt, what a dumb duck to just sit there at the edge of the parking lot.

Finally we were in close enough proximity to the duck that it should have quacked or flapped or flown or waddled away. But it didn’t.

Probably because it wasn't a duck.

It was an old wool hat.

*sigh*

I remember when my mother started to occasionally greet a bright flowering shrub or say hello to a jacket that she forgot she draped over the back of a chair outside while she gardened. At first glance she thought she was seeing someONE, not someTHING. As I get older and my eyesight betrays me now and then, I hope I’m like my mom and that my first instinct is to be cheerful and friendly. Or helpful on those occasions when I come upon wounded or scared ducks. Or hats.

Another Dumb Ad

Have you heard about Sally Field's friend? You know, the one who has to set aside time every week to take a pill to fight osteoporosis. That poor woman. I can only imagine the chaos and upheaval this has caused in her life. I mean, think of it:

Every.

Single.

Week.

She has to take a pill.

And she has to set aside time to do this. That must be one honkin' huge pill...

Well, I need to go now. It's time to take my vitamins. I take them

Every.

Single.

Day.

And since I take a multivitamin, vitamin C, and calcium, you can imagine how long I'm going to be tied up.

If I don't write for a while, you'll know why.

Bonk!

Yesterday I got a bee in my bonnet and decided something MUST be done about the basement. This happens every once in a while and what it amounts to is shoving things around and rearranging the clutter. But each time we do it, more things get sorted and tossed and little by little, the space is becoming less chaotic.

Liz came down to help and one of the projects we tackled was to sort piles of books and put them on some shelves. Right above the shelves hangs a hurky piece of exercise equipment – it’s an attachment to an even hurkier contraption to do some sort of chesty, army type exercises. (Can you tell I never use it?) It’s big and it’s mostly metal and it just hangs there, usually out of the way.

We were sitting beneath said piece of equipment sorting away and at one point Liz said, “Mom, be careful when you stand up so you don’t bump your head.” Twenty minutes later when the sorting was done, Lizzie stood up and went bonk. And it was a BIG bonk. Down she went to her knees, clutching her head and rocking in agony. A few minutes later when she was sufficiently recovered and we determined that she did not have any obvious brain damage, she stood up and bonked again! Unbelievable! (What was I saying about brain damage...?)

Joe helped her up the stairs and put her on the couch where she stayed for a long time. I puttered around and finished up in the basement and then do you know what I did? I stood up and went bonk! I absolutely couldn’t believe it!

It was sort of like being trapped in a Three Stooges movie, but poor Lizzie had to play the part of two stooges since we were missing one.

The only thing I can think of is that both Lizzie and I are sort of short and we never bump our heads. The concept of ducking doesn't come naturally to us. But the next time we clean the basement, we're wearing helmets.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...

Earlier this week I got on the scale and discovered that somewhere during the course of these last 3 weeks I lost 4 pounds. I am the kind of person who gains weight from thinking about food, looking at food and smelling food, so this was sort of a nice surprise.

But this means I must re-assess things and come up with a new name. Montana Fanny had a nice ring to it – it sounded almost heroic. But I feel compelled to downsize to a smaller state. Not a small state like Rhode Island, but just a less large state, like maybe... Oregon? Colorado? Illinois? Florida? Perhaps I should consider shape… Oregon and Colorado are kind of boxy, Illinois is downright droopy and Florida is, well, um… no. This will take some serious consideration.

Meanwhile, in keeping with the alter-ego theme, if you promise not to tell anyone, I will reveal my secret identity. Most people know me as Pam, mild-mannered wife, mother and everyday gal. But give me a crisis, and I turn into (drum roll, please):

“Paah-Mel-Ah! Super Ham!” *

About 20 years ago my big brother Gregg, an artist, elevated me to hapless superhero status when I did something amazing: I ran over myself with my own car. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t pretty, and I don’t recommend that you try this at home. Thanks to Gregg, my escapades that day have been forever immortalized in the form of a comic book.

In the illustration above you can see the instant transformation from everyday wife and mother to my superhero persona. Note the utilitarian ensemble: pan helmet to conceal identity and protect the head; one-piece long-johns (complete with button-up drop-seat that cannot be seen from this angle); bath towel cape; oven mitt gloves; and oversized galoshes. They may look like everyday items you would find in your closets and cupboards, but when assembled and worn properly, they enable me to muddle through misfortune with a flair.

The day I ran over myself began like any other day. The sky was blue and the birds were singing. There was no ominous background music indicating any sort of planetary misalignment or foreboding sense of doom. I went to my parents’ house to drop something off, got out of the car, and as I was walking up the driveway, the neighbor said over the fence, “Um, excuse me, but I think your car is rolling away.” I dropped what I was carrying and chased the car. It rolled into the street and when I caught up to it, I opened the door and tried to stick my foot inside to hit the brakes. But the door knocked me down and the car rolled right over me.

You’d be amazed at how many thoughts you can have while you’re being run over by your own car. Everything from, “Wow, I’ve never seen the tires from this angle before,” to “Tomorrow’s headline: 'Dork runs over self and dies.'”

You’d also be amazed at how many thoughts you can have when you realize you’re not dead and you pick yourself up and continue chasing your runaway car. Everything from, “My shoe fell off! Where’s my shoe?” to “Headline correction: 'Dork runs over self and lives. Dies hour later from embarrassment.'”

In my attempt to hit the brakes, as I was falling to the ground I must have turned the steering wheel because the car made a wide U-turn and drove backwards up the neighbors’ driveway and slammed into their pickup truck. With a crash and a crunch, the adventure was over.

When the neighbors began coming outside to see what all the commotion was about, I stood there holding my shoe and wishing I could spontaneously combust or evaporate. I contemplated my options for escaping further embarrassment… We could pack up and move to another country, or better yet, to another planet. I could change my name and have extensive cosmetic surgery and hope nobody would recognize me. I wondered if there a witness protection type program for stupid people.

In the end I apologized profusely to my parents’ very nice neighbor for smashing his truck, Joe was called and informed of my botched feat of derring-do, and a debate was had as to whether an ambulance should be called for me. Aside from my pride, my injuries were minor, so I turned down the ambulance and opted to go home. My back, shoulders, elbows and arms were scraped and bruised, I had tire tread marks imprinted on my legs -- complete with embedded bits of gravel, and I had a big gash in my foot.

I have not had to save the world from myself or my car since that day, but I know that in the event of another disaster, Paah-Mel-Ah lurks within me, ready to spring into action. This knowledge does nothing to boost my confidence, but it gives me hope that at least there will be something to laugh about when the dust settles.

(* "Paah-Mel-Ah" is a nickname my dad has always called me, and the "Super Ham" part comes from the name-calling Gregg and I engaged in when we were little. He was "Gregg, egg, stupid egg," and I was "Pam, ham, stupid ham." Real clever, I know. But we were four and five years old at the time, so cut us some slack. I also have another big brother named Jeff. I could never think of any foods that rhymed with Jeff -- the best I could do was waffle because it had two Fs. But "Jeff, waffle, stupid waffle" never even seemed to faze him.)

It's My Party...

Nothing rounds out a good old fashioned pity party like throwing a good old fashioned temper tantrum.

Yesterday was the day I was determined to get out of the house. I NEEDED to get out of the house. So Joe and I decided on three stores we would go to, all of which are located in the same area and none of which would require power shopping.

First we stopped at Office Max because he needed to pick up some supplies for work. As I have mentioned before in an earlier post, I love the stationery/office supply aisle at just about any store, so if you put me in a store that has nothing but stationery/office supply aisles, I’m like a kid in a candy store. (And I’m happy to report that our Office Max does not carry bras.) Anyway, we wandered and lingered and we picked up a few things before we headed to our next stop a couple of doors down: Barnes & Noble. I love bookstores even more than I love stationery/office supply stores, so I was getting happier by the minute. Unfortunately, I was also getting pretty tired. My first adventure outside of the house in two-plus weeks was fun but I was quickly reaching my limit as far as energy goes. So we cut things short at Barnes & Noble and headed to our final stop, the grocery store to pick up a few items.

A few items turned into a whole cart full of groceries and by the time we checked out, I was reeeally feeling wiped out. This was one of those high-end grocery stores where you pay extra for great service and a fancier atmosphere. Not the place we buy the bulk of our groceries, but we are willing to spend a little extra now and then to save some time and energy. They always have enough checkers, they bag everything for you, and they have the drive-up service to pick up your groceries. You pull your car up and give them the numbered tags that match the numbered bins that contain your groceries. They load them into your trunk and off you drive into the sunset to live happily ever after.

On our way out of the grocery store I did something I never do. I tossed the receipt into the trash receptacle as we left the store. I usually wad it up at the bottom of my purse and never see it again until I finally can't find anything in my purse because of all the wadded up receipts in there. But for some reason this time I found myself clutching it in my hand as we walked out, so I just tossed it into the trash. We got to the car, pulled up to the pick-up lane, handed our numbered tags to the saggy-pantsed, mop-headed, young boys who were working the loading dock. They put the bags in the trunk and we headed for home. I was very tired by this time and I looked forward to getting comfy and lying down for a bit.

We got the groceries into the house and began unpacking the bags. Liz pulled out an odd-looking loaf of currant bread and thought, “Hmmm… maybe Mom likes this stuff. (shrug) Whatever.” Joe pulled out a bag of clementines and thought, “Hmmm… I don’t remember clementines in our cart, but maybe Pam grabbed them at the last minute.” Then I pulled out some wildly curly, dark green, leafy thing and I thought, “Hmmm… I didn’t put this into our cart and there is no way in the world Joe would have put something so healthy in our cart on purpose.” Then it dawned on us. We had someone else’s groceries! Two bags were ours and three bags were not.

Aarrgghhh! We had to go back out. I had visions of having to dig through the trash to find the receipt so we could figure out what we had at home and what was missing and I had visions of having to wander around the store re-shopping for the missing items that we already paid for.

I was so tired and so ready to just be done being out and about… I did what any rational adult would do in this situation. I absolutely lost my composure, my mind, and almost my already squeaky voice. I had my mole hill and by golly, I was going to make it into a mountain. I was like a 4-year-old on steroids. I yelled, I stormed, I stomped, I almost threw clementines. I was madder than a hornet and if I was a hornet, someone would have gotten stung. (Pity the poor soul who gets stung with a stinger the size of Montana!) Even as I was having my meltdown I knew how ridiculous I was being and yet I kept going because I was on a roll and, well, it was my pity party and I could rant if I want to, rant if I want to. (You would rant too if it happened to you. Da-da-da-da-da!) I railed against the incompetence of the saggy-pantsed, mop-headed, young boys and how they could possibly fail to do something so simple as to match two numbered tags to two numbered bins. And somewhere between “it’s not rocket science”... “of all the incompetent, dunder-headed nincompoops in the world”... “these young men have the combined IQ of a head of lettuce” and “they are a menace to society,” I began to feel better.

Joe called the store as we drove back with the wrong groceries in the trunk. They were expecting us. Fortunately they had not given our groceries to someone else, so all we had to do was pull up and swap the bags out. I'm not sure how things worked out for the poor folks whose groceries we were given... Hopefully they were more laid back about the mistake than the lunatic who briefly had their groceries in her possession.

Sometimes out of irrational, ridiculous rants comes laughter. It was the perfect way to end my pity party. And I am glad to report that I'm happier in my head today. Embarrassed, but happier.

(P.S. No saggy-pantsed, mop-headed young boys were harmed in the unfolding of these events. The opinions expressed in the privacy of the author's home during her rant are not really even the opinions of the author. She is usually more patient and understanding when mistakes are made, especially by saggy-pantsed, mop-headed young boys. Irritated, maybe, but kind-hearted. Unfortunately, the author is insane. And sometimes it shows.)

Bummers to Blessings

The author of this blog is still breathless and tired and out of sorts. It makes her very crabby to still (after 2-plus weeks) feel like she needs to rest after doing taxing and vigorous activities such as getting dressed or trying to cook a meal.

Blah, blah, blah. Waaa, waaa, waaa.

She will be back when she has something nice to say. But in the meantime she is going to have a good old-fashioned pity-party, to which no one else is invited, and she will contemplate the many blessings that have been bestowed upon her so as to shift her focus from the unpleasantness of this physical setback to the more pleasant things in her life, of which there are too many to count.

For instance, she will try not to shallowly focus on the major case of fanny fatigue she has from these many days of forced inactivity, which then cause her to fret about the ever-increasing size of said fanny and how she will have to go through the rest of her life walking backwards so as to not let anyone see it (as if they can miss it). This will cause further angst because there will always be someone in front of her, and what once was in front will now be behind, as is wont to happen when one walks backwards. Of course, she fully realizes that there are many starving people in the world who don't have much of a fanny to speak of, let alone a nice warm house and soft comfy couch to rest and recuperate in/on when they are ill.

So instead she will try to focus on things like how illness can provide her with time for reflection and introspection, prayer and meditation, spiritual renewal and gratitude, and an appreciation for grace, marvelous grace, that allows her to be loved and cherished and treasured and taken care of. Even when she is crabby and out of sorts. And has a fanny the size of Montana.

And is annoyingly speaking in the third person.

This too shall pass.

(This is not a shameless ploy for sympathy – just an explanation of absence.)

My Turn

I fought valiantly against the respiratory crud that first Liz and then Joe got. I washed my hands every 30 seconds and walked through the house holding them like a surgeon waiting to be gloved. I ate Cold-Eeze lozenges like candy. I took my vitamins. I drank my juice. I never inhaled when they exhaled. I followed Liz and Joe around the house with Lysol and Clorox wipes, sanitizing their trail of germs. I all but boiled myself in bleach every night. I minded my Ps and my Qs, I didn’t run with scissors and I stopped, dropped and rolled.

Ok, I didn’t really do all of those things, but I was very careful. Alas, I could not escape and I became the newest lump on the couch this past week, snoozing, sneezing, watching way too much ER and Law & Order, and feeling too miserable to do much of anything else.

I have asthma and most of the time it just sort of lurks in the background of my life, reminding me of its presence through things like exposure to cats or dogs, eating too much popcorn, or occasionally laughing way too hard. It comes roaring into the foreground of my life, though, when I get a cold. I almost never can recover from one without antibiotics. In fact, last year I tried to ignore it when I had one because I was “too busy” and I ended up in the hospital and then I faced a 4-6 month recovery period to get my lungs happy again. Sometimes in my efforts to not let a chronic condition “define me,” I lose sight of taking it seriously.

But not so this time… Off I went to the clinic and out I came, clutching a prescription for antibiotics in my hot little feverish hand. Then I went to Walgreens to get said prescription filled. I love Walgreens. They have everything -- OTC medications, bandages, shampoo, lotion, cosmetics, pantyhose, books, magazines, reading glasses, batteries, candy, greeting cards, milk, eggs, bread, pens, pencils, school supplies and bras. Bras?? Yes, bras.

I don’t get this. For all the times I’ve been glad that I can grab a pack of batteries or a gallon of milk at the same store where I buy my prescription, it hasn’t ever occurred to me to shop for foundation garments at the drug store. (Nor has it occurred to me to look for a loaf of bread or eye drops at Victoria’s Secret.) Are they supposed to be impulse items? You know, on your way to the antacid aisle you pass the bras and in a forehead-slapping moment you think, “Oh yeah! I need one of those!” I don’t think so. And how do they decide which aisle to put them in? Aside from the fact that any display of bras is going to be conspicuous in a drug store, usually the bras at Walgreens are conspicuous in and of themselves because they look like they could double as parachutes.

At the Walgreens near our old house they opted to display their rack of bras (pun intended, I suppose) in the stationery aisle. I’ve always been a sucker for the stationery aisle at any store for as long as I can remember. Liz is too. You can imagine the fun I had when she hit 11 or 12 – you know, that age when we embarrass our children simply by breathing in public. We’d start out looking at pens and notebooks and then poor Liz would look up to see her mother riffling through the bras and occasionally holding one up to herself, or worse, asking her in a loud voice if she needed one.

Poor Lizzie.

Five Years Ago

Tomorrow is the 5th anniversary of one of those scary phone calls that every parent dreads. Peter was a senior in high school and Liz was a 7th grader. On their way home from the high school basketball tournament about 85 miles away it began snowing and sleeting, the road conditions deteriorated rapidly and he lost control of the van. The van met up with a tree and the tree won. It was a horrible night, but God is good and we were so thankful for the the many things that worked in their favor that night:

• 
  The tree. It was one of the only trees around and the van managed to find it as it spun backwards. Witnesses said that had the van not hit the tree, it would have gone up onto the entrance ramp of the freeway and into the path of traffic.
• 
  The school nurse. She also was at the tournament. She was among the first people on the scene of the accident and she knew the kids which was a comfort to them and to us as she relayed information to us by phone.
• 
  The phone. Liz did not yet have her own cell phone and on a whim Joe handed her his phone as they walked out the door that night, telling her to zip it into her jacket pocket “just in case.” On impact Peter’s phone flew out of his pocket and out of reach into the back of the van. But Lizzie had Joe’s phone safely zipped in her jacket so they were able to call us.
• 
  The decision of a friend. A friend of Peter’s was going to get a ride home with them but changed her mind at the last minute. If she had gone along, Liz would either have been sitting directly behind her and her legs would have been crushed because both front seats broke on impact, flattening out into the back seat; or she would have been sitting in the very back of the van and you can see what that looks like.
• 
  The paramedics and hospital staff. They took great care of our kids and called us to keep us informed of what was going on while we drove the long way down to the out-of-town hospital.

It was a long night spent at two different hospitals because Peter had a neck injury that required him to be transferred to a bigger hospital for further testing. Lizzie was bruised and sore but otherwise ok. Joe and I were frazzled but relieved as we walked out into the cold air in the wee hours of the following morning with two intact children. Yes, God is very good.

Aside from an even healthier respect for slippery road conditions, our kids came out of the accident with a better understanding of what Mom is saying when (every time they leave the house) she says, “Be careful!” She’s not questioning their abilities or judgment. She’s saying, “I love you. Things can change in the blink of an eye. Stay safe and please come home to me in one piece.”

Shades of Narnia

Although they are not identical, the street lamp at the edge of our front yard took on a magical look as night fell during our most recent snowstorm. I couldn't help but look for Mr. Tumnus or Aslan to come walking through the trees.

Look Who's Talking

Have you noticed lately that television ads are leaving less and less to the imagination? Some ads feature actors and actresses who look earnestly into the camera and describe some dreadful or embarrassing symptom they used to suffer from until they took Such-and-Such. Sometimes a man or a woman wearing a white coat and stethoscope will appear as well and point to charts and diagrams to add credence to the product’s claims. Occasionally we’ll even get to sit in and eavesdrop on a group of women chatting about feminine hygiene. And let’s not forget about “Bob,” the guy who used to suffer from E.D. until he took some amazing product that was so wonderful it left him with a permanent maniacal grin on his face and all of his male friends suffering from a very specific type of envy. We even have cartoon bears that use toilet paper, and a hideous little animated dermatophyte that explains the horrors of toenail fungus while lifting someone's toenail away from their toe. Just thinking about that one makes me cringe and curl my toes protectively.

But the ads for the Mucinex really puzzle me. They feature the icky green mucus creatures who take up residence in a person’s lungs, only to be violently evicted when said person takes Mucinex and has a productive coughing fit.

I don't know what I find more disturbing - the fact that these creatures are made up of phlegm, or the fact that we are supposed to be compelled by these big talking boogers to buy the product. I'm sure there are people out there who like the ads, but I just can't get past the aesthetics of, well, big talking boogers. The ad makes me crabby every time I see it.

Having said all that, guess what I ended up buying for Liz during this horrendous respiratory illness she's had? Yep. Mucinex. But only because it's what the doctor recommended, and on principle I remained steadfastly crabby on the inside during the entire transaction at the pharmacy counter.

I am happy to report that Liz is feeling a little better now. But it vexes me that apparently talking boogers do indeed have selling power!

TLC

Liz is 18. She’s an adult. She reminds me of this often.

But now she is sick. Five days ago it was the stomach flu. Now she is pink and feverish and lethargic and has a cough that racks her whole body and leaves her weak.

She normally bounces through the house full of energy and words and smiles, but today she was just a sad little lump of Lizzie, bundled under a blanket.

She let me tuck her into bed tonight and I was struck by the realization that no matter how grown up our children get, I will always be their mom. I will worry and fret and want to kiss them and make them all better, whether they are sick or sad or stressed.

I imagine that as time and space separate us over the years, these motherly urges will morph into something else. But I don't know what that is yet. And I probably won't have a clue until I haven't tucked anyone in for several years.

I've not yet begun to morph...

Maybe I never will.

Ding-Dong!

A few nights ago our doorbell rang. It was 8:45. Who rings your doorbell at 8:45 pm? Maybe one of the neighbors needed help! Opening the door revealed a very earnest young woman, bundled from head to toe against the cold 12-degree night.

I tried not to show my irritation with having been intruded upon -- an irritation I feel whenever I am intruded upon by phone or at the door by someone trying to sell me something or get me to join their cause. If I want to buy something, I'll go shopping. If I believe in a cause, I will seek out a way to help. I may be empty-headed at times, but I assure you this does not mean that I am sitting around just waiting for someone to sell me something I don't want or recruit me for a cause I have no convictions about. The only thing I buy at my door is pizza! Well, I'll buy Girl Scout cookies from the cute little neighbor girl too.

The older I get, the more skilled I am becoming at cutting these folks off before they launch into their full-blown spiel and waste both of our time. Or maybe it has nothing to to with skill and more to do with not worrying so much about their feelings. She intruded upon US, afterall.

She smiled and introduced herself, giving her name and the name of the organization she represented, and asked me if I would like to help her fight global warming.

I smiled right back at her and told her I was sorry, but she was most definitely at the wrong house for that particular cause.

Then I closed the door quickly to avoid letting any more of that global warming into the house, and I went back to my cozy blanket by the fire.

Zzzzap! Ow!

I have another theory about why my head is so empty lately. Static electricity. The words are there, but they are getting fried before I can do anything with them.

My mom tells me that when I was a baby I managed to crawl behind the television and touch the plug while clutching a slobbered-on key chain in my drooly little hand. There was a big shock that made me cry and a few hours later, turned me purple -- something to do with breaking lots of surface blood vessels. I have always wondered if that little incident gave me a permanent charge of sorts. Maybe that's why I get positively giddy when thunderstorms are approaching. All those electrically charged ions filling the air -- maybe it's kind of like the Mother Ship approaching!

Winter in Minnesota means dry air in the house, and dry air unfortunately means an abundance of static electricity, no matter how much water I simmer or leave in bowls around the house, trying to put more moisture back into the air. It’s impossible to count the number of times “Zzzzap! Ow!” can be heard on any given day. Out of everyone in the house, I always seem to generate the biggest charge. When I go to turn the lights on or off, the shock is so big that I see a little blue arc between my finger and the switch. If I shift positions on the couch, I get shocked from my laptop. Even at the grocery store, where the floors are tiled, I reach for a can of soup and I get zapped. Filling up at the gas station fills me with visions of blowing up the entire block. I have blown out three phones, two Nintendo controllers, and when I was a kid I never had a watch that didn’t inexplicably stop working. I feel like a human bug zapper... if only I could retain my powers during our bug-filled summers. A mosquito would land on me and be electrocuted immediately!

It got old (and expensive) having to replace phones and Nintendo controllers, so I used to try to ground myself before answering the phone in the winter. If I couldn’t find anything within reach that was metal, I would touch the nearest kid on their head. "Zzzzap! Ow! Mo-om! Dang!” It must be quite a sight at our house when the phone rings in the winter. Everyone runs away from me and I run around trying to find something metal to touch before I touch the phone.

Last night I was walking past Joe, who was sitting on the couch. I leaned over and kissed him and we both got significantly zapped in the lips. Liz heard the shock from the other room, and poor Joe said he felt the shock start at his lips and travel halfway down his right leg.

Either I’m one heckuva good kisser, or I’m an excellent conductor of electricity. At any rate, it is safe to say that the sparks are still flying between us!

Air Head

When my oldest brother Jeff was in junior high, he hung out with a kid named Eric. One day Jeff and Eric decided, for lack of anything better to do, to weigh their heads. Lo and behold, they reported that Eric’s head didn’t weigh anything!

I think about that often, especially when I’m feeling sort of empty-headed, as I am now. Where normally there are words bouncing around my brain trying to connect with other words to form sentences and meaning, lately it feels like there is nothing in there but a dense fog. Maybe my cerebral feng shui is off…

Perhaps I should weigh my head. I wonder if my head weighs less when I have no words than it does when I have too many. How much does fog weigh? How much does a word weigh? Are nouns heavier than verbs? Do people who go through life using an impressive vocabulary to discuss topics of great doctrinal or social import have heavier heads than people who, like, you know, have a more, like, limited vocabulary to, like, you know, um, totally talk about things like, you know, their hair?

It’s times like this that make me wish I could go to the grocery store and buy a pound or two of fresh words. Of course, then I’d have to decide between organic words or free range words, or mass-produced, preservative-laden words that come with a toy inside the package. It’s never easy, is it? Wouldn’t it be fun, though to watch people choose their words?

*sigh*

I’m giving myself a headache. And when a head is empty, it can hold a lot of ache.

Get Me To An Island!

This is what we woke up to this morning -- 7 below 0 with a wind chill factor of 35 to 40 below. Today's high: -1. But don't worry, tomorrow we are supposed to warm up to a high of 0!


The beach is calling...

Some Things Never Change...

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

My daughter, a senior in high school, is taking an Art History course this semester and as they look through photographs of some of the famous paintings done through the ages, she is noticing a peculiar theme... a theme that is as old as time...

"Pastoral Concert" Titian c1509-10

Let's start with Titian's "Pastoral Concert." Here we have two fully clothed men enjoying some music and perhaps having lunch with two naked women. The men seem oblivious to the women, one of whom is playing a flute-like instrument while the other pours something from a pitcher, her dress artfully tangled around her legs. Are the men singing? Maybe they are singing their national anthem. Or maybe they are singing a sad song, lamenting the fact that they are wearing tights and silly hats, and that as long as they must wear tights and silly hats they will never be able to converse in a sensible or manly way about football.

And what about the women? Did they take their clothes off to try to get the men's attention? Maybe they were trying to get the men to swap clothes because they knew they'd look better in the tights.

"The Luncheon in the Grass" Manet 1863

Now let's jump ahead a few centuries to Manet's "The Luncheon in the Grass." Again, we have two fully clothed men having a picnic with two women, one of whom is completely naked. This time the men aren't singing. They are deep in conversation, which has rendered them oblivious to the naked women they are with. Maybe they are thanking God that they don't have to wear tights, while acknowledging that their hats are still a bit too silly for any serious football talk.

Let's look at the women. They look so bored. The one sitting with the men seems to be pleading with the artist to please hurry up so she can get back home before someone realizes she left the house without her clothes. The other one has simply wandered off to collect acorns or pick the lint from between her toes.

And so it goes... Down through the ages... Women might have a list as long as their arm for how a man might win her heart. But a man will keep his list short and sweet:

1) Come naked
2) Bring food

What?

At our house a common question is, “What?”

Usually this is asked when one of us comes into the room in the middle of a conversation being had by others. It’s not always asked out of nosiness, but, rather out of utter confusion, having heard something astonishing that wasn’t actually spoken. We call these, “Whose cat died?” moments based on an incident that occurred when I was a girl. I walked into the room while my parents were having a conversation and I was shocked to hear about a cat dying. Naturally I asked, “Whose cat died?!” It turns out they were talking about something entirely different, something wholly unrelated to cats and/or death.

Another one that sticks in my mind happened when my parents were visiting us a few years ago. My mother came in the room while some of us were chatting and demanded to know, “Who’s getting a divorce?!” I think we were talking about the weather.

The most ridiculous thing I ever heard that wasn’t really spoken was what I heard a couple of years ago during a brief phone conversation with my brother-in-law Bob, who lives in Normal, Illinois with his wife Celeste and their five children. He is a good Christian family man who talks the talk and walks the walk. At the time, he was a teacher and a youth minister and he mentioned that he was looking for a temporary job to pick up some extra income during the summer months. Imagine my surprise when I heard him say, “de-tasseling porn” was one of the options he was considering!

It’s amazing how many thoughts the brain can have in the span of those few seconds it takes to review and correctly process and comprehend what actually was said. My mind raced as I tried to picture what de-tasseling porn would entail. I had visions of him marching into strip clubs and plucking the twirling tassels right off the female dancer’s tasseled anatomies, perhaps quoting scripture while he did so. I was doubtful as to whether this would make the girls see the light, climb down off the stage, and become wholesome citizens, but I’ve never been one to question a man’s calling when he’s called by God. I also wondered how many strip clubs he would find in Normal, Illinois, and whether the job would involve extensive travel. I further wondered how Celeste would feel about this new “mission” and all the “exposure” that Bob would be subjected to.

My thoughts swirled and accelerated and my astonishment grew until finally my brain caught up to my ears with an abrupt, screeching, mental slam and I realized that Bob had said, “de-tasseling CORN." Not nearly so noble a calling as what I had created in my mind…

I don’t think he took the job.

FINALLY!

This is how January is supposed to look in Minnesota. We got 6 or 7 inches of snow last night!

This is the mountain that is our backyard... we need to get some sleds!



There's Joe, using the snowblower for the first time this winter.

Feng Shui Tip of the Day

Dictionary: feng shui
Pronunciation: [fuhng shwey]
–noun the Chinese art or practice of creating harmonious surroundings that enhance the balance of yin and yang, as in arranging furniture or determining the location of a house.

For Christmas, as a gag gift, Peter found a small book, “Feng Shui, Dos & Taboos” in his stocking… He now sends me regular tips to make my life easier, or at the very least, to make me smile.

A few notable tips:

Don't ask for feathers from others.

Don't use groupings of five horses, as five is a very powerful yin number.

Don’t use a mirror to harm someone.

Don’t keep pictures of peonies in your home after all the single women have married.

Do use a statue of a rooster to offset the divisive effects of ceiling beams and interior pillars and posts. The bird’s beak should be aimed directly at the offending spot.

My favorite tip so far:

Do ensure family harmony with the proper seating arrangements. The father sits in the NW, the mother in the SW, the eldest son in the E, the eldest daughter in the SE, the youngest son in the NE, the youngest daughter in the W, the middle son in the N, and the middle daughter in the S. Chinese dinner tables are round to accommodate these arrangements.

Remember, I have no sense of direction... We have been sitting all wrong! For starters, our table is rectangular, which is SO not round. How could I be so careless?? I, the mother, have been sitting in the NE; Joe, the father, has mistakenly been sitting in the SE; Peter, the son always sat indiscreetly in the NW; and Liz, the daughter, with absolutely no caution whatsoever, brazenly sits in the SW! We have only one son and one daughter, so does this make them each the oldest, middle and youngest son and daughter? Does this mean they should progress around the table, changing seats between bites? And what about our daughter-in-law, Lauren? Until now, when they come to visit, we have foolishly had her sit in the SW, between Peter and Liz. There is no mention above as to where you put the in-laws… Are they even allowed to sit at the table with everyone else? Good heavens! Somehow, in spite of our folly, we’ve managed to enjoy our meals without the aid of a compass or a map, and thus far I am happy to report that no calamities, catastrophes or general wretchedness have befallen us.

Until recently, I thought feng shui was, well, a fairly new thing. A craze. A fad. A 90s thing. But Google tells another story... There are countless websites and forums dedicated to feng shui. According to Wikipedia, it’s an ancient art/belief system. I even found a site entitled “The American Feng Shui Institute.” An entire institute! Imagine! At the bottom of their page they offer this tip for the day:

Unfavorable sign: Rat
Favorable activities: (None)
Unfavorable Activites: (in bold, all caps, red letters) DO NOT DO IMPORTANT THINGS TODAY

I’m not sure what to make of this, but just to be safe I’m thinking of going back to bed and pray that I don’t dream of rats.

* * * * *

Disclaimer: I do not hate feng shui or people who believe in or practice feng shui. This post is not intended to offend. If you are offended, lighten up! Maybe you need to adjust your yin, yang or chi. Besides, it’s my blog and I can post what I want to, post what I want to.

LYL, DIL!

I love my new daughter-in-law! Not only does she make my son blissfully happy, but she puts up with me and even manages to look happy about it!

A Day That Will Live In Infancy

(*warning* another long, mushy, sentimental, family rambling...)

December 7th. Pearl Harbor Day. A day that will live in infancy. That’s what we said about December 7, 1988, the day Lizzie was born. Having had such a rough pregnancy with Peter, we waited a bit to have Lizzie. The thought of chasing after a toddler or changing diapers while being pregnant, i.e., exhausted, nauseous and as big as a house made me nervous. Plus, Joe was taking full time classes at the University of Oregon and we thought it prudent to wait until he was finished before having more children.

The best laid plans… Lizzie came along a year earlier than we anticipated, and I’ve always maintained that some of life’s best gifts are the ones that surprise you. If we had been successful at waiting that extra year, we would have had someone other than Lizzie and, granted, I’m sure we’d have loved that child whole-heartedly, but the thought of being Lizzie-less is unimaginable!

I have a thorough understanding of the facts of life, but I hold four other people partially responsible for Lizzie…

First there were our neighbors, Steve and Lorie. When their first child was born, I went to visit Lorie in the hospital. I had not been to the hospital, let alone the maternity ward since having Peter, and it turned out that Lorie’s doctor was my doctor, and there she was in the very same room I was in after delivering Peter. Lizzie was born nine months later and, though I have no scientific evidence to back me up here, I am convinced that the flood of happy memories and emotions I had during that visit aided and abetted the process of her conception.

The second party I hold partially responsible is made up of Peter and Santa Claus. You see, the Christmas before Lizzie was born, Peter sat on Santa’s lap and asked for a little sister. We never let Peter see Santa again.

It was another difficult pregnancy, but in spite of being so sick, I was filled with joy, anticipation and wonder over the little person inside me. Who would it be? Everyone told me I was having another boy based on old wives’ tales having to do with how my stomach protruded and the baby’s heart rate, but I secretly hoped he was a she. Oh, I would have loved another little boy, but based on my track record with difficult pregnancies, I knew that this baby was probably going to be our last, and I wanted a little girl in the worst way. Even my doctor thought I was having another boy. So we mainly thought about boy names and settled on Andrew Richard. A week or two before she was born, we came up with our back-up, just-in-case, highly-unlikely girl name: Elizabeth Therese.

A couple weeks before she was born, upon examination, my doctor said that, like the first time around, there was no way this baby was going to come out the conventional way so instead of waiting for labor to begin, we would just schedule another c-section. Frankly, when you’re eight and a half months pregnant, you don’t care if they pull that baby out of your nose, so I was more than happy to make a plan. He said, “How about December 7th at twelve o’clock?” I stupidly said, “Noon?” and he just sort of looked at me… Like a doctor’s going to PLAN a midnight delivery… He said the baby would be born on Pearl Harbor Day, to which I made my declaration that it would be “a day that would live in infancy.” Again, he just sort of looked at me. But he smiled.

So on December 7th, 1988, at about 12:20 in the afternoon, something magical happened – we had a daughter! She was a beautiful baby with a swirl of brown hair and she was quickly dubbed “The Barracuda” by the nursery staff because she wanted to eat so often and she let everyone within earshot know. I stared and stared at my little girl. Her image was burned into my mind and every time I closed my eyes I could see her face.

We took her home and, color me stupid, I actually believed I wouldn’t have to contend with sibling rivalry because my kids were different genders and they were five years apart. What could they possibly fight about?? As soon as Lizzie was old enough to toddle about, I found out what they could possibly fight about: Anything and everything, especially whatever the other one had.

By nature, Lizzie was a happy, optimistic, chatty, bubbly, busy little creature. She climbed everything and had an amazing sense of balance. She would perch on just about any surface she could reach, no matter how precarious. The back of a chair, the window sill, the top of the fridge. Well, technically she never sat on top of the fridge, but she climbed the door frames and retrieved anything I put up there with the mistaken notion that it would be out of her reach. In some ways she was the polar opposite of her brother, Mr. Clean. You could always tell where Lizzie had been by following the trail of debris she left in her wake. I called her The Tiny Tornado. For years my dad would say that she didn’t know how to walk because she only ran, danced, and pranced through the room. She made everyone smile. This little girl had more nicknames than I can recall, most given to her by her brother, three of which have stuck: Chuck, Willis and Carl. Why he called her these names no one knows, and even more importantly, why she would answer to these names, no one knows.

I’m happy to report that she no longer climbs the door frames and no longer leaves a trail of debris wherever she goes. However, she still answers when her brother calls her Carl. She is still a happy, optimistic, chatty, bubbly and busy little person. Oh, she’s had her share of normal teen angst, but she has navigated the tempestuous teen years with a grace and dignity beyond her age. She has always been very comfortable in her own skin, and unlike many other kids, she has always been very sure of herself as far as who she is at the core of her very being. She has a faith that is unwavering, a sense of humor that delights me, and a heart so tender it makes mine almost break at times. Today she stands on the threshold of adulthood and when I look at this beautiful, intelligent young woman, I am in awe. I am wistful about the end of an era and I won’t ever forget my sweet baby girl. But now begins a new era… one that finds me enjoying my daughter as an adult… And as my friend.

I love you, Bug! Happy 18th birthday!

Home on the Range

Even though I spent the last 20 years telling my kids not to give in to peer-pressure, today I did what everyone else in this country is doing. Yes, I turned into a lemming and I followed the crowd. Right into the store where we all bought turkeys. At least the lemmings weren’t jumping off a cliff today. Whew!

Feeling wild and kooky and not wanting to be a complete follower, I bought a “free range” turkey. They are supposed to be extra yummy and better for you, and according to the man digging through the pile of birds next to me, once I taste this turkey, I’ll never want any other kind. Well, unless I want to go completely organic. He assured me that organic turkeys are even better than free range turkeys. I felt it best to pace myself so I stuck with "free range" for now...

If you ask me, “free range” just doesn’t sound right with “turkeys.” It’s a phrase more befitting cattle. I picture manly men in chaps and cowboy hats, urging their horses on to full galloping speed while they keep tabs on their bird herd, expertly swinging their lassos over their heads to occasionally rope and hog-tie the ornery turkeys who try to make a break for it. Then at night they build a campfire, cook up some grub, play the harmonica and sing haunting songs before falling asleep on the hard ground. But they sleep lightly, keeping an ear out for turkey rustlers. At daybreak they’re ready for another full day of riding the range...

Instead of “cowboys” these guys would be called “turkeyboys.”

Wow.

That sucks all the manliness right out of the picture, doesn’t it?

Doo Doo Doo Down Doobie Doo Down Down...

…Wakin’ up is hard to do!
(Especially when you've got Neil Sedaka singing in your head...)

And some days it just doesn’t happen, no matter how much coffee I drink.

Thankfully, at this point in time I have the luxury of moving kind of slow. Having quit my part-time job back in August to concentrate on getting well, I have more time and less pressure to be anywhere or do anything. Just what the doctor ordered. I’m getting healthier… stronger every week. Good days have become the rule again, with bad days being the occasional exception. After living through a couple of months where that was reversed, I am thankful. Nothing makes you appreciate good health than not having it.

This morning I was particularly slow in waking up. Well, not really. Joe’s alarm goes off at 5:00 every morning. I snooze while he showers and gets ready for the day and then I roll out of bed to go downstairs and see him off. Technically I’m awake and physically upright, but mentally I’m in a fog. I drink my first cup of coffee and read the paper until Liz gets up at 6:45. I see her out the door by 7:35, and hopefully by that time I’m ready to face the day. But some days, like today, I just give in to the fact that I’m going to need more coffee and more time.

So after Liz left this morning, I trundled off to the kitchen and made a small pot of coffee. Then I wrapped myself in a blanket, sat on the couch facing the window, and watched the squirrels go about their frantic squirrel business as I sipped my coffee and contemplated the day. I’m not very good at contemplating… my ADDled little brain tends to change channels swiftly and erratically, and watching frantic squirrels does nothing to help my concentration. One thought leads to another completely unrelated topic, which leads to yet another, and before I know it, I’m hopelessly tangled in a jumble of randomness. If we lived on the comics page and had thought bubbles above our heads, I’m afraid mine would contain a scribble much of the time.

A few things I pondered as I sat and enjoyed the warmth of my blanket and coffee:

Monosyllabic. Why does the word used to describe one-syllable words have five syllables?

Abbreviation isn’t much better. Twelve letters to spell the word that defines a shortened word or phrase.

Training bras. Do they call them that anymore? What would happen if you didn’t train the breasts? And what are they being trained to do? Sounds like wheels should be involved. Talk about junior high angst – life is embarrassing enough at that age without everyone seeing your wheels and knowing you’re in training.

“New and Improved!” How many times can they re-invent and improve a product? And would we still buy it if it said, “Same old, same old”?

“Have a good one!” A good what? Just once it would be nice if they would specify.

Why do people exclaim that they found a missing item "in the last place” they looked? Does anyone keep looking after they find it?

Speaking of lost things, do squirrels remember where they bury their nuts?

Speaking of nuts, sometimes I feel like one.

Sometimes I don’t.

But mostly I do.

Before and After

I can't seem to get seashells out of my system... It's my parents' fault. When I was a young girl, they moved us to Pago Pago and then Honolulu. From Honolulu we moved to Oregon, so the Pacific Ocean was still nearby.

Now, through some unfortunate catastrophic cosmic glitch, here I sit in Minnesota... For the first few years after we moved here, I had a recurring dream that while driving through our neighborhood, I would take a wrong turn (wrong turns are what I make when I'm awake too). The farther I would drive down the strange street, the wider the houses would be spaced and I would see something familiar as I peeked between them. The ocean! I was SO excited! Nobody told me Minnesota had an ocean! Then I would wake up.

*sigh*

Since I can't bring my home to the beach, I am systematically bringing the beach to my home. I found an inexpensive mirror for our entryway and with my handy dandy hot glue gun, stuck shells and starfish all over it. Ta da!

Okay, not the deepest post ever, but what do you expect from a blog called Green Eggs and Pam?

November 4, 1983

(*warning* another long, mushy, sentimental, family rambling...)

Twenty-three years ago today I became a mom! I was just shy of my 23rd birthday – In fact, on the day that he was born, I was 46 days younger than Peter is today. Boggles the mind…November 4th, 1983 was an amazing day. Anyone who has kids knows that it is simply impossible to compare anything to the day your first child is born. To finally meet that little person who has been flipping around and kicking you from the inside for the last several months – wow!
I was so worried about Peter before he was born because I was sick for pretty much the entire pregnancy. I remember that I was physically shaking when they wheeled me into the O.R. for the c-section because it was the moment of truth. I knew I would love this baby no matter what, but I thought he would be born with all sorts of problems. How could a baby thrive inside a mom who had non-stop morning sickness and could only manage to pack on 12 pounds during the entire nine months? When he was born, the doctor announced, “One boy type baby with outdoor plumbing!” Oh the joy! I wanted a son in the worst way. Then one of the nurses said, “And he’s big!” I said, “Huh? How can that be?” I was so sure I would deliver a scrawny, sickly little baby. I guess babies take what they need from the mom’s reserves, even when nutrition isn’t optimum.

They whisked him out of the room before I could look at him and I made Joe go with them to oversee whatever it was they needed to do as they tended to our little son. When I finally got to hold him, we unwrapped our little bundle and did the obligatory counting of fingers and toes... perfection. I could hardly believe that not only was he healthy, he was beautiful!

We took our little boy home and began the adventure known as parenthood. They don’t call them “bouncing baby boys” for nothing… The ONLY time Peter was still was when he was asleep, and often we would find him in his crib in a position we called, “mid-thrash,” for it looked like he literally fell asleep in mid-wiggle – back arched, arms outstretched, legs splayed – he was a busy little guy. Always.

Fast forward through the years – crawling, walking, running, playing sports, school, chasing girls, college, catching a wife. Where DOES the time go??



If I close my eyes, I can still feel the warmth of that little bundle of boy being placed in my arms for the first time. I can see his sleepy little face and smell his baby powdery scent… that first smile, that first giggle, that first step… No matter how many years go by, those things will never leave me.

Happy Birthday, Peter! You are my pride and joy, the apple of my eye, and you will always be my favorite son! ... "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be." (Don't worry, I promise I won't come driving across town to your home with a ladder strapped to the roof of the car...)

The Ovine Secrets of the Baa Baa Sisterhood

To Cherie, who once told me of sheep getting whacked on the head with a board when gentle prodding didn’t work… For all those life lessons we have learned after many “Whack!-Baaa!” moments… And for all the “Whack!-Baaa!” moments still to come… May we continue to surrender and grow and may we require fewer whacks along the way.

We are the founding sisters of a special, but not so elite group, for we know all too well The Ovine Secrets of the Baa Baa Sisterhood. Here’s to you, Dear Friend.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

It’s a chilly Monday night here in Minnesota. We have a fire going in the fireplace, Joe and I are nestled together on the couch, and I’m asking myself that age old question: Am I ready for some football? Well, ready or not, the game is about to begin. It's the Giants vs. Cowboys. We are Vikings fans, as most good Minnesotans are. Oh, you meet the occasional rogue Minnesotan who pledges their allegiance to the Green Bay Packers, but overall, the loyalty runs purple in this area. This leads me to another age old question: Why are we watching the Giants vs. Cowboys game? Because it’s on, that’s why. This football phenomenon is something I have given up trying to understand. I’ve been married to my first husband for almost 25 years now, and I have learned a few things along the way. 1) He loves me; 2) He loves football; and 3) He loves me more than football. I think.

When football is on, Joe enters the Zone. Not the Twilight Zone or the End Zone, but the O-Zone, also known as the Oblivion Zone. He can’t hear or see anything but the game. I have learned to never leave him alone during a game for fear that the house might catch on fire and he would just sit there while the house burned down around him. I have also learned that game time is the best time to tell him I’ve bought a new car or round trip tickets to Tahiti, or that I’m having a torrid affair with a guy I met online. I am fairly convinced that if I pranced through the room naked during a game, he wouldn’t notice, or if he did, it would only be that I was blocking the TV. Having the children around has prevented me from ever putting him to the prancing nudity test, but next year we will be empty nesters and so help me, I’m going to try it. The children will just have to learn to call before they come home.

Winterized

Two months ago we were still dealing with hot, sweaty, 90-some-degree days, running the air conditioner nonstop, and being chased off the deck by thirsty mosquitoes or angry desperate yellow jackets. Now the trees are almost naked, the temps have been cold enough for flurries, and we are officially ready for winter. The lawn has been mowed one last time, the yard has been cleaned up, and the water has been shut off to the outside faucets. (One year long ago we forgot and a pipe froze and burst. When that happens, you don’t ever forget again!) In the house, jackets, gloves, hats, scarves, mittens and boots have been located. Sweaters, sweatshirts and jeans have moved to the front of the closet, and shorts and tank tops are nowhere to be seen. In the garage, the annual rotation has occurred: the lawn mower has been stowed and in its place sits the snow blower; rakes are in the background and snow shovels are in the foreground. It’s still a bit early for anything measurable, shovelable or blowable, but we are ready, so let it snow. I am ready. I always am after our insufferable Minnesota summers.

We have lived in Minnesota for about 15 years now and I have yet to acclimate to our summers. Anyone who knows me knows that heat and humidity make me crabby, unless, of course, I am on a beach. It is a known fact that the ocean cancels out the entire ick factor of humidity. Humidity without an ocean is just plain wrong. I guess I am a misplaced island girl at heart... But even though I would prefer to wake up every day and have my morning coffee while looking at the ocean, I can still appreciate drinking my coffee while wearing warm cozy jammies and watching the snow fall. Especially if I don’t have to go anywhere. The magic quickly evaporates when driving is required. In February, the magic has not only evaporated, it has turned to drudgery as we are all sick of old dirty snow, slushy puddles, road spray, jackets, gloves, hats, scarves, mittens and boots. But I won't think about that now. Today the promise of the changing season is upon us and it is time to enjoy. I am.

To See or Not to See

I’m not a hypochondriac, nor do I play one on TV. However, I am faced with a problem that has a most dreadful diagnosis. If I hadn’t hit middle age and come to need reading glasses, perhaps I would have lived my whole life without ever knowing the awful truth:

My ears are too low! Or maybe my eyes are too high.

I have yet to find a pair of glasses that fit me properly. In order to see well, I must tilt the glasses down, which pushes the ear things way up above my ears. I've tried wearing them as they are designed, sliding them here and there on my nose, but this only makes me tilt my head at odd angles. What to do, what to do... I suppose I could have ear enhancement surgery to make them bigger or at least taller, but I don’t think my insurance will cover it.

Maybe I could have my eyes lowered…

I Hate When That Happens

Today I did a few pre-weekend errands to get ready for Joe’s upcoming birthday, as well as the homecoming of my son and his new bride. I was feeling pretty perky and somewhat efficient as I made all of my stops. Something must be in the air because today was one of those days where everyone just seemed friendlier. More smiles, more chit chat in the checkout lines, more “No, I insist, after you,” polite attitudes. Maybe it’s the cold, snowy, blustery weather we’ve been having these past three days. Whatever the case may be, it made the mundane errands rather pleasant. Until I got home and discovered that my fly was open and I had a poppy seed stuck in my front teeth.

*Sigh*

Sloganize

My daughter recently sent me this site and being that we are easily amused, we spent (wasted?) quite a bit of time there. Everyone likes to see their own name, so go ahead, click it and add yours.

http://www.thesurrealist.co.uk/slogan.cgi?word=pam

Ready or Not, There He Goes

Fall fell last night with a thud. It is cool, gray and rainy today... the perfect day to tackle a few projects around the house that we’ve been putting off. Looming largest on the list of things to do is to pack up our son’s room so we can turn it into something other than our son’s room. He got married last spring and left a lot of stuff behind — trophies, baseballs, CDs, roller blades, clothes, books… The kind of stuff a married guy isn’t going to miss right away. One of these days he will need to take his stuff to his own home, but until he and his wife can move into a bigger apartment, we will tuck it away with the rest of the boxes that contain other pieces of his childhood – GI Joes, Legos, baseball cards, Tonka trucks…

I saved almost EVERYthing! Why did I do this? Probably because as a kid we moved around a lot and my parents understandably jettisoned as much as possible with each move, especially the ones that took us to the South Pacific and back. The memories are there, of course, but there is something about opening a box and pulling out an old beloved toy to look at and hold and remember that time in your life when you held it and played with it and could not think beyond the fun you were having at the moment. The time when your concept of “the future” was “Mom, what’s for dinner?” or “Tomorrow I’m going to Billy’s.” I do have one such toy that I pull out from time to time. My very raggedy Raggedy Ann doll. Somehow she made it through all the moves and when I look at her, I just get happy. For a long time she presided in the place of honor — on my bed, but one day she ended up on a shelf, and eventually in a box under the bed or in the closet. Through the thick and thin of my childhood, she was there.

So today we packed up the last of our son’s childhood. He has been away at school for the last four years so it’s not like I’m feeling the pangs of his leaving for the first time. In fact, I feel a profound joy in the knowledge that he has married a wonderful girl who makes him blissfully happy. Still, I can’t help but feel what all mothers feel when they let go of their kids. Fortunately, this letting go is a process that takes many years and often is so subtle that we’re not even aware that something has changed. We celebrate all our kids’ firsts with joy, pride and excitement. Can you imagine how we’d cling if we knew we were facing each of their lasts? Well, some lasts are just fine – like that last dirty diaper. But others are bittersweet, like the last time your little boy holds your hand while you walk through the parking lot. You don’t know it's the very last time while it's happening. Then one day you can't remember when he last held your hand and at that moment you realize it's not going to happen again. It is probably good that we don’t know when these lasts occur because we would undoubtedly embarrass our children by making a huge celebratory or funereal production out of the most ordinary things. Maybe we would hire clowns and jugglers to walk through the parking lot with us that day, or a dirge-playing band. We would probably announce to every stranger we encounter that “today is the last day my little boy will hold my hand.” No, it is good that we are not given the privilege of knowing when these lasts are happening until after the fact. Some ignorance is bliss. It helps keeps things just a little more dignified.

Time

I was born with too many words and a train of thought that rarely travels in a straight line. The goal may be to get from point A to point D, with logical and predictable stops at points B and C along the way. But I usually find myself hopelessly lost at point Q or point Y with no idea how I ended up there and no trail of bread crumbs to follow my way back to where I began. Ironically, I have no physical sense of direction either. Never mind that my name spelled backwards is map. My parents always said if you spin me around three times, I couldn’t find my way out of a closet.

Lately I find myself with an abundance of time on my hands as I rest and recuperate from being sicker than the proverbial dog. Where does that phrase come from anyway? Having had dogs all of my growing up years I never witnessed one being sick enough to deserve the dubious honor of being the standard by which all sicknesses are measured. Usually when they were sick, it involved upchucking something unrecognizable onto the carpet, or leaving an even worse pile of surprise you smelled before you entered the room. Ok, having pondered my way through that one, I hereby retract my statement of being sicker than a dog since whatever has been ailing me has had nothing to do with losing my cookies or leaving surprises on the carpet, and everything to do with my ability to breathe.

So begins my blog. If you are reading this, you may have happened upon it accidentally as I am still uncertain as to whether I will tell anyone that I have begun adding my two cents to the bloggershere. This is my release valve for all the words that bounce around in my brain and drive me to distraction. It is also for the benefit of my dear husband, so that when he comes through the door at night, he does not find himself sitting neck deep in the quicksand of my streaming consciousness.

These ramblings and babblings are inane. Stop reading immediately and consult your physician if you experience headache, dizziness, bloating or fatigue.