cleopatra's parachute

Series Finale

2010-05-07T09:12:00.003-04:00

This is a painful post. For the past couple of years, this has been a place where I can share my joys, heartaches, successes and failures. Unfortunately, there are some people from my past who have decided to take some of my writings and glean from them "incriminating facts". Of course, most of these "facts" are innocent comments taken out of context. For this reason, I will not be posting any longer on this blog. It had been my hope to continue now that my family medical issues have improved. This is not to be. I cannot and will not allow my children, husband, and other family members to be exploited by someone armed with ammunition I inadvertently supplied. I have loved this blog. I have loved the connections I have made with some amazing folks. Please continue to use this extraordinary medium. It has its flaws, one of which is the potential abuse by some small minded people, but it remains a wonderful way to share, to educate, and to communicate. Maybe in time, it will be appropriate to return, but for now, this is goodbye.
Peace,
Jenni

Heroes

2010-02-21T23:10:00.003-05:00

The Olympics are on, and I am watching. I love the pageantry of the opening ceremony, and the thrill of victory. I like to hear the stories of triumph over adversity, and the determination to make it against the odds. I like the increasingly ridiculous costumes the ice skaters seem to gravitate towards. I do not enjoy Bob Costas. Wait, this is about what I like. I digress. Anyhoo, I love every single second of this over-hyped sporting spectacle.

The Olympics seem to create instant heroes. At least the media fosters that kind of just-add-water to a patriotic tracksuit, and VOILA! a hero is born. Or maybe not. My heroes don't wear skin tight spandex unitards. Or, Lord forbid, faux Aboriginal leaf covered loin cloths posing as skating outfits. My heroes don't get to parade into a crowded stadium to a standing ovation. No flaming torch or chunky medals for my heroes.

My heroes have hair long grayed from the stresses of life. Oh, who am I kidding? The hair is gray because they raised three children. Three children born within thirty months. You do the math. My heroes don't need a triple Axel or quadruple loop to amaze me. The way they have lived and loved is infinitely more impressive than any 360 turn on a half-pipe. My heroes would leave Dick Button speechless with their accomplishments.

My heroes are my parents. Except for the requisite teenage years where they were definitely NOT my favorite people, I can honestly say I have enjoyed my parents. Smart and funny, loving and kind, wise and wonderful, they armed me with much ammunition to face this world.
Theirs is a love story going back fifty years. Their story isn't without drama and heartache and unbelievable struggle. But, it has also been a journey of incredible joy.

My heroes are facing a villain beyond what they have ever had to deal with before. Daddy's evil nemesis, cancer, has reared its ugly head yet again. And, in order to defeat cancer, Dad will have to undergo a horrific surgery. The doctors used the term heroic. Well, duh! He is a hero. What kind of surgery did they think a hero would have? So, surgery it is.

Mom is no less a hero than Dad. It is she who has kept him as healthy as possible. It is she who has helped him beat the odds time and again. It is she who quietly and without complaint just does what needs to be done. And it is she who carries an ache in her heart unimaginable to this mere mortal.

I will, no doubt, watch the closing ceremony from Vancouver. I will cheer our athletes on, and celebrate their victories. I will take a moment and remember those who didn't quite reach their goals. I will be awed by the agility and athleticism and strength of each Olympic participant. Yet, for all of their stellar accomplishments, not one of them will rise to the level of hero in my mind. None can touch the courage, and strength, and grace of my own heroes.

So I ask you to take a moment and say a prayer, or recite a mantra, or light a candle for my battle weary heroes. 'Cause even super-heroes need a boost now and again. Just saying....

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You....

2010-02-19T00:05:00.000-05:00

I remember when my Dad used to tell us "this hurts me more than it hurts you" just before inflicting pain by spanking. I didn't believe him. He was a large man with enormous hands. I was small - large mouth, hence the aforementioned spanking, but small physically. Understand before the actual belt on butt impact, there was always the "you have disappointed me" speech designed to make one feel even smaller. By the time the lectern was put away, and the last words of utter disappointment and disapproval were ringing in my ears, the spanking was a sort of relief. But, I did not for one nano-second believe the act of popping my not yet well endowed backside with a long skinny piece of leather hurt my Dad more than me. I did believe any attempts to deflect the sting of the belt with a Little Golden Book might cause more harm than good, and managed to restrain myself.

Once I became a mother, I did start to understand the rather convoluted logic behind the whole hurts me more than you statement. Where I did not actually feel the slap of the belt or hand on my own children's behinds, I did feel an unbelievable sense of disappointment, frustration and even a bit of failure. How could these precious children do something so beyond what they were taught that would warrant a spanking? A little bit of their innocence died, and my heart did indeed ache. Now, before you call DFACS on me or Dad, I can count on one hand the cumulative spankings I got and/or gave. But I digress. Anyhoo, I did finally understand what Dad meant.

Dad is now in nearly constant pain from cancer. Any attempts to alleviate pain are short lived and ultimately futile. And, although I cannot know the actual physical sensations of pain he is experiencing, I can tell you the toll in takes to watch him hurt. Mom, I think, feels every bit of his agony; maybe not the deep searing pain he feels, but her heart is aching watching this great man suffer. We have learned to laugh a bit through all of this angst, and last night I actually said "this hurts me more than it hurts you." And, as my Dad would have gladly shielded me from the heartache and pain of life's less than stellar moments,I would do anything to stop the pain.

Sometimes I wish I could be instantly transported back to age seven. Where my biggest hurdle was conquering cursive writing. Where life ebbed and flowed in the familiar cadence of Tuesday night meatloaf, and ballet on Thursdays, and Sunday afternoon drives. Where boo-boos could be healed with a kiss. Where summer evenings with their twinkling lightening bugs seemed to last forever. Where pain was fleeting and made better by a simple "there, there".

I didn't believe Dad all those years ago. I thought frankly he had lost his mind. Or had picked up a catchy new phrase at some lamo parent clinic. I couldn't imagine then what I know absolutely now. That when you truly love someone; when you are a part of their life fabric; you cannot help but feel an ache so deep and profound when they hurt. And so, to Dad, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Just saying.

The Calm Before The Storm

2010-02-10T05:07:00.003-05:00

Today we are to get the third major winter storm in a week. Once again, I find myself unable to sleep. The most impressive of the three storms had not yet wrought its full fury when I decided to jot down my thoughts.

As I write this, it is still dark on my mountain. The muted green glow from my computer is the only light in an otherwise inky cocoon. The quietness is punctuated by the gentle snore from Shiloh at my feet. It is a quietness so complete as to be almost surreal. Occasional orbs of headlights dancing like lightening bugs in a long forgotten summer float down the winding road.

In a matter of minutes, snow will start to fall in amounts not comprehensible to this child of Dixie. The wind will churn and blow so that all we will see is an impenetrable blanket of swirling winter white. The words used to describe what is coming are harrowing; treacherous, hazardous, crippling, dangerous. These adjectives seem ridiculously out of place in this other world of peace and stillness.

It is strange to me that I find comfort in this time of darkness, and that the coming of dawn with its whirling icy dervishes unsettling. We are taught to fear the night, and find our joy in the morning. I like this peace. I like this stillness. I like this world of sleeping slumber. I like the comfort of the known; the now. The new dawn and its sure epic white-out is disconcerting and unfamiliar and frightening. The reality of the day is jarring and unsettling. I want to stay in this world where a cozy blanket brings the needed comfort. Where just for a moment all is right and good and safe.

Funny how we perceive snow as an innocent, almost romantic weather phenomenon. Its striking beauty belies the the havoc it can wreak. Like a bride in virginal splendor harboring a terrible secret sure to cause indescribable pain, snow can inflict hurt and sorrow on those least prepared for its wrath. Since I penned my thoughts in my yet un-scarred world, I have seen unbearable suffering. Many folks have had no power for a week; temperatures have fallen below zero. Others desperate to keep warm have fallen victim to carbon monoxide poisoning or fire. Roofs have collapsed on homes, an ice skating rink full of patrons, and a fire house. People already dealing with a strained economy cannot get to work. And the list goes on.

There have been moments of heart-warming neighborliness. John and the girls and I struggled to clear the snow from our driveway and vehicles. Someone showed up with a snow blower and in minutes completed a job that would have taken the four of us many hours. Folks are grocery shopping for those who cannot. Volunteers have spent a hundred hours or more at fire stations or shuttling nurses and doctors to hospitals. Two EMTs kept a patient alive for over two hours waiting for the National Guard. The silver lining of human kindness in this white tunic of despair is striking.

Storms will continue to leave us battered and bewildered. They will force us to dig deep within ourselves and find the fortitude it takes to survive them. Through these events, we re-learn gratitude, grace and guts.

Again, I am struck by the peace in these wee hours of morn. Daylight will soon bring with it anxiety and apprehension as we brace for more of nature's fury. But for now, I am once again ensconced in the warm cocoon of inky darkness. This peaceful respite from the jarring, blinding white of day is what feeds my soul so I can face whatever storm comes my way.

My Fun-Sized Birthday Girl!

2010-02-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

Lauren - always smiling!!

Lauren at her first organ recital

Lauren at Lake Junaluska

Lauren at our wedding

Lauren with her big sister

Lauren and Jenni in South Africa

Lauren and Ashley "do" Hollywood

Lauren and Ashley pray at Canterbury Cathedral

Fifteen years ago today, Kimberly Lauren Wade lit up the world with her smile. No angry, red face at her birth - Lauren actually arrived smiling. And she hasn't stopped yet. Lauren is my little girl in more ways than one. She is what some would call vertically challenged; she refers to herself as fun sized!

Lauren has such a joie de vivre - she is simply a joy to be around. Lauren is a master of imitation. She can assume different accents, and entertain us for hours with her monologues. Lauren's true accent is southern. VERY southern. For her older sister's high school graduation, my parents joined my band of four in Europe. While in Paris, we took a cruise down the Seine. The tour guide pointed out Notre Dame and Sacre' Coeur. She gave interesting factoids about all we were seeing. In a really thick French accent - duh. As we neared a large bridge, she explained we were about to go under the biggest bridge in Paris. With her accent is sounded more like "beeg-ahst breedge in Paris." Lauren, assuming everyone spoke deep south speak, thought the tour guide said big ASS bridge. We all fell over laughing.

That trip to Paris was during an epic heatwave. Our hotel did not have air conditioning. We were miserable. Luckily, the rooms had these enormous floor to ceiling windows that allowed the breeze to cool us down a bit. These windows looked out over a courtyard and into another building. One morning, Lauren and Ashley looked out the window and saw another hotel guest obviously attempting to cool off in his room. How did they know he was cooling off you ask? Why because he was as naked as the day he was born! Which my sweet little girl pointed out in a decibel level not unlike a Boeing 747. Said Naked Man, upon hearing the broadcast of his nakedness, began to stir. Which caused my girls to hit the deck. Which meant when Naked Man looked up he saw John and me in the window. Fun times, fun times.

Lauren isn't just fun to travel with, she is a joy to live with. Her intelligent wit, and her fierce love for us all is truly endearing. Lauren smiled on February 6, 1995 for the first time. I wish for her, and for all of us, many more of her precious smiles. Happy Birthday, my fun-sized baby girl!

What We Keep

2010-02-04T23:44:00.002-05:00

John and I celebrated our girl's birthdays tonight. They are eight years and eight days apart, so it has become tradition to have one meal out to celebrate both. As it tends to happen during family events, we all started to reminisce. Lauren especially likes to hear stories of years past. As we talked, I couldn't help but think about my own childhood.

I was struck by the ordinariness of my memories. The events that are most clear in my own mind are what would seem to most to be rather mundane. Sure, interspersed were the vacations and weddings and anniversaries. But intertwined with these seemingly more important occasions, were again the simple things; the quiet moments. It is those moments I keep tucked in my heart.

I have fond memories of my time as a little tike. I was blessed with two warm, loving, self-less parents. We ate dinner together. We went for drives together. We read books, and played instruments and watched TV together. I guess to some, our lives were nothing spectacular. No reality show would dare try to cultivate an audience for such a lack of drama. Although, in all fairness, my siblings and I are fifteen months apart. My parents went through three consecutive years of the terrible twos, and ages eleven through fifteen.

I remember listening to ghost stories on the radio on Thursday nights. We were able to have a TV dinner of our choice on those precious evenings together. I remember hearing the Christmas story read as we lit the candles on our handmade Advent wreath. I remember Sunday afternoon drives and Saturday afternoons listening to the Texaco opera. I remember being able to cheer for our Dad as he walked across the stage to get his PhD. I remember walking around the living room collating his dissertation prior to that big day.

I remember being tucked into bed. I remember being told I was beautiful, even when I was gangly and awkward. I remember a brand new dress every single Easter - the one time for certain I didn't wear hand-me-downs. I remember cheese souffle and fondue. I remember Mama's 'magination, and our after school activity schedule posted on the station wagon. I remember tears, and heartache, and laughter, and joy.

I remember being so incredibly loved.

The Winter That Never Ends

2010-02-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

Before you waste your valuable time, you need to be aware that I just flat cannot think straight. This blog entry, or the lack of one, is the direct result of a brain freeze. You see, it is snowing yet again. Oh, this is not the "big one", our forecasters tell me. Oh, no. The "big" storm is to happen this weekend. This particular storm only brought 4 inches (at the time I wrote this). And let me tell you, four inches is four inches too much at this point.

I love snow. I love its pristine white turning everything into a gingerbread iced world. Turns out though, this crap is only white until the snowplow comes by. There is nothing more gross than mud and asphalt sprinkled piles of snow. UGH.

Anyhoo, I did manage to drag myself up off the floor where I have been rocking in the fetal position ever since that little fur ball predicted six more weeks of this joy. And before you remind me of the gross inaccuracy of the fur ball's predictions over the years, you need to understand how much the human forecasters have missed the mark. My four inches (and counting) were to be "a chance of isolated flurries". So I am convinced fur ball is correct.

I do hope my humor improves enough tomorrow to post a proper blog entry. In the meantime, I am going to start shopping for condos in Boca. Just saying.

To Tell The Truth

2010-02-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

We are taught as children the importance of telling the truth. In our family, a lie was regarded as a cardinal sin; one that brought with it swift and stern punishment. It was hard to understand the idea of always telling the truth. Were we to all of a sudden tell that annoying lady at church that her butt looked especially broad in her lavender knit skirt? Were we to tell my Mom after spending hours cooking supper that in fact liver tasted like one would suspect dog poo would taste if one had actually tasted dog poo?

Of course, the answer was no. In learning to tell the truth, we also had to learn truth telling in the context of social graces. Mom instructed us to look beyond the broad beam in the stretchy purple ensemble, and focus on what was pleasing; to compliment what was good. This was not an easy task. The punchline from an old joke comes to mind where the subject tells another "you don't sweat much for a fat girl." Being truthful and kind simultaneously is sometimes a tall order.

I was lucky. I knew without a doubt, my parents never lied to me - except about Santa, but that is acceptable. Oh, and the tooth fairy. And, the Easter Bunny. But, I digress. Anyhoo, my parents instilled in us a real sense of integrity. We knew we were only as good as our word.

This concept served me well. I slipped up, as one might suspect a child/teenager might do. When I told an untruth, it would tear my gut up. I could feel my parent's disappointment burning through me. I did my best to limit any telling of fibs. When I became a Mom, I taught my kids what has become a mantra in my household: I would rather hear the ugly truth, than a pretty lie.

This sense of truth telling brings with it some negative consequences. Somewhere along the way, telling the truth became associated with being a "goody-two-shoes". And, if one is not careful, the telling of the truth can become a bit self-righteous, and even hurtful. Honesty, it turns out, it not always the best policy.

Some folks don't want to hear the truth. "You can't handle the truth" spoken by Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men has come to mind many times. Luckily, on more than one occasion, it has been the impetus for me to keep my truth-telling mouth shut just before it causes more harm than good. Unfortunately, there are just as many times where my mouth engaged faster than the old noggin.

Truth, it turns out, is not absolute. A situation taken out of context and colored by different perceptions change the way truth is defined. Truth is established by one's personal moral compass; each one unique to the owner. Truth can change over time. What was true and absolute as a child, can morph into something more complex and less clear as an adult.

I have learned it takes a lot of courage to tell the truth. To sit back in seemingly apathetic silence while someone engages in destructive behaviors gives tacit permission and acceptance. To watch someone self destruct or cause harm to themselves or others without telling the truth is irresponsible. Telling the truth in these cases is necessary. And yet it comes with a price.

It would be a wonderful thing if every time someone needed to hear the truth - even the ugly truth - said truth would be received with the same love and care as it was given. Wonderful? Yes. Realistic? Not so much. And so, the truth teller can find herself grieving the loss of a relationship; at least the relationship that existed before the truth. Which means that the relationship was likely built on something less than authentic. And maybe, once the dust settles and hearts heal, the relationship can be stronger than ever. Just saying.

Getting Your Sexy Back....

2010-02-01T00:04:00.002-05:00

My husband has been gone for several days attending a conference in Switzerland. I remember when I would take extra care with my appearance after such an absence. He would change his shirt and freshen up before coming home. Those days are over. Maybe it was due to the fact that the girls and I had to dig out our driveway prior to his arrival. Snow removal does tend to take away any desire for extended primping. And I guess since John returned from India once with epic vomiting spells, he feels like as long as his stomach contents remain, well... in his stomach, that is good enough.

I looked at my husband after he returned home and sighed. We were two sad individuals. He had on a pair of my plaid flannel pajama bottoms ( I know this because mine have a ruffle on the hem), with a Queens University sweatshirt circa 1988, a pair of scruffy house slippers over purple fuzzy socks, and a Mr. Rogers style cardigan to complete the look. I had on the male version of the same jammie bottoms (this is what happens when your eyesight goes) a blue and white striped oxford shirt of John's, multi-colored toe socks, and a Bach sweatshirt that has seen better days. Wow, what a pair. And to think I missed...this.

John and I have only been married seven years. This seems to me a rather hasty descent into that "we are married, therefore we can forget dressing nice for each other" syndrome. I remember not wanting John to see me without make-up. Those were the days. Now he has a hard time recognizing me with it on. I have never been one to wear dresses or high heeled shoes because I wanted to. I have always been more of a jeans wearing, sweat-shirt loving chick. John is much the same. He thinks he is dressed up when he wears a collared shirt. This however, is a new low for us both.

I guess we got comfortable with each other. According to all of the magazines, that is a sure sign of marital distress. We, according to the same articles, need to get our sexy back. What if I never had it? What if John thinks sweats are sexier than teddies? Maybe we are the exception to what must be the norm. We are saturated with magazines, and TV shows and movies that insist on our being sexy according to their definition in order to make our marriage work.

I don't see sexy in a way a man dresses so much. My idea of sexy is how a man acts, or what he does. Let me tell you, the best foreplay is a clean kitchen, an empty laundry room and a sink absent of beard stubble or toothpaste spit. Forget roses or chocolate - OK, maybe keep the chocolate - but forget the diamonds and the sappy cards. I, being a serial marrier, know without hesitation what sexy really is. Forget the Cosmo articles. This is the real sexy.

1. Bringing breakfast in bed is good. But, having your husband actually make up the bed is great. Especially if he resists commenting on the number of pillows, and actually takes the time to make it up right. That is code for doing it my way.

2. Really cleaning the kitchen. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping the counters, putting things back where they belong, and not asking stupid questions like "where does the milk go?"

3. Completing the laundry cycle. I don't mind doing laundry so much. I do hate it when the clothes that I have carefully pretreated, washed and dried, end up in a pile. They can never seem to make that leap from basket to drawer or closet.

4. Instead of greeting me with "what's for dinner honey?", a really sexy man would make reservations at a restaurant I actually like. A major pet peeve of mine is when a guy will offer to take you to dinner, and then give you a multiple choice of the restaurants where he wants to eat. UGGGGHHHH.

5. Please don't rub my feet. I know in the movies that is really sexy and erotic and all that jazz, but it just doesn't do it for me. Besides, you could cut your hand if it travels up much beyond the ankles. At this age, daily shaving is not a priority. I don't think I am alone in this sentiment.

6. Resist the urge to ask if I am not feeling well simply because I haven't dressed yet. I, for one, forgo ball gowns and panty hose to clean toilets and mop floors.

7. Speaking of toilets - and no, this ain't about the seat issue - have target practice. Please. It is a large hole. I, being a former nurse, have seen many a male "target shooter", if you will. None of you are so endowed that missing a large gaping hole should be a problem. Understood?

8. There are sprays and ointments and nose strips for snoring. In a pinch, try a clothes pin.You can be the most gorgeous specimen alive, but when you drift off to sleep sounding like a large elephant mating with a semi truck, I don't care anymore about your looks.

9. One more thing about the toilet. I have noticed many homes, including mine, have a cabinet above the toilet. Close the doors when you are done. A spouse knocked unconscious from slamming up into the open door is, well......unconscious. K?

10. Ask your spouse out on a date. Don't start out with "where do you want to go" or Lord forbid, ask the spouse to make the arrangements. Take the time to make reservations. Give your loved one notice so she can shave her Yeti like legs and/or find tights that have no run in them. Avoid the urge to discuss finances at any point during the dating process. Do not exclaim over the high prices of the entrees or wine or how much you had to pay for "these seats." Avoid discussing what a value an all-you-can-eat buffet or a movie night at home is in comparison. Open the door for her. Allow her to order dessert without comment - especially if the comment is "I didn't know a triple chocolate mouse torte with granache and whipped cream was on Weight Watchers." Last, but not least - do not use all of your digits to figure out the tip. If you cannot figure out 20% of a lot, leave a set amount like $50. Call it an investment.

I do love my husband - mismatched lounging wardrobe and all. And I do miss him when he is gone. He, being a serial marrier himself, works very hard to avoid the same mistakes of his past, as do I. We will never find ourselves on the cover of a relationship magazine, or featured in a story on "how to look sexy and hot." Yes, we are comfortable with each other. Comfortable enough to laugh like Holy Heck at the rest of the world and their obsession with sexy. I'll take flannel jammies and a clean kitchen any day!!

Child of Mine

2010-01-29T00:00:00.001-05:00

1) Infant Ashley, days old 2) Ashley's Baptism -her grandmother Hartnett made her dress

Ashley just before her 2nd Christmas - she broke out in chicken pox the next day

Ashley and a very pregnant Kimmie with the traditional July Fourth Cake

Ashley's Ninth Birthday

1) Ashley with Baby Lauren 2) Ashley with an older Lauren

Ashley and her Dad

Today I celebrate the birth of my elder daughter Ashley. She is twenty-three chronological years. This child of mine will always be a little girl in my heart. This is the post from her birthday last year. It is my favorite "Ashley" story, so bear with me if you have read it before.

I had no idea what to do with a baby twenty-three years ago. Due to the death of a dear family member the morning after Ashley's birth, I had to figure it out quickly. Ashley provided drama early on. She was in NICU for a few days following her birth. Because my Mom was tied up with funeral arrangements, my sister came to the rescue. Kim meant well. She did great getting me back and forth to nurse Ashley at all hours of the day and night. Then it was time to take Ashley home.

Ashley had been "dressed" in this plastic coated paper gown while in the hospital. The nurse left Kim and me to dress Ashley for her homecoming. This required removing the paper gown. Sounds simple. If you are dressing a baby doll and can wedge its head between your knees while ripping the gown off with your teeth. Turns out, you can't do that with a baby. Kim and I tried everything. We were laughing so hard we were in tears. You can imagine the scene the nurse walked in on. Here are two women, gasping and crying and laughing so hard no noise is actually coming out - you know that heaving, bent over laughter that hurts - trying to remove this impossible "paper" gown.

The nurse was not amused. She removed little Ashley from the bassinet and took the gown off. In one single motion.The fact that it went so smoothly for her was more than Kim and I could take. We were spewing by then. The nurse then curtly asked us if we needed help dressing Ashley in the little pink satin outfit we had brought for her. We figured it couldn't be any more difficult than dressing a Barbie doll, so we told her we were fine. She left us to take care of this simple task.

Turns out, you can't turn a baby's arm completely backwards like you can a doll. Who knew? We started laughing again. Hard. Kim got the ingenious idea of putting the little top in the bassinet and then placing Ashley on her tummy on top of it. Then we could kinda roll her into the arms. It worked!! We tied the back in perfect little bows and beamed at the sight of our handiwork. The nurse returned, took one look at Ashley and said "was it your intention to send this child out with her jacket on backwards?" Apparently, it was designed to tie in the FRONT and not the BACK. Kim is sharp. Kim was tired. Kim was starting to get annoyed with Nurse Ratchet. She curtly replied "I thought the ribbons would be a choking hazard, and so decided we would put in on this way." The nurse sniffed and left the room to finish paperwork. Kim and I roared. Poor Ashley. We did finally get her clothes on the right way. We proudly drove her home tucked into the largest car seat ever manufactured.

Ashley has turned out well in spite of me. We have grown together in many ways. She re-ordered my priorities. Ashley has brought light and life and exuberance to me and all that come to know her. On the play list to your left (until 1/31/10), is a kind of soundtrack to Ashley's life. I have included the Irish songs sung to her by her Pop, and Amazing Grace introduced to Ashley by her Bon-Bon. There are songs that are "our" songs, and those that Ashley has loved for years and years. Papa introduced her to "Song of the South"; her Dad Frank Sinatra. Deep and Wide was the first song she learned in pre-school, and we both sobbed to Michael Buble's Home when I left her in California for her first college adventure.

Ashley has since returned to college, where she made the Dean's List. She is majoring in Psychology with the hopes of becoming a counselor to teens and young adults. She has grown into a wonderful, kind, stunning, FUNNY, young lady. And I am so very proud.

I wish for Ashley this day and everyday, joy and love and laughter. Happy Birthday Ash!!

Ashley, Bill and me at a service for Graduation

Ashley and Jason St. Patrick's Celebration

Ashley and Lauren - Crucifer and Acolyte

Ashley and John Karaoke to "I Got You Babe"

1) Papa and the girls 2) Ashley and Me

The Blankenships and Hodges with all of us

Ashley Redding Hartnett

State of the School Yard

2010-01-28T00:01:00.001-05:00

Last night our President gave the State of the Union message. I didn't watch. I made a personal decision to forego all coverage of the address. Including the address itself. I will find a transcript somewhere and read it. Why have I taken this stand you ask? Why, let me explain. I am sick and tired of listening to the crap on television related to politics. So called political pundits (I have a much less attractive name for them which I cannot print) with their own agendas to promote, have driven me to turn off the television, and put down my newspaper. And lest you think I am targeting one particular "side", I am not. I am tired of them all.

We have lost all sense of decorum and dignity in this country. The more strident and inflammatory and mean, the better. We applaud raucous self-righteous spewing. And I have had enough. I was taught some basic principles by which I attempt to lead my life. Most of these tenets were ingrained in me by the time I started junior high. I think we all could use a few reminders. Here goes.

1. You don't have to like the principal, but you should respect his position.

2. It doesn't cost anything to be kind.

3. There are bullies everywhere. And the more they huff and puff and yell, the more insecure they really are. The best way to deal with a bully is to ignore them. Eventually, they will slink away from lack of attention.

4. It takes a big person to say I'm sorry. We should apologize when we cause others hurt or pain.

5. Life isn't always fair.

6. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.

7. Be nice to the new kids.

8. Close your mouth and open your ears. You may just learn something.

9. If everyone already knew everything, there would be no need for schools. Learn to open your mind to a new way of seeing an old problem.

10. Be the change you wish to see.

11. A compromise is not a sell-out. It is a win-win. Neither side will win it all, but both sides will gain so much more by working together.

12. Some of the best successes are born out of colossal failures.

13. I can pick on my family, but you'd better not!

14. Children don't choose their parents or their parent's occupations.

15. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

16. You shouldn't say or do anything you wouldn't be willing to say/do in front of your mother.

17. Treat others as you want them to treat you.

18. Turn the other cheek.

19. We should help those who cannot help themselves.

20. Don't be so quick to judge people.

21. Treat each day as a gift.

22. Don't assume anything.

23. Say what you mean. Mean what you say. But, don't be mean.

24. Actions speak louder than words.

25. Don't be a part of the problem. Work to actively find a solution.

I think we as a nation could make spectacular progress if we could follow these basic rules we learned as children. As a good friend of mine also reminded me, "united we stand, divided we fall. That was true before and it is still true now. And it is time we pulled together." Just saying.

A side note - I had some technical issues yesterday with my comments. I know several of you left comments on my post from Wednesday, but I didn't receive them. I have not ignored them or deleted them, and appreciate your comments more than you know! Thanks to my friend Bev, I think the problem has been solved.

Learning To Lime

2010-01-27T00:01:00.002-05:00

Until a few weeks ago, I believed a lime to be an object; a citrus fruit; a noun. I have since discovered a whole different take on the lime. As a VERB. As in "to lime". How does one lime, you ask?Why, let me explain. To lime is to chill, or relax. And it turns out, I am pretty good at achieving an optimal state of limeness.

As a teenager, I excelled at what my nephew refers to as chillaxing. I am pretty sure my parents spent many an evening wringing their hands at the prospect of my becoming a professional chiller-outer. Basically I was a sloth. I could sleep for fifteen or sixteen hours at a time, wake up to eat, take a little nap, and return to bed for an additional fifteen or sixteen hours. I wasn't allowed to indulge in this most delicious past time often, but when it was permitted, it was simply heaven.

Then I became a strung-out, stressed-out, mother, wife, and middle-aged poster child for the joys of menopause. I longed for the days where a nap or deep sleep would provide the ultimate escape from all of life's trials. I started to dream about running away from home. By the by, running away SEEMS a kinda fun, adventurous idea on the surface, but you have to pack, and plan, and then there is all that guilt....in the end it just is easier to stay and share one's joy with one's family. Anyhoo, the point of this drivel is that somewhere along the way towards the dreaded middle-age, I forgot how to relax.

I did figure out how to fake a sort of pseudo relaxation. I would park my rather voluminous underpinning - that would be a polite way to say fat arse - on the couch, and attempt to lose myself in the witty offerings on TV. Only television ain't so witty anymore. After a few moments, my mind would become a schizophrenic cacophony of bills to pay, or meals to plan, or worrying about upcoming science fair projects, or school dances, or lacrosse games. Movies didn't provide any escape either. I would obsess over how much time I was "wasting" while trying to follow the plot line. All the while limiting my fluid intake so as not to have to leap up at a critical moment in order to deal with my menopausal bladder issues. sigh.

After a particularly stressful year, I was able to accompany John to Barbados. As far-fetched as it seems, John actually has work to do in paradise, ahem, Barbados. Some people just have all the luck. Anyhoo, I was able to go along with him. The first day I actually wore make-up and styled my hair. I was careful about picking out the "right" outfit. It was an exercise in futility. I sweat like a pig. My sweat was sweating. My makeup was soon a greasy puddle around my ankles. Those famous trade winds of the Caribbean re-styled my hair in a most attractive, loose, free-flowing style not unlike Goldie Hawn. Well, if you squint your eyes it sorta looked like that. Okay, okay, with your eyes closed you could PICTURE Goldie Hawn. I looked like HELL! K?

Day two I graduated to only a bit of concealer and some waterproof, sweat-proof, industrial strength mascara. I ditched the can of hair spray and let the wind have its way with me. I chose my clothes based on which ones flowed the most and stuck the least to my skin. I entertained (briefly) the idea of going bra-less, but decided it was unfair to subject the lovely folks of Barbados to my resulting ankle ornaments. Ahem.

By day three, I had thrown all make-up into a drawer not to be opened again until we left paradise. I replaced my cosmetics with DEET to combat the Bajan national bird, the mosquito, and SPF 1000 sunscreen in a hopelessly optimistic, yet not realistic attempt to avoid overexposure to the sun. I did wash and brush my hair each morning, and then forgot about it until the next day. I learned to embrace beach sand in places one would not ordinarily expect to find, well...sand.

Little by little, I stopped worrying about how I looked, what needed to be done, and was even able to stop feeling guilty about relinquishing all parental duties to Ashley. Who, by the way, did a beautiful job of caring for Lauren, the house and my pets. During a snow storm. Anyhoo, I suddenly had time to read twenty books. I kid you not. I read everything I could find. Most of my reading took place on a lounge chair at the edge of the beach. Said beach had the most beautiful white sand with a pale pink tint and led one to the gorgeous liquid aquamarine splendor of the Caribbean. Add a rum punch or two and life became an exquisite escape from the ordinary.

We didn't spend all of our time at the beach. Thanks to some of John's colleagues and students, we were shown the "real" Barbados. Learning my love of great choral music and historic churches, one of John's students invited me to choir practice at the oldest Anglican church on the island dating back to the 1600's where he is choirmaster/organist. Afterwards, we joined several more students at a typical rum shack where we dined on barbecued ribs, salad and home-made french fries. We washed all of this delicious food down with the best rum punch in Barbados.A friend and colleague took us on an extensive tour of the island - we didn't miss many of the 166 square miles. We saw acres and acres of cane fields, the wild isolated Atlantic coast and Jacobean mansions set high on the hillside. We visited the botanical gardens, watched a polo scrimmage, and wandered around Bridgetown.

We went to the famous Oistins fish fry and braved the teeming masses to savor flying fish pan fried in Bajan spices, and went to the smaller more intimate fishing village in Moontown for the same in a quieter setting. We saw glorious technicolor sun sets over the Caribbean Sea. We watched cruise ships come into port. We rode the local buses and shopped in the local markets. John had lively, thoughtful discussions with students thrilled to have him teach them. It truly was heaven.

Bajans have a strong work ethic. When it is time to work, they hunker down. But, when work is done, they are equally passionate about relaxing, or liming. They congregate with music and food and drink and enjoy each other's company. They are open, warm and embraced us fully. They helped me see myself through their eyes. And in that light, I couldn't help but shine. I learned to peel away the layers of anxiety and fear and worry that tends to plague us as adults, and reveal a glimpse of my former self - graying, sagging, and a little life battered, but still recognizable. And in my new relaxed state, I even liked what I saw.

All good things must come to an end, and we eventually had to pack away the shorts and bathing suits and return to our frozen, snow covered existence. We returned to dreary rainy skies and temps hovering just above freezing. Lovely. Our flight was not at all smooth, and the rather substantial turbulence seem to become a metaphor for our jolt back to reality. I was not ready to give up my new found inner chill.

We did decide to return home in spite of the weather, the harrowing plane ride and the multiplicity of security issues and lost baggage. The bills, and anxiety about loved ones, and job frustrations are still there. But they are somehow more balanced. John and I have have become, as our children tell us, more laid back. I think we both realized we had let the less attractive aspects of life consume us, and we were left with little to celebrate.

Life really is a series of events, good and bad. The trick is to make each event a part of an intricate but ultimately pleasing fugue. No one event can upstage another, or the delicate harmony will become discordant. Of course, with my new appreciation for liming, perhaps my fugue analogy is too formal. Maybe I need to adapt my life's symphony for the calypso stylings of the steel pan band. Just saying.

Re-writing The Story of My Life

2010-01-26T00:01:00.002-05:00

I watched Oprah today. I realize that in and of itself is not exactly earth-shattering news. I am an occasional Oprah viewer. I don't tend to have much interest in some of the puff and fluff talk shows seem to attract, but today Oprah was interviewing Rose O'Donnell, so I tuned in. I like Rosie. I liked her more before she had her meltdown on The View, but since I have suffered myself on the roller coaster ride we have dubbed menopause, I totally understand. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I tuned in. And I learned something about myself in the process.

Rosie's mom died when Rosie was ten years old. From that moment on, Rosie's life became divided into events before and after her mother's death. Rosie became so immersed in her sorrow and anger and frustration related to her Mom's absence, that she failed to realize how much joy and love and life she had surrounding her. Rosie had not learned to live in the "now".

I realized I had done the same with my stroke. Everything suddenly was relative to whether or not it happened before or after the event. I started to slide down that slippery abyss of self-pity and anger. I became so bitter I could no longer appreciate the good things that surrounded me. I could no longer work, but my lack of a formal schedule allowed me the freedom to travel all over the world. And yet, I still lamented the loss of my job. My glass was locked in a perpetual state of half-empty.

Rosie had to hit rock bottom before she could heal her heart. After a contentious verbal sparring on The View, she retreated to her family and sought therapy to find her authentic self again. And she did. She discovered that her mother's death did not have to define her as a person. She learned to appreciate her neighbors and extended family member's efforts on her behalf. She could greive her mother's loss, and still celebrate the wonderful person shaped by that loss.

Barbados became my therapist's couch. There I could completely escape from reality and allow myself the luxury of self-reflection in a relaxed setting. After several years of pity parties for one, I was finally able to put the events of my past in the proper perspective. I could finally see a glass half-full.

I felt validated today. I realized I was not the only lost soul searching for a purpose in life. I realized we all have these events - life changing events, but I also realized these events don't have to be life shattering. I am still here. I am happy. And more importantly, I am at peace. Just saying.

Taking The Plunge....Again!

2010-01-25T00:01:00.002-05:00

I thought I would take a brief respite from blogging. All of a sudden, a day turned into a week; a week turned into a month....and here I am. I guess I became lazy. Or, maybe I thought whatever it was I had to share wasn't worth the time it took to read it. More likely, it was the laziness. Anyhoo, I am now bowing a bit to some pressure given by my other mother and my much, much older sister, and attempting to post an entry. It isn't exactly going well.

I have plenty to say. I have never had difficulty with expressing how I feel about any given subject. The problem is that I have lots to say about, well....nothing. At least nothing important. Oh, maybe important to me, but.... see? So far, I have written nearly two paragraphs about the inability to write! This could be a problem.

Let me see. Okay. Ahem. Here goes. Um.....there was a priest, a rabbi.....just kidding. For real this time. Deep breath. How about some random musings? I can do that! Hey!! I may just be on to something! After all, once I get in the groove, my posts will once again be provocative, and entertaining, and enlightening. Or a cure for intractable insomnia. But, I digress. Musings. Let me see.

It has rained all day, and there is still snow on the ground. It is too warm for the rain to fall as ice or snow, but too cold to change the snow to water.

I have a tan. It looked kinda great in Barbados, but somehow creepily odd in Virginia. With snow on the ground.

I am addicted to Wordscraper on Facebook. I have serious concerns about how serious my addiction has become. I think my other mother and I are going to have to seek treatment. She is equally addicted. Seriously.

I have discovered rum. It wasn't lost, but I have found I do enjoy it. In a punch. With freshly grated nutmeg on top.

My older daughter made Dean's List. I sometimes marvel at how I managed to produce such smart kids.

I just took down our Christmas decorations yesterday. My house looks naked. Turns out it is a universal trend to tacky up ones environs at the holidays. The tackier the better. And, yet somehow acceptable.

My favorite Christmas presents didn't cost any money. Ashley gave me the most beautiful letter, and Lauren created a ceramic box that she formed, painted and had fired. I treasure them both.

I finished my taxes and have already filed. This from the chick who was ALWAYS on the late night news racing to get her taxes post-marked by midnight on the 15th of April.

John apparently made some New Year's resolutions about helping with house work. I have spotted him folding and putting away laundry, and on at least one occasion washing dishes.

We donated to Goodwill six times this past year, and yet we still have closets full of crap.

I am growing out my bangs. They are too short to tuck behind my ears and too long to leave down. I have taken to pulling them up with barrettes. I look a bit like a middle-aged Pekingese.

I love Neil Young. Especially when he was actually young. I still admire him, but he probably should not try to perform in public anymore.

I got to spend some time over Christmas with John's sister. I have always enjoyed her company, but this visit was especially nice. John is lucky to have such a warm, funny, bright sister. I think I am lucky as well that he has such a warm, funny......you get the picture.

I spent my entire adolescence trying to look older. I now spend a great deal of time trying to achieve the opposite effect.

Switching sides of the bed can totally change your perception.

Although I loathe e-mail chain type forwards, I cannot help but think I am the sole cause of every terrible tragedy when I refuse to pass them on.

I clean my house every day. It is an exercise in futility.

I never have to use the bathroom on a plane until the fasten seat belt sign comes on. Without fail.

Our cat likes to lounge on our treadmill. We turned it on once. He was not amused.

Why would anyone think for one nano-second that meatloaf would taste good. It is a loaf. Of meat.

I wonder if Chinese people eat take-out. And do they order Chinese food or just food.

Have you ever noticed that gadgets designed to make our lives simpler have instruction booklets over ten pages in length written in Greek?

Friday was apparently squirrel appreciation day. What does one give a squirrel to show one's appreciation?

I think I have mused enough for one post. I will attempt to pen something a bit more cerebral tomorrow. By the by, in order to combat the ever increasing weirdo comments from spam artists, I have had to add administrative moderation to the blog. I hope this will not preclude your leaving me your comments!

A Tribute to LEON

2009-12-24T00:04:00.000-05:00

Due to impending bad weather, namely ice, we had to head south earlier than expected. Therefore, I am printing a re-run. Merry Christmas!!

LEON had been a part of Christmas for as long as I can remember. He always had a place of prominent esteem in our family. He had been both revered and ridiculed, loved and loathed, honored and heckled. This year, LEON is no longer with us. He will be sorely missed.

LEON was a faux gilded set of four letters in an antiqued burnished gold. The letters were festooned with cherubs and angels playing cymbals and harps. LEON was ornately encrusted with sparkling glitter that would twinkle in the candle light. Each year, LEON would be placed with care atop Daddy's piano. Mom would carefully space the letters in a neat arrangement to spell NOEL. We would OOHHH and AAAHHH at the sight. Once Mom and Dad left the room, we would quickly change the letters around to LEON. Thus began a tradition that lasted nearly 40 years.

Mom and Dad would "rescue" their NOEL from our cynical, sarcastic, piano top editorial daily. We would promptly change it back. Once we were grown, Mom gave up. LEON was here to stay. No longer forced to be the NOEL he'd been raised to be, LEON was free to express himself. He started to shed some of the gilt and glitz that we had come to despise. The cherubs and angels started to "disappear" - we think they ran off with the wise men - and the glitter slowly faded away. LEON became, well....just LEON.

LEON was as much a part of my Christmas experience as Santa, the advent wreath and Daddy's bread. His presence was taken for granted. Certain things are expected during the holidays - forgetting where you hid a present, waiting until Christmas Eve to wrap, writing and addressing Christmas cards only to forget to mail them - and LEON. He was what we looked for first in Mom's house. He was the symbol of all things traditional. He was the harbinger of all things secular and sacred. LEON was the epitome of Christmas.

Two years ago, in the dark of night, he disappeared. Christmas has never been the same. Kim and I could not believe our beloved LEON had defected to another family. We couldn't accept his leaving any more than we could accept a Christmas without the barking dogs of Jingle Bells or the glass moose punch cups from A Christmas Vacation. Surely, there must be a mistake. We hoped against hope that Mom and Dad had found a way to divide LEON up between us and let us enjoy his holiday presence in our own homes - that was it!! Of course!! Mom had it wrapped somewhere waiting to see our faces when we discovered him. We were to be inconsolably wrong. LEON had been give to .......Goodwill. Yep, Mom and Dad donated LEON.

I realize my parents had good intentions. And nothing speaks of Goodwill better than our beloved LEON, but REALLY MOM!! Couldn't you have ASKED first? Did you not understand the importance of LEON in our impressionable young lives? Could you not see the joy he brought for so many years? And without ceremony or even a memorial service, you simply GAVE HIM AWAY??? O.K.,O.K. I can breathe now. The bag helps. Really. The shock is starting to fade. Sorry.

I am not saying that Christmas will cease to exist. I am not so wrapped up in some kitschy Christmas ornamentation that I cannot move on and - Oh, who am I kidding. LEON is gone. Christmas will never again be quite the same. I have a newer modern version of LEON, but he is much too shiny and perfect. There was comfort in that less than tasteful Liberace-esque-gold-spray-painted-cherub-adorned Christmas chatchke. There was familiarity. There was joy. LEON was loved.

LEON has been forever immortalized in photographs of Christmas's past. He is gone but not forgotten. So, here's a toast to LEON and all the joy and laughter he brought to my family - Merry Christmas!!

note - for Christmas last year, my sister and I received jointly, LEON. Mom and Dad had decided we could alternate years with LEON, but Kim and I chose to share him. I have NO, and she has EL. We are both ecstatic!!

Snow Days

2009-12-22T00:01:00.002-05:00

I would like to rewind back to 1970 please. In 1970, I was six years old. In 1970, I didn't have to deal with grown-up problems and issues. In 1970, I could enjoy the snow. sigh.

Remember the excitement that would build from the minute snow was even a remote possibility? I would get that butterflies in the tummy, waiting for Santa, first day of school feeling. I couldn't sleep. When snow was forecast, I went on snow watch. I would ponder the possibilities snow would bring; sledding, building a snow man, missing school. I LOVED snow. Snow brought magic to my world. Snow was the great equalizer. Snow made everything, no matter how shabby, look beautiful.

Snow is still beautiful. Snow is also treacherous. With age, and one would hope, wisdom, I have had to become more aware of the less attractive aspects of snow. This realization has been a bit like finding out the truth about Santa. And the tooth fairy. And the Easter Bunny. And...well, let's just say no WONDER folks go through a crisis at middle age. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I have had to accept the brutal reality of snow from the perspective of an adult. And it isn't pretty.

John and I spent six hours shoveling snow Sunday. We finally had the end of our driveway in site, only to realize the plow had created an ice covered snow bank in excess of four feet. That we then had to hack apart. Fun times, fun times. I am aware of muscles that until Sunday I had only read about in my anatomy class. My arm pits hurt. There was much groaning in bed last night. Not from that!! Every time John or I moved, the pain caused us to cry out in pain! I kid you not.

It turns out snow and the inevitable icy crust are not conducive to driving. Many have tried. Many, many have failed. Our neighborhood has a plow. This would seem to be a helpful piece of equipment in places where one has to deal with copious amounts of snow. I have learned that a plow mostly packs the snow into one large continuous skating rink. And, once that crap is packed down, you have no chance of seeing the road until Spring. Our Department of Transportation spreads salt and sand on the roads to help with the ice build-up. What this does is make what was once pristinely white, beautiful frosting into a salty, sandy, slushy mess. And it does help with driving. It helps one wish to get in their car and drive straight to the car wash.

As difficult as it is to drive in, walking in snow is nearly impossible. And folks, it just isn't even a teensy bit cute to fall on your keister when you are nearly fifty years old. Cold, yes. Cute, not on your life. The emergency rooms are filled with folks nursing newly broken bones from attempting to traverse this frozen wasteland formerly known as the Washington, DC metropolitan area.

And speaking of the DC area, apparently the blizzard of 2009 - their term, not mine - forced the federal government to close. The news media kept announcing this while proclaiming how light the traffic would be as a result. FYI, the federal government is big, but it does not employ all 6 million inhabitants of the area. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, other folks had a need to get out to work - John being one of them. It was not an easy journey. Seems the government knew what they were doing by closing up shop. 'Cept for one eensy little detail. Seems there were lines miles and miles long of cars waiting to get into the area mall parking lots. Hmmm....can't make it to work, but can shop....Yet another snow negative. Snow causes folks to lose all sense of ration and reason.

I liked snow better in 1970. Mom and Dad worried about getting to and from work. Mom and Dad made sure we had the requisite loves of bread and gallons of milk. Mom dried four hundred loads of snowy wet clothing and made countless cups of cocoa. Dad made sure we had firewood ready in the event of a power outage. Mom provided the buttons and carrot for our snowman. It didn't occur to us there might be any negative side to snow. Snow days were days to sled down hills on garbage can lids and vinyl place mats. Snow days were days to make angels and snow caves. Snow days were magic. I would like to re-wind back to 1970 now please. Just saying.

Lessons Learned

2009-12-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

Yes, the weathermen were correct. We did indeed have a colossal,epic, stupendous, ridiculous amount of snow. As I write this, we have in excess of two feet of snow on the ground. And it is still falling. I decided to share with you some of what I have learned from this experience.

1. Be careful what you ask for. I love snow. In moderation. I asked for snow. I got a freaking blizzard. Enough said.

2. There are only so many ways to describe massive amounts of snow. Weathermen try. A lot. Buy a thesaurus before the next snow event. I beg you.

3. Snow is cold. Okay, I know that would seem a no-brainer, but it is REALLY cold. When it comes up to your thigh, it no longer falls in the category of fun. Just unbelievably cold.

4. Watching snow fall and listening to the incessant prattle of weather dudes makes one hungry. Not one time, though, did I crave that dang bread I bought. sigh.

5. Dogs still have to poo when it snows. And poo is not attractive against a stark white background. K?

6. There aren't enough layers on the planet to keep one warm when it is 24 degrees outside with a wind chill of 8. See number 3.

7. Decks are certainly resilient structures. Mine has about two tons of snow on it and it is still standing. So far.

8.I don't crave hot chocolate until it snows. Never, ever. When it snows, I simply must have a cup of hot liquid chocolate.

9. The Weather Channel provides a great service. And if they cannot help you with the weather, the mind numbing music they play will cure insomnia.

10. There are thousands of folks out there who think they can drive in the snow.They are delusional. Snow is not made for driving. Snow is made for sledding. There is a reason Santa doesn't drive a Hummer.

I am sure there is more I could share, but my brain is mush from watching twelve consecutive hours of the weather. Add to that the hyperglycemic coma from way too much hot cocoa and I just can't think anymore. Just saying...

The Great Apocalyptic Epic Storm of the Century

2009-12-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

I bought bread today. That in and of itself is not exactly a momentous event. The reason WHY I bought bread has made the national, international and intergalactic news. I bought bread because we are having a snow storm. I didn't NEED bread, but it seemed the thing to do. I was apparently not the only person in the Washington, DC metropolitan area who has somehow been genetically wired to instinctively buy bread in the face of an imminent storm. Most folks also bought milk, but I had a gallon already, so I resisted the urge to buy another. But,I digress. Anyhoo, I am now breaded and ready for whatever Old Man Winter brings.

The forecasters began to hint at the slight possibility of a flake or two days ago. I didn't pay much attention. I have learned, as so many have, that if snow is actually forecast one can expect a miserable day of cold bone chilling rain. Our biggest storms seem to occur when we least expect them. Or, as in the snowfall two weeks ago, our forecasted dusting ended up being over eight inches. Now, the weather dudes are telling us to hunker down and prepare for upwards of 15 inches.

I have to admit, I have found the entire coverage unbelievably entertaining. The weather dudes have used such terms as massive, sweeping, colossal, and my personal favorite epic. I realize this is big news, 'cause lord forbid we would actually see SNOW in the WINTER...and yes, before I get comments from all-knowing weather wise-asses, I know winter doesn't officially start until Monday. Anyhoo, I am constantly amazed at the, well....amazement the weather folks show over such an event. I mean, how in the heck did they think Santa and the reindeer were going to use a SLEIGH to bring presents to my house? Hello!

So, as you read this I may very well be living in an ice cave. Apparently we are due for snow measured in feet, not inches. I will dutifully measure the depth and let you know the final result. Okay, so I am not getting up and freezing my touche off just to find out just how deep it is, but I will send my husband to do the deed. I will drink my milk and eat my bread from the warmth and comfort of my couch. Unless we loose power, in which case this cute little winter frosting will instantly turn into a large pain in my rear. Just saying...

A Letter To Norman Rockwell

2009-12-18T00:01:00.001-05:00

Dear Mr. Rockwell,

Whilst I appreciate your illustrative prowess, I hold you completely responsible for making Christmas an impossibly unattainable myth. Your portrayal of how Christmas "should" be, has caused me much stress and angst.

I realize you didn't have to deal with ex-husbands and new families and spouses-in-law and other extraneous relatives. You had the requisite 2.2 children 2.5 years apart. You had one spouse. In your world the Christmas turkey was always golden brown; the dog well-behaved; the children eager and attentive as you read the Christmas stories. Heck, you even made smoking a pipe charming!

In your world, folks smiled and laughed and sang carols. No harried housewives making the twenty-ninth batch of cookies for school in a flour covered apron appear in your work. No images of children eating peanut- butter sandwiches for the fourth night in a row because in all forty-six trips to the grocery store to gather the ingredients to make the cookies and the Christmas feast, your wife failed to pick up something for dinner. No pictures of the cat making the Christmas tree its own personal jungle gym.

In your illustrations, the kids are all enjoying fresh baked goodies while Mom beams with pride. And obviously, she doesn't taste each one for quality control 'cause she can still fit through the doorway. Somehow in your vignettes, Dad gets to sit in his overstuffed chair and read the paper. And it is charming. Sir, it is not charming to watch Dad sit on his arse whilst the Mama cooks, cleans, wraps, creates, bakes, hustles and bustles. K?

I had as close to a Norman Rockwell Christmas as anyone. My Mom and Dad filled our home with the decadent aromas of cookies, and pound cake and freshly baked bread. We had to then wrap it all up and give it away, but that is another story. Anyhoo, we read the Christmas story together around our advent wreath. We drank hot cocoa and listened to Bing and Andy and Nat croon to us. Our stockings were hung by the chimney with care. We gathered under our tree crammed with ornaments crafted out of toilet paper cores and glitter and Popsicle sticks.

I have tried to measure up. I cannot bake. I am a pretty darn good cook, but it turns out you have to measure when you bake. Somehow more flour gets on the floor and the cabinets and the ceiling than in the mixing bowl. I am not "crafty". My homemade ornaments would be deemed too tacky for a Pre-K play group. I cannot for the life of me re-create the perfect turkey; golden brown with a crispy skin covering a moist juicy interior. Heck, I dropped one on the floor one year. I am not nearly cool enough to pick out "awesome" presents. I gift bag, not wrap.

All of this would be fine and dandy had it not been for you, Mr. Rockwell. It is because of you that I now need therapy to deal with my feelings of inadequacy. It is your unrealistic glimpses of homey realism that makes folks absolutely stark-raving loony this time of year. Enough already!

I apologize for my er, um...passion. Part of the reason I am so familiar with your work, is that I have bundles of unmailed, half-addressed greeting cards featuring many of your Christmas classics. Some of them are so old they are yellowing around the edges. The pictures are pretty, though, and in my moments of absolute despair, I take them out and wonder if such a family really exists. And if it did, would I really want to trade places with them?

Sincerely,

One harried, frazzled, house-wife

An Expert's Guide To Re-Gifting

2009-12-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

Admit it. We all re-gift. I think re-gifting is a great way to help the environment. I think of it as retail conservation. I do think one needs to have the tools in order to make re-gifting work without fear of discovery. I have compiled a simple list of re-gifting do's and don't's to help make your re-gifting experience a positive one.

1. Do not EVER re-gift to the person who actually gave you the gift in the first place. Sadly, this has been known to happen. One way to avoid this potentially embarrassing calamity is to have some sort of indexing system where you record the gift and the original giver. In the event you have failed to keep adequate records and somehow make the terrible mistake of re-giving the gift to the giver, simply exclaim how you LOVED the gift SOOO much you thought they would LOVE it too!! Good luck with that one.

2. Make sure all tags and cards from the original gift are taken off. Again, seems like a no-brainer. Alas, there are apparently scores of folks with, well.....no brains. Ahem. My sister received a lovely wedding gift at a shower held at our church. When she took the item out of the box, lo and behold, there was the card to the giver's son and HIS bride. That would be a multi-generational re-gifting. Embarrassing!

3. Do not re-gift bad gifts. Unless you despise the recipient. In which case, you really should think about WHY you would give someone you despise a gift in the first place. But I digress. Anyhoo, bad gifts are called trash. Or, in the case of my personal favorite the granny panties, dust cloths. If you hate a present, don't punish someone else - punish the giver! And the best way to punish the giver is to give them something especially atrocious - from your kids. That way they HAVE to at least pretend to like it, and in the case of clothing items, be seen in it at least once. Have your camera ready!

4. Some re-gifts are symbolic rather than actual gifts. Let me explain. If your sibling thinks it is cute and funny to give the first grandchild every single siren screeching, light flashing, loud repetitive noise making, baby pooping, annoying musically challenged gift on the planet, do not despair. Simply wait until they have children and load them up. In the event they decide to try and avoid the whole annoying kid toy issue by remaining childless, simply send your child to them for the weekend with every single toy they have ever bestowed on said kid. With extra batteries. Fun times. Fun times.

5. Fruitcake is a delicacy. It is not to be made fun of or used as sporting equipment in the annual touch football game. It is not to be exposed to ridicule and shame by being re-gifted. Seriously. That is just mean.

I hope these tidbits help you this holiday season. I look forward to seeing what wonderful treasures I receive this year. You may look forward to seeing them next year.....just saying!

It's The Thought That Counts

2009-12-16T00:01:00.001-05:00

I saw a commercial that made me spew with laughter. A guy is discussing the merits of a thoughtful gift and declares, "I understand it is the thought that counts, but couldn't you have thought harder?" I love it! We all claim to believe in the thought more than the actual gift, but let's be real. Every gift, no matter how cheesy, ill-fitting, inappropriate, fattening, or down-right awful requires some modicum of effort. I am with commercial guy. It is time to put more thought into the process.

I have had my share of bad gifts. The all-time worst gift was the result of a toxic mix of A) a terrible giver B) a terrible venue and C) a complete lack of sensitivity and decorum. A former mother-in-law of mine (and I have had many, so relative anonymity should not be a problem here) gave me - with great fanfare mind you - some underpants. And no, panties is not the word I mean to use. Panties are delicate, small items of an intimate nature. Granny panties are not as voluminous and billowing as these things were. So, in front of a predominately male audience, I was given these enormous parachutes in disguise. Add a propane tank and a basket and we could have all flown the friendly skies. But, I digress. Anyhoo, to make matters worse, she said to the assembled group, "I didn't know what size to get you, so I held them up against me and then got one size bigger." Folks, unless your mother-in-law is Twiggy, she should absolutely refrain from such behavior. This woman had, er,um....let's say a rather broad underpinning. In no way was this a compliment that these tents would cover her......assets. Ahem. And then to get a size bigger! ARGH! Needless to say, I did not wear the undergarments, but I found they made really great dust cloths. And that would be plural.

My Dad received sock sorters one year. Sock sorters were the eighties version of the Snuggie or Sham WOW! These made for TV gems were made of plastic and would aid one in keeping ones socks from disappearing in the wash. They were even color coordinated so each member of the family could keep their socks together and identified. I think it causes a sense of isolation and cliquishness not often seen in the sock world. So, back to the sorters. It was an okay gift from perhaps a completely clueless but desperate co-worker needing to find affordable options for a quazillion folks they have to deal with each day. Sock sorters are not the sort ('scuse the pun) of gift one would expect from a loved one. Dad received this particular gift from his mother-in-law. "What's love got to do with it" comes to mind immediately. Let's just say she wasn't exactly a warm fuzzy type of gal...

Perhaps my Dad's gift of sock sorters was a kind of cosmic pay-back from a gift giving faux pas of his own. Hmmm. Seems my parent's first Christmas was not all mistletoe and ivy, if you know what I mean. Mom tried to think of personal, romantic gifts appropriate for newlyweds to receive on their first Christmas together. She assumed, and OOOOHHH how wrong this assumption turned out to be, that my Dad would of course do the same. Dad does not have a romantic bone in his body. I'll get to his idea of a personal gift here shortly. Anyhoo, Mom had a beautiful watch she had saved up for months to purchase, a lovely sweater, and something else that completely escapes me now, but I am SURE it was wonderful. Dad gave my Mom a vacuum cleaner, a spice rack and some pots. I kid you not. No jewelry, or scarf, or book of poetry. Nope. A large sucking appliance and, well....some other gifts that sucked, shall we say. When Mom, with tears in her eyes, explained how hurt she was at the lack of personal gifts, Dad exclaimed - and this is the unadulterated truth - "if I had known you wanted something so personal, I would have given you an ermine lined Kotex." Let's just say for the record that it has been forty-eight years and he has still not completely made up for that lapse of discretion.

I do hope my gifts are well-received and loved as much as I have loved picking them for my friends and family. And if not, I will feature a blog of re-gifting tomorrow. Just saying...

My Twelve Days of Christmas!!

2009-12-15T00:04:00.000-05:00

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two sore feet , and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, three annoying carols, two sore feet, and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, eight rude store clerks, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, nine pushy shoppers, eight rude store clerks, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, ten re-gifted fruitcakes, nine pushy shoppers, eight rude store clerks, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, eleven late deliveries, ten re-gifted fruitcakes, nine pushy shoppers, eight rude store clerks, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet and an artificial pre-lit tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, twelve cups of egg nog, eleven late deliveries, ten re-gifted fruitcakes, nine pushy shoppers, eight rude store clerks, seven gifts gone missing, six thousand calories, five hundred miles home! Four traffic jams, three annoying carols, two sore feet,

AND AN ARTIFICIAL PRE-LIT TREE-EEEE-EEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

My Grown-Up Letter To Santa

2009-12-14T00:01:00.001-05:00

Dear Santa,

Before we get too far, I believe in you. I have always believed in you. I believed even when Chris and Cindy told me in the fourth grade that you weren't real. I decided I couldn't completely trust the word of two friends who tried to convince me to hang upside down from the monkey bars. But, I digress. Anyhoo, ever since I saw you in Miracle on 34th Street, I knew you were real.

I realize I am getting far too old to give you a lengthy list of toys in the hopes of discovering them wrapped in silver and red under my tree. Gone are the days of baby dolls, and spider bikes with banana seats, and Barbie mansions. I no longer covet a new rugby shirt or a Bermuda bag with changeable covers. Legs warmers, pet rocks and Chia pets are hardly at the top of my list.

I am older now, and one would assume infinitely more mature. My grown-up list leans more towards Talbots than Toys-R-Us. I dream of a new Le Creuset casserole, or a set of really great knives. My idea of a great electronic gadget is a souped up cappuccino machine with one of those coffe house frothy attachment thingys. An "it" bag to me is a perfectly balanced suitcase with wheels and tons of useful compartments.

I have learned in my advanced age that I simply don't need more stuff. I have stuff. Lots of stuff. I could, at this point, channel my inner Miss America and ask for world peace. And there are those who would scoff at me. But I really think peace is something I would like to have on my list. Not just an end to war, but true peace. I would like to live in a world where everyone, regardless of color, creed, choice of partner, or dietary preference can live together in harmony.

So, I realize this is a tall order. Maybe Cabbage Patch Dolls and Nintendo games are easier to produce, but you are magic. You, Santa, represent the innocent child who lives in all of us. And I believe you just might be able to pull this off.

I will leave some cookies out for you this year, as I have for 45 years. You may find they are high fiber, low sugar versions of the ones from my childhood, but they still taste pretty good.

Merry Christmas,

Jenni

My Great Mid-Life Crisis

2009-12-12T23:50:00.005-05:00

I have been absent from the blogosphere for over a month now. Several things contributed to my need to take a rest from my daily postings. Three years ago today, at the age of 42, I had a stroke. I have written about this before, so I won't bore you now with the details. Anyhoo, I thought I had worked through all the grief and anger and frustration and angst one goes through after such a major life event. I was wrong. Maybe turning 45 had something to do with it. Maybe it was wanting so badly to do something meaningful; to contribute; to matter. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

I was embarrassed to admit my pain. After all, I have a father who lives with cancer every single day of his life. I have a friend who has dealt with murder and the ripple effect caused by the terrible actions of one crazed human being. I have friends who deal with children who have lost direction. I have a sister going through a painful divorce. I have no right to feel as horrible as I felt. Or so I thought. And, it turns out, I was wrong.

I have learned a great deal about life and loss and the emotional parameters we as human beings decree respectable or appropriate. We as a society have little tolerance for those who are having a pity party for one. No whining! Pick yourself up by the boot straps and keep on plugging! I will survive! God won't give you more than you can handle! It could be worse! Give me a break.....

Sometimes our boot straps get frayed or break. Sometimes we simply cannot pick ourselves up or stop crying or find the silver lining or see that freaking glass half full. Sometimes life is a bowl of cherry pits and no matter how much sugar we add, those lemons are never going to taste remotely like lemonade.

And it's okay.

It's okay to let it out. It is okay to feel the anger and grieve the loss. I learned the hard way that if you don't, all those emotions will come back in a tsunami wave that will erode in an instant the foundational facade built out of false bravado no stronger than sand.

So, I took a break. I have spent hours thinking and pondering and reflecting. I have listened to others and listened to my own heart. I have learned to love the me that is now, instead of lamenting the loss of the me that was. It took time. It took patience. And it took lots of love and acceptance from my family and friends.

I realize this blog post is not fun or funny. But I felt it was needed. If I can teach one single person that it is okay to be less than a Stepford, ain't no mountain high enough, happy clappy, always grateful, made for TV version of themselves, that will give me great satisfaction.

This has been a tough year. But as I write this, on the anniversary of the day that changed my life forever, I realize it is less the anniversary of my stroke and more the anniversary of my survival. And that IS something to celebrate. Just saying.....

Bring Change 2 Mind

2009-11-01T20:42:00.006-05:00

For too long, mental illness has been the illness of shame and secrecy. Those who suffer often suffer alone. Just six months ago, we began the long and painful journey through the diagnosis and treatment of mental illness with my older daughter. Part situational, and part biological, her disorders paralyzed her and nearly brought us all to our knees.

Ashley is one of the lucky ones. She has a wonderful team of doctors and counselors who treat the emotional, mental, and physical aspects of her disease. She is determined to reach the most optimum level of health possible. She knows this will be with her for the rest of her life. I am so very proud of Ashley for having the courage to openly discuss her illness. Her desire to share her pain in order for others to get the treatment needed to end their suffering is incredible.

Last week, Ashley and I watched together as Glen Close and her sister premiered the ad for "Bring Change 2 Mind" in the hopes of destroying the stigmas attached with mental illness. Glen's sister has suffered for years with bipolar disorder. The ad is simple and powerful and beautiful. Please share this with your friends. Let us join together to be more compassionate towards those with mental illness, and more passionate in our endeavors to treat these crippling diseases.

.

I Want Candy!!

2009-10-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

So Saturday night is Halloween. I know it is advertised to be a night of witches and goblins and pumpkins, but who are we kidding? It is candy night. Period. Okay, so we make the kids dress in disguise and go door to door begging, but this is simply the means to an end. And about that begging at the door thing - why is it we tolerate hundreds of strangers dressed in drag asking for a handout? Hmmm.

So about the candy. For months, in fact since the last marshmallow Peep met its demise, retailers have stocked their shelves in great anticipation of Candy Day...um, I mean, Halloween. Walk into any grocery store or pharmacy or discount retailer and you are faced with so many choices, the only choice is to buy one of each. I have personally eaten enough candy bars to fulfill my annual allotment of Weight Watchers points.

The candy manufacturers are smart, too. They will proclaim how a bar of candy is fat free or has no trans fats, yet completely avoiding the fact that there is enough sugar in one bar to cause a rather significant case of hyperglycemic shock. I love how there are two extremes with sizes. Either the candy company is bragging about super size or king sized or they produce these itty bitty bits of chocolate in miniature form. Just enough to piss me off. For double the money. sigh.

I am a purist. I don't want nougat filled, cremecentered, coconut sprinkled, caramel covered, peanut clustered, sour gummy insects. I want chocolate. Good chocolate. I prefer dark chocolate, but will accept milk chocolate in a pinch. And, unlike some candy hander-outers I have come in contact with, I only give out the good stuff. Okay, so it puts a serious dent in the food budget, but I have my standards. I cannot stand it when folks give out chocolate with so little cocoa they require therapy to treat their identity crises.

I am thankful most folks avoid handing out homemade goodies. I mean, the thought is sweet, and in the movies the treats are always yummy. In practice, not so much. I have had one too many hockey pucks posing as a homemade cookie. Besides, I don't know a mom on the planet that would allow anything less than a hermetically sealed manufacturer packaged treat.

All of this talk of chocolate has made me hungry. Lucky for me I have bags and bags of scrumptious treats to choose from. Hey,I have a large neighborhood! Just saying..

Party Time...Excellent!

2009-10-27T23:44:00.003-04:00

I thought this year would be different. I thought FINALLY my years of shame and feeling inadequate were over. I was wrong. Halloween has reared its ugly head yet again. And, although my "children" are now 22 and 14, they still seem to have this need to play freaking dress up! sigh.

I have never been a seamstress. Heck, I have never successfully threaded a needle. I tend to go with the idea that duct tape can fix anything. Occasionally I will resort to staples, but they can cause problems if they dislodge from the fabric and lodge in my skin. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I cannot sew. Period. Turns out, in order to make those cutesy little perfect costumes like you see on Martha Stewart, you really need to have this skill. I know. I have tried to avoid that particular step.

I tried for years to convince my children to go as a ghost. I mean, even I could make that classic costume without fear of screwing up. Except the year I couldn't find scissors, and resorted to tearing the eye holes out with my teeth. Okay, so the ghost looked a little loopy. And one eye hole was significantly larger than the other. It's the thought that counts....right?

I like the costumes of my youth. They were easy, made out of things found at home, and the fact that they were absolutely politically incorrect didn't seem to matter. Gypsies tramps and thieves were great make-at-home costumes. And an awesome Cher tune, but again, I digress.

I could buy the costumes, but I don't want to take out a second mortgage for three strips of completely disposable fabric that will barely cover the important parts of my girls. And besides, doesn't that immediately throw me into the loser Mom category? That would be a rhetorical question folks. I know I am loser Mom. My kids know I am loser Mom. I try to make up for it with my premium candy selection.

Luckily, Lauren is at the age of wanting to dress up for the occasion, yet still wanting to remain on the cusp of invisible. For those of you without teenagers, I will attempt to explain. This means noticeable only to the important one who shall remain nameless, and yet invisible enough to slink into the woodwork at a moment's, ahem, notice...once he who shall remain nameless actually does indeed, um notice. I know, it is complicated. All this to say, her costume should be relatively easy.

Lauren has decided to go as Garth from Wayne's World. This is what my Dad would call a win-win situation. I don't have to attempt construction on a "real" costume, and she gets to wear pseudo normal clothing. She is wearing her jeans, my flannel shirt (not the same one from my Hobo costume days) , black glasses, a rock tee shirt, and a $25 mullet wig. Which she will probably remove immediately and leave it to be discovered by the poor bleary-eyed mother of the party giver. Excellent!

I do hope at some point I will be relieved from my costuming duties. I have many other ways in which to screw up motherhood and ensure my kid's participation in years of therapy without this particular trauma. To all of you fellow loser Moms duct taping and stapling and gnawing out eye holes for yet another Halloween costume, I raise my glass to you. Party time!

Bucket List

2009-10-26T23:14:00.003-04:00

I guess all of us have a sort of bucket list: a "to do" list of accomplishments, dreams, desires and fantasies to fulfill before we die. Apparently my much, much older and, one would think, much wiser sister checked one item off of her list recently by riding a motorcycle. Not exactly my idea of fun, but it wasn't my list. Anyhoo, I have had reason to reflect on the whole bucket list idea of late.

Yesterday, John and I drove my parents to New York City for them to embark on their latest adventure. They are going on their second cruise on the Queen Mary, junior. Dad is to start chemotherapy again in the next few weeks, and was advised to travel now before the treatment debilitates him such that travel becomes impossible. Mom and Dad have been put in the position of having to face Daddy's bucket list. Daddy loves to travel and meet new people and swap stories. He likes elegant settings and exquisite meals prepared from the freshest ingredients. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, a cruise on Mary, junior seemed to fit the bill.

Our drive to New York was stunning. Autumn has arrived in all of its rich glory. From our home, we travel through six different states on the way to Manhattan. We are fortunate that our route meandered through the best of each of those states. Mom and Dad told stories and reminisced about their early years of marriage. We found a vintage 1950's diner in Amish country that delivered on its promise of good, hearty fare and great service. The traffic gods were with us, and we didn't hit a single snag on our way.

We arrived in Manhattan late yesterday afternoon, and blessedly before rush hour. The drive was taxing for Dad, but I think the anticipation of his adventure kept him going. Mom's cheeks were flushed and her eyes twinkled with excitement. We had mere moments to unload the car of their luggage, give them quick hugs, and wish them bon voyage before we needed to head back home. The porter loaded the last bag on the luggage trolley and we returned to the car. I looked back at them just before we pulled away from the curb, and saw the most beautiful sight: my Mom and Dad, holding hands and beaming from ear to ear.

It dawned on me in that moment, that a bucket list is really about making memories. Mom and Dad's bucket list probably has the requisite adventures to an exotic locale, or taking a risk for the thrill of an adrenalin rush, or the trip of a lifetime. Yet, I saw in their faces - in their eyes bright with joy -that those fantasies and dreams don't really matter in the end. What matters is sharing time and love and for as long as possible. And when that time is done, to look back without regret, and with absolute unadulterated joy.

My bucket list has many dreams and hopes and fantasies. I want to see the opera in Vienna, and pick sunflowers in Tuscany. I want to swim with dolphins and walk amongst the lions. I want to watch my children marry, and hold their children in my arms. I want to dance until dawn, and sleep under the stars. And I want to know the kind of love I saw yesterday in my parent's eyes. Just saying.

Fall Leaves and Harris Tweed

2009-10-26T06:30:00.004-04:00

John and I had a rather non-traditional honeymoon. I, being an admitted serial marrier, had experienced my share of honeymoons over the years. John was living in Scotland when we married. My parents had always wanted to visit Scotland, so they accompanied us over the big pond to help pack John's belongings and move him to the States.

We visited many lovely places in and around Scotland, as well as the Lake District of England and Wales. We saw long-haired Highland Cows, and miles of gorse covered landscape. We had cups and cups of perfectly brewed tea served in delicate china with buttery shortbread. We visited castles and abbeys and pubs. We visited lots of pubs. We had a wonderful time.

My Dad is not one to buy souvenirs. He doesn't collect spoons or coffee mugs, and I can count on one hand the times I have seen him wear a tee-shirt. He doesn't need bumper stickers or wall calendars. He didn't seem to appreciate the necessity of a tartan umbrella. The one thing he wanted to bring home was a Harris Tweed sport coat. And he did. He picked out a beautiful coat that made his hazel eyes twinkle. He looked very dapper.

Since that particular trip, Dad has endured the life changing effects and ravages of cancer. He is still dapper and elegant, although his walking stick has been replaced with a cane. He has an ostomy that protrudes from his abdomen, as well as an implanted pain pump. Because of these life-sustaining necessities adding bulk to his belly, he can no longer button his Harris Tweed coat. It is a small thing compared to all he has lost through this illness, but no less important to him. It is the little things one misses when life deals a cruel blow. It is through these seemingly insignificant things one feels most the pain of loss.

Mom and Dad are leaving today for the Queen Mary. They will cruise up the Northeast coast from New York to Maritime Canada and back to enjoy the vivid colors of Autumn. Yesterday, Mom and I were shopping for a few last minute items for the trip. We wandered into a mens store to purchase tuxedo studs, as Dad had left his behind in South Carolina. In the middle of the store was a large sign proudly announcing the arrival of some genuine Harris Tweed coats. Mom and I decided a gentleman such as my father could not possibly board the Queen Mary to view the Autumn leaves without the requisite Harris Tweed coat. And so my Dad, will now wear his new coat on his cruise.

We brought the coat back to him. He giggled like a young boy, and proudly tried it on. It fits perfectly. This coat does not have the memories attached to it like the first coat. He did not get to pick it out in Scotland. But this coat, in its own way, made Dad's world a little more like it was before this hideous disease altered its course. This coat will warm Daddy body and soul through the next chapter of his life.

I Need A Break!!!

2009-10-18T21:16:00.004-04:00

I am pooped. After hosting the Dane in my basement for a solid month, I need a rest. My brain is frankly incapable of thoughtful, well...thought. Ahem. Anyhoo, I am taking a break from the blogosphere in order to (hopefully) pen a few entries worth perusing. In the meantime, take a minute and check out my favorite blogs, and give them a read.

Thank you all for your devotion and wonderful comments. I don't always respond, but I do read and appreciate each and every one. For those of you who find themselves at this site after a Google search for something totally unrelated, read back through my archives. You might just want to become a regular too! If not, my blog been known to act as quite an effective and yet non-pharmaceutical cure for insomnia.

I will return in about a week, so bookmark my URL and come on back Monday October 26!!!

Ms. Van Winkle

2009-10-15T00:01:00.001-04:00

I took a nap today. I realize this in and of itself is not newsworthy. It is what happened while I was sleeping that was intriguing. Okay, intriguing doesn't exactly describe fully what I am trying to say. Something freaking weird happened.

While I was napping, October apparently disappeared and December decided to make an early appearance. I think all of those retailers who insist on having Christmas decorations and Santa Claus and those repulsive cinnamon brooms out in July are to blame. And about those dang brooms - who in the world thought a broom coated in the most pungent, migraine-inducing aroma of cinnamon was a great idea? You can't sweep with them. You just smell them. But I digress. Anyhoo, Poor October. I guess it thought it was no longer an important month. I happen to enjoy All Hallows Eve. Or I did. I think this year The Great Pumpkin may just skip my neighborhood.

Anyhoo, I reclined in my favorite, well...recliner and snuggled in for a good snooze. I thought I was only out for a few minutes, but I must have slept for about two months. Why, you ask? Why thank you for your interest. I know we skipped October and went straight to the holly jolly season, 'cause when I awoke, it was sleeting. Sleeting! I kid you not.

I am cool with snow and even a bit of sleet on occasion, but in October? I barely got to enjoy my favorite time of the year! There is nothing better than Fall with its wonderful rich colors of ochre and amber and gold and ruby. I love a good cup of mulled cider and cannot wait to don my latest in flannel attire. I feel jipped! Now it is straight to mittens and parkas and those really cool snow melting crystals. No leaves to pile up and jump in. No trick or treat and a ready excuse to "dispose" of all that leftover chocolate. sigh.

I will adjust. I think I would like to start a petition to all the retailers, though. Maybe if they could wait until say DECEMBER to celebrate Christmas, October would have a fighting chance. And I would like to add a special "no cinnamon broom" clause too. Just saying...

Food Flunkie

2009-10-14T00:01:00.003-04:00

I love watching shows on Food Network. I enjoy reading cookbooks and perusing the latest Food and Wine or Gourmet magazines. One would think, given my penchant for all things food related, I would love cooking every single day. One would be wrong. While I enjoy cooking for special occasions, I absolutely, despise, loathe and abhor planning and creating meals for every day consumption.

The problem is that I have a family that likes to eat. And they like to eat every day. I have seriously contemplated such dinnertime delicacies as Cereal and Milk. Cereal has all of the daily required vitamins and minerals. And, although I don't tend to serve Fruity Pebbles or Citrus Stones or whatever, I have often wondered if they could potentially count as a serving of fruit as well. Add in the protein from the milk and voila! A complete meal! Although I am gonna go out on a limb and guess those who rave about breakfast as a break from the tedium of usual dinner fare didn't mean cereal and milk. Hmmmm.

My sister apparently suffers from the same dilemma. She hasn't yet resorted to convincing her children cereal is a perfectly acceptable dinner option. She turns to pizza as her escape from the ordinary. In fact, my sister orders pizza on such a frequent basis, the local pizzeria gave her a Christmas poinsettia last year. They didn't just bring a perfunctory plant while already at her home delivering a pizza. And it turns out not every pizza customer gets a poinsettia. No, they were so grateful for her consistent business, they made a separate trip to her home in order to thank her personally for single-handedly keeping their restaurant afloat. I kid you not.

Part of the problem is our Mom. Mom is the true domestic goddess. Not only can she get any stain out of any fabric, repair any tear or rip, and clean so thoroughly one could perform cardiac surgery on her kitchen island, she can cook. And cook well. Every single night of my childhood, Mom prepared balanced, tasty meals from scratch. Except for the acorn squash dish with the sausage patty in it. Oh, and the tuna souffle. Those particular dishes scarred me for life, but two out of ten thousand ain't bad. Hard shoes to fill. sigh.

I blame my dilemma in part on the very Food Network shows I cannot seem to tear myself away from. These shows take five obscure ingredients or less and manage to create delicious, nutritious, and interesting meals in a matter of nanoseconds. These shows have made casseroles obsolete;piggies-in-the-blanket uninspiring; meatloaf mundane.

I will continue to plod through the daily drudgery of dinner impossible. After all, I should be grateful for job security in these uncertain economic times. In the meantime, I might just have to convince my family their Krispies count as a rice dish. Just saying...

My Application Letter

2009-10-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

I cannot believe it, but I have two nephews graduating from high school this year. Already, they are taking those completely useless standardized tests and furiously filling out applications. Along with applications, a student must complete an essay. The dreaded college application essay - insert spaghetti western music here.

Have you ever wanted to write a completely inappropriate letter? You, perhaps, are infinitely more mature than I. I, on the other hand, have way too much time on my hands and possess a tad streak of mischievousness. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, I found the need to pen my idea of a great application letter. Just for fun. 'Cause I can. Here goes.

Dear sir or madam or some tragic combination of both,

I realize this is probably the zillionth letter you have had to read today. No doubt, the powers that be at your esteemed university require you to provide your own anti-emetic, so I am going to deduce you are somewhat queasy at the mere thought. Why don't you grab yourself a cup of coffee, prop your legs up on that banker-wanna-be "executive" desk of yours, and relax.

I am not going to bore you with details of my plethora of extra-curricular and charitable activities. I have none. I decided the only way to stand out amidst the throngs of hopeful students jockeying for a place on the soup kitchen line or a position in student government was to avoid participation in anything. I think you should look upon this favorably as it will drastically reduce the time you will have to spend reading my actual application.

I guess I should tell you why I am applying at your university. My parents threatened me with perpetual restriction if I told you it was because of the awesome parties and the really cute guys, so I am officially applying because of the location. You are far enough away from home to keep my parents from popping in unannounced, but close enough if I need to dash home to wash some clothes. Perfect, right?

I actually have no real desire to go anywhere for college. I am frankly burned out from twelve years of dioramas, summer reading assignments and endless drafts for yet another year long research project. Turns out, though, my parents don't share my vision of a year off at the beach to ponder my possibilities. I did see where I can get college credit for taking a class at the beach or overseas or even Paris!

I hope you will consider me as a prospective student. If I don't get in, I will have to get a job, and you have to be there at like eight o'clock in the morning. In college, I heard you can sleep late and even go to school in your pajamas.

My family isn't rich, and they won't have a dime to spare for your endowment fund, but they will buy every single tee-shirt and chatchke at the bookstore. We would advertise your school for you at no cost, unless you would like to compensate us by reducing my tuition.

I think I have to cut this thing short, because my English teacher told me it couldn't be more than one full page. Maybe she knows how boring it must be to read all of these letters. I hope you enjoy that coffee, and I sure would like to get one of those fat envelopes back from you.

Sincerely,

Suzy Student

What a Holiday, eh?

2009-10-12T00:01:00.001-04:00

Today is a big day!! Some folks, and my local bank, have decided to celebrate Columbus. I, not being a huge fan of this particular city in Ohio, have decided to instead celebrate Thanksgiving. Yes, today, Canadians far and wide are eating turkey and dressing and canned cranberry sauce. The kind with the ridges. At least I guess that is how they celebrate the day. What else does one do to give thanks? Hmmm... I guess they could watch football. Wait! There aren't any college games on! Wow, they really messed up this celebration.

Today is also International Moment of Frustration Scream Day. I suppose at a designated time, participants from around the world will simultaneously let out a huge "AAARRRGGGHHHHH" . I haven't received my instructions yet, but I do plan to join in the celebration. I have wondered if I am required to be frustrated about a particular event or occurrence, or if I am to just let out pent-up frustrations from the previous year. And what if I have more than a single moment of frustration? And what if I get frustrated immediately following the synchronized release?Will I have to wait until next year to purge? This is so frustrating.

I guess I could direct my frustrations on some annoying person's posterior region. It is, after all, National Kick Butt day. I do feel a bit odd targeting a stranger's butt to kick. Do I wait until the end of the day and return to the most annoying person I came in contact with and kick their butt? Or do I kick butt on the spot - at the very moment of annoyance? I wonder if I should carry some form of waiver to avoid any misunderstanding... I am not sure the average American is aware of this particular holiday. And, although I personally think millions of folks should read eagerly every thought-provoking syllable I pen, I fear my audience can be easily counted on two hands most days. sigh.

I could bag the whole kicking and screaming idea and simply ponder. Today just happens to be Free Thought Day. I am glad. With the recession and all, charging folks to think is crass. But I digress. Anyhoo, I could think of just about anything! The sky is the limit! The possibilities endless! I could deliberate about the Thanksgiving traditions of Canadians. I could wonder how to time my scream of frustration for maximum impact. I could contemplate the optimal butt kicking technique. And all for free!

I have nothing personal against Columbus. I am sure it is a great city with lovely people. And if the banks and post offices want to close for a day to honor this municipality, so be it. I think it is a diversion, though. They really don't want to have to deal with frustrated, screaming, butt-kicking , thankful Canadians. Just saying...

Apologies to Mr. Moon

2009-10-08T00:01:00.001-04:00

We have lost our collective minds. Have we become so jaded, or busy, or distracted that news of the imminent bombing of the moon has somehow eluded our mental radar? Friday morning, at precisely 7:31:30, NASA will bomb the moon. Tap....tap...tap....is this thing on?? I said, we are going to BOMB the freaking moon!

I realize what with all the real news stories occupying our collective consciousness, it is difficult to concentrate on such a benign, trivial matter. David Letterman caught with his pants at his ankles is infinitely more intriguing than bombing the moon. Really? And in the midst of talk of unemployment rates skyrocketing, one would perhaps miss a 75 million dollar actual, well...er.....rocket.

I love how NASA explains that this is not an act of war. Um, okay. I personally have never met the little green cheese men on the moon, but the fact that NASA feels the need to point out we are not waging war on them makes me a bit suspect. And what did Mr. Man in the Moon do to deserve such treatment? Day after day, millennium after millennium, he smiles down on Mother earth - except for Australia where he actually moons them, but I digress. Anyhoo, Mother Earth doesn't seem so maternal when she aims a missile causing Mr. Moon to have a permanent pock mark.

I understand science. I understand needing to learn more - to go where no man has gone before and all that crap. What I cannot wrap my head around is why? Why must we bomb the moon to find out the information we are so desperate for? Have we completely run out of other options? I know, I can hear the chorus now. Other means of determining whether or not there is water on the moon are expensive. Um, did I mention this BOMB was seventy-five million dollars? Next chorus - we need to find whether or not there is life sustaining water on the moon to protect our future generations. Why? So we can pollute it like we have our oceans and lakes and rivers? Couldn't we just spend that seventy-five million on cleaning up our act on terra firma?

Who decides who "gets" to bomb the moon? Is there an International Bomb-The-Moon committee? Are they elected? Do we get to fire them for thinking this up? Are they gonna nuke Neptune next? And we are worried about a nuclear plant in Iran. At least they haven't started blowing up the universe.

I do hope there is no intelligent life on other planets. Can you imagine their reaction to our "scientific study"? Sounds a lot like third grade boys - "hey, let's blow something up!" "Cool!" Only now, these little boys are grown men with lots of money to make big bombs. Real bombs. And an arsenal of esteemed scientists ready with detailed explanations as to the benefits of such an experiment. Puleez!

I like the moon. I remember vividly when I saw the first man walk on the moon. Our universe became a little more intimate that night. And, I, along with millions of others, dreamed of the future possibilities for this previously unexplored landscape. I could have never dreamed we would decide to bomb the moon.

I will watch with a bit of trepidation and a lot of sadness Friday morning at 7:31:30. I imagine at 7:32:00 we will have indeed discovered water on that cratered surface. A gigantic tear will be seen rolling down the face of Mr. Man in the Moon. Just saying...

The Real Iron Chef

2009-10-05T00:01:00.000-04:00

I cannot be the next Iron Chef. I simply cannot and will not attempt to create culinary masterpieces out of guts and entrails. Apparently, in order to truly showcase one's talent in the kitchen, one must be able to take any ingredient, no matter how vile, and make it edible. This is a ridiculous concept. This "talent" simply means the contestants are quite well suited for a magic show.

I had a difficult time choosing the most disgusting ingredient used on tonight's premiere of The Next Iron Chef. Just as soon as I KNEW I had been repulsed to the point of nausea, yet another slimy, smelly ingredient was revealed. I mean, c'mon folks! When you present unlaid eggs still attached to the Fallopian tubes as an ingredient to prepare a meal with - a meal that folks will actually ingest deliberately - a line has been crossed. I had a difficult time keeping my tacos down. Unlaid egg boy made a Carbonara with the Fallopian tubes the "pasta". Really?

The poor sucker who was eliminated had to cook with grasshoppers. Sadly, it was the preparation of his pork cutlet that sent him home. The grasshoppers were deemed delicious. Gross! Another contestant was admonished for taking the stink out of Stinky Tofu. As if. I could totally see punishing the contestant for his attempts at making something aromatically challenged palatable. Right.

These highly trained and skilled chefs were forced to prepare chicken feet, eel, sea cucumber, jellyfish, and duck tongue. There was a vomitus inducing odiferous tropical fruit and cockscombs as well. And I watched every second. I could not believe my eyes. I was absolutely entranced at the sheer ridiculousness of such a competition. The judges had to have freaking steel stomachs. And a handful of Tums.

A real Iron Chef should have to create inspiring and delicious meals from the same crap I have to cook with. Take my pitiful food budget every month, and make some magic out of hamburger or meat-on-sale du jour. That is impressive to me. How about taking the lowly peanut butter sandwich and make something gourmet out of that? Now that would be worth watching.

My Mom could put all of the Iron Chef contestants to shame. When my Dad was in graduate school, and they had three children to feed on very little money, my Mom would take the most basic ingredients and create masterpieces. Mom and Dad had a friend who worked at the local grocery store. He would bring them canned goods that had lost their labels. No label, no sale. Mom and Dad got them for free. Mom would open a can, and whatever was in the mystery can, she would use to cook supper. She made some amazing dishes. That is a real Iron Chef.

I will continue to watch each week. I feel a little like those morbid types who slow down to look at a wreck. The prospect of seeing something gory or gross is half the fun. I do wish, though, they could have fewer guts and a little more glory. Just saying.

Shame On Us!!!!

2009-10-03T10:18:00.007-04:00

I am a proud American. I love my country deeply. I do, however, understand that we are not the only country on this great, glorious planet. We do not have exclusive rights to patriotism. Yesterday, I watched with pride as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil won the bid for the 2016 Olympic summer games. My pride quickly faded, as I saw and heard what bad sports their North American neighbors had become. Shame on us!

Chicago, Madrid, Tokyo, and Rio were all well represented by their country's heads of state, celebrities, and other dignitaries. Four cities made it to the final vote of the International Olympic Committee meeting in Copenhagen. Four. Chicago was eliminated in the first vote. Somehow, this has become a negative political statement about Obama. You have got to be kidding me!!! When did fourth place become failure? When did our sense and sensibilities become so clouded and ugly, we as a nation have decided to pin this supposed failure on Obama? Shame on us!

As of 2005, South America ranked fourth in total area and fifth in total population in the world. Brazil itself is the fourth most populated democracy and the sixth most populous country in the world. Brazil has a larger land mass than the 48 contiguous United States of America. Yet, South America, and specifically Brazil, has never hosted an Olympic event. I am proud of what Brazil has accomplished. I am proud they are no longer excluded from the world's most inclusive games. I am disheartened by the blatant negativity and lack of enthusiasm shown by the other Americans....namely those from United States of America. Shame on us!

Chicago, Illinois, and the entire United States of America should be proud of the presentation by the Chicago 2016 Olympic Bid Committee. No doubt it was polished, passionate, and exciting. Chicago is a wonderful city in a great country. Chicago just happened to be one of four great cities in four great countries. The International Olympic Committee could not make a bad choice. And it didn't. The committee made the right choice. And we need to be the good sports we pledge to be during the actual Olympic games. We have not shown our best selves since the announcement. Shame on us!

Folks, we are in a recession. Yes, it would have been great to host these games, but the Olympics cost money. Lots of money. Our schools are being closed; teachers furloughed. Our factories are being closed; workers laid off. Any job growth created by a venture such as the Olympics would be temporary, and offset by huge debt. Debt Chicago and its citizens can ill afford. Oh, and I know had the bid been won by Chicago, the same ugliness would emerge cloaked in a different disguise. Then the complaints would be about the debt, or the focus on one city in a time when our nation is in turmoil. Or any number of "issues" those whose hatred for our President has colored. Shame on us!

We, as a country, with few public exceptions, have gotten entirely too big for our britches. We have frankly become elitist snobs incapable of accepting another's entry into a world were we have decided upon all of the rules. This attitude of entitlement is not particularly attractive to the rest of the world. It is a wonderful thing to be proud and patriotic. It is an ugly sight to behold when that same patriotism is used to belittle other countries or bemoan their successes. Haven't we all been disgusted with the use of national pride as a means to incite vitriol in Iran and Iraq? Shame on us!

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and the whole of South America have cause for celebration. And we need to celebrate with them, and for them. We are a nation of under-dogs. We are a nation built on the hopes and dreams and ideals of those who came from distant lands; those whose hopes and dreams and ideals were not allowed or accepted by the countries they left, or where hunger or hardship made it impossible to remain. We are a nation of diversity. We are not a country of a single ethnic, religious, or cultural group. Have we become blind to the hopes and dreams and ideals of other countries? Have we become so self-absorbed and self-important we cannot bring ourselves to celebrate other's successes? Have we really become the ugly Americans? Shame on U.S.!

More Than A Ribbon

2009-10-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

October. The air is crisp,and the leaves have begun their chameleon change into the colors of fire and precious metals. October is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink ribbons adorn merchandise whose profits will go to Breast Cancer research. And behind each of those ribbons is a person. A human being who is suffering.

Today was grocery shopping day for Ashley and me. Our local supermarket was filled with tee-shirts, and re-usable grocery bags, and water bottles all in breast cancer pink. We had seen many friends afflicted with this terrible disease, and were both reeling from the news that my former sister-in-law learned she was facing a double mastectomy. The chemotherapy she has endured for months has not worked effectively. It seemed a small thing to grab a pink bag or two, but we felt strongly if everyone did the same small thing, maybe we could make a difference. So we purchased two re-usable grocery bags.

We finished our shopping and proceeded to check out. The bag boy sighed heavily when he saw our bags, and said, "Oh boy, here we go." I told him if he would prefer, he could just leave us to attend to our own groceries. He then stated with yet another heavy sigh, "I guess it is my job. I'll deal with it." I was furious. His absolute contempt for my purchase was palpable. He was obviously disgusted with having to load my groceries into my pink ribbon bag. And he wasn't shy about sharing his feelings.

Once the items had all been bagged, he then took both hands and with a grunt, struggled to hoist one of the bags into my buggy. It was so heavy he had a difficult time lifting it. With both hands. I told him if it were too heavy for him, surely I would not be able to handle it. He shrugged. He SHRUGGED! By now, my face must have been the color of ripe tomatoes. I could feel my blood pressure rise as my anger increased. I dismissed him from his duties and re-bagged my own groceries.

I called for a manager and expressed my concerns. If a store is to stock their shelves with pink ribboned items, and purport to be an active supporter of breast cancer research, then those who work in said store should understand that to some, it is much more than merely a ribbon. That seventy-nine cent bag represented to me a real person. A Mom. A wife. A friend. A woman. A human being.

So often, we forget the faces of this terrible disease. It does not discriminate. Rich or poor, elite or humble, educated or simple - cancer touches all. In this month especially, while proudly wearing pink, let us never have far from our thoughts those very human faces.

For Daddy

2009-10-01T00:01:00.000-04:00

My Dad celebrated 72 years on this Earth yesterday. Daddy was born old. He has one of those faces etched with the lines of wisdom. Thank goodness he has grown into his face, 'cause that lined face of wisdom looked kinda funny on a toddler...but I digress. Daddy has earned all of his marks of wisdom. And, like Mark Twain, who he eerily favors, he tends to share his wisdom in the form of witticisms and pith. So, in honor of my Dad, here is a bit of what I have learned, interspersed with the words of Mark Twain.

"It is a wise child that knows its own father, and an unusual one that unreservedly approves of him."

1. Nothing good ever happened after midnight. In other words, get your butt home before the coach turns into a pumpkin. In the old days, Dad armed us with a quarter to use in a pay phone in case we were running late for curfew. The only accepted excuse for being late was arterial bleeding or death, so how in the name of all that is holy he expected us to actually find the phone, dial the phone, and talk into said phone, is still somewhat of a mystery. Hmmmm......

"You can't depend on your judgement when your imagination is out of focus."

2. Pay yourself first. This is an oldie and a goodie. His Dad said the same. He didn't mean for us to spend to the exclusion of other responsibilities, just to set aside some amount of money each pay period and stow it away in savings in the event the dryer dies, or the plumbing fails or any number of things that will happen (see number 7) especially while company is over. I wish I had listened sooner.

"Buy land. They aren't making it anymore."

3. Rap is crap. More of an edict than advice, although I took it as gospel. And I concur.

"We often feel sad in the presence of music without words, and often more than that in the presence of music without music."

4. A gentleman should never wear a hat indoors. And a baseball cap is a hat, folks. I, not being a gentleman, never worried about this one. Until I started dating/marrying. I don't dig the whole cap wearing trend. Especially the ones that are worn with the bib to the starboard side. I can honestly say, I have never, ever seen my Dad with a ball cap. Hats? Yes. Dad has some beautiful, elegant hats. He has a bottle green velvet hat that he wears during the holidays. He has an authentic Australian bush hat. And he has more than a few straw hats. But not a single ball cap. And never, ever worn indoors. Just the way it should be.

"...never run after your own hat - others will be delighted to do it. Why spoil their fun?"

5. Children do not come with an instruction manual. He is correct. This statement has saved me from many hours of therapy. When I have done all I thought I could, and my girls are still angry at the world, disappointed with their lot in life, and unmoved by every effort I make, this reminds me that I am human. And so are my kids. This statement relieves me from the inherent guilt and self-questioning that comes with the most difficult job in the world. Oh, and about that instruction manual? Parents don't come with one either, K?

"Familiarity breeds contempt...and children."

"The most interesting information comes from our children, for they tell all they know and then stop."

6. The Bible says "it came to pass, not it came to stay". Thank goodness! Dad usually said this just before he would nestle our head into his chest at the shoulder, and say "there, there". There are no more powerful words. Seriously.

"Only he who has seen better days and lives to see better days again knows their full value."

"...it has never been my way to bother much about things which you can't cure."

7. The Lord takes care of the fools and the Hodges'. I seriously thought we were cursed somehow. That we were the real folks behind Murphy's Law. But, in spite of all of the crap and angst and drama my family has endured, somehow we are still here and happy. We are either eternally optimistic or sadly ignorant....sigh.

"Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not succeed."

8.There is one about a cow and a farmer and getting milk for free, but I can never get it entirely straight. What I think Dad was trying to teach us was to keep our britches zipped. It worked. Dad told me I not to have sex until I was married. And I took his advice. Over, and over, and over.......

"Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example."

9. There is nothing but crap on TV. Go read a book. I happen to like some of the drivel on the airways, but thanks to Dad (and Mom) I do read. A lot. And I love to read. Dad now has a Kindle(tm) which looks suspiciously like a flat screen TV. But I'm not telling him. And, turns out Dad does like some of the crap on TV. He is a House devotee, and does love Little Ricky (aka Rick Steves) and the British comedies. Maybe he just didn't learn to appreciate television until late in life given it was not invented when he was born....

"The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read."

10. Always tell the truth. There is no more honest man than my Dad. He has no tolerance for anything less than the absolute, unadulterated truth. There was no "crime" worse than, or more punishable than lying when we were kids. I think Dad gave us the ultimate gift. To know- without hesitation; no matter what - he would always tell the truth.

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything."

11. Be a lady. Now this one was hard for me. 'Cause it turns out that being a female does not automatically make you a lady. You can't belch, scratch, curse, snort, or yell YEEE HAAWWW when you are a lady. At least not in church. You have to wear a slip, and sit with your ankles crossed...although how that in and of itself keeps one from showing things that should not be shown is beyond me. I mean, if your thighs are anything like mine (think tree trunk) you can cross your ankles all day long and still provide quite a view, if you know what I mean. But I digress. Anyhoo, Dad (and again, Mom) tried very hard to teach us to be ladies. Sometimes I think it worked the most on my brother. sigh.

"It is a mistake that there is no bath that will cure people's manners. But drowning would help."

12.You cannot put a price on the value of education. Dad was the first person in his family to go to college. He liked it so much, we went on to get his PhD. But it wasn't just formal education he was referring to. Dad still questions, and reads, and researches. His mom was one of the smartest people I have ever known. And she was lethal in Trivial Pursuit. She never went to college. But she read and read and questioned and listened. Her mind was a sharp the day she left this earth as it had ever been. I think that is what Daddy meant. And he believes that one should never stop learning. I think he is right. But don't tell him I said so, K?

"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."

13. Ice cream can make just about anything better.Dad LOVES ice cream. He likes coffee, peach and lemon custard ice cream the best. Although I am pretty sure I have never seen him turn down any flavor of ice cream offered to him. We used to have a dog, Rascal. Rascal was as enamored with ice cream as Daddy. Rascal could be upstairs, at the far end of the house, under the bed, and sound asleep, and appear as if by magic when the freezer opened downstairs. Daddy and Rascal shared a lot of ice cream. And so did we. When life seemed to be harder than we could bear, a scoop of ice cream made everything a little better.

"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

14. It doesn't cost a thing to be kind.Dad has no tolerance for being mean. He extends the same kindness to strangers he gives to those he loves.He has never engaged in gossip, and always reminds us to be the better person. He is kind to all he comes into contact with. Even in anger, he remains respectful. Once, someone who had been less than kind to my family, insisted on addressing my Dad with the more familiar "Mike" rather than Dr. Hodges. "Mike" was spoken with a great deal of venom and sarcasm. Dad simply stated to the offender, "My friends call me Mike. And you are no friend of mine." I think this pretty much sums it up.

"Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest."

"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."

15. Remember your raising. My Dad was raised with strong values. His family was not wealthy in the monetary sense, but they shared books and music and travel. He had a large family that showered him with love. We were raised the in the same way. We didn't have all the trappings of wealth some of our friends enjoyed, but we had two parents that loved and supported us. They instilled in us a strong work ethic. They taught us that being the best we could be was infinitely better than thinking we were somehow better than others. And, if somehow we got too big for our britches, they had a way of reminding us where Earth was, and brought us back down.

"One gets large impressions in boyhood, sometimes, which he has to fight against all his life."

There are many more bits of wisdom and isms and borrowed nuggets I could share. But these are the basics. I think my Dad has taught me a lot. I hope I can honor him by teaching my kids how to be the best they can be. And, as my much, much older sister said, we sure are lucky he is here today for us to poke at, and pick on, and thank, and hug. Happy Birthday Daddy!

"Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."
"When your friends begin to flatter you on how young you look, it is a sure sign you are getting old."

"I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened."

All quotes in italics are the words of Mark Twain

The Elusive Purple Martin

2009-09-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

I have seen it happen. I have seen seemingly intelligent, sane human beings spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in their attempts to lure Purple Martins to their homes and gardens. My father-in-law is one of "those" people. On any other planet, or in any other country, Paul would be forced into treatment for his obsession with the elusive Purple Martin.

Purple Martins like gourds. One would think one could erect a few gourds and VOILA! Purple Martins would flock to them. Turns out, the Martins are a bit pickier. At least that is what folks like Paul have been led to believe. Paul thought gourds a bit down market and not at all sumptuous enough for these apparently high society type ornithological jet-setters. He erected Donald Trump style high rise condominiums on towering poles overlooking his spectacular rose garden. Individual rooms and penthouse suites would surely attract the pinnacle of bird society.

My Dad often joked that Paul should lower his standards and string a few gourds on a clothes line. That would at least attract the lower to middle class Martins. Of course Dad would also suggest that fancy stone borders could easily be replaced by discarded car tires. Painted white, of course, for aesthetic reasons. We all laughed, but maybe Dad was on to something. Maybe Paul had ignored the masses and pandered to the elite. And maybe now they feel unwelcome. Hmmm.

Paul continued his futile efforts to bring the Martins to his garden. He even piped in the songs of the Martin over a loudspeaker system set up outside. He timed it to begin at 4am each morning. We borrowed that system during our wedding reception. We traded the mating call of the Purple Martin for bagpipe music, as we had a Celtic theme wedding. But, I digress. Anyhoo, we forgot to replace the Royal Scotsmen with said Martin music (purple, not Ricky) at the close of the reception. The following morning, at precisely 4am, the entire neighborhood was treated to the unique and stirring sounds of the Flower Of Scotland on bagpipe. We were popular.

All of Paul's efforts have failed. Not one single Purple Martin has decided to visit his lovely garden. And now I know why!! Turns out, the entire North American Purple Martin population is in Linden, Virginia! I kid you not. And, they are in my yard! It seems the Martins have decreed the stinkbug a culinary delicacy. I have quazillions of stinkbugs. The Martins are eating to their heart's content, and I am celebrating the sure demise of these most repulsive flying armored insects. It is what my Dad calls a "win-win" situation.

Poor Paul. I have not strung up a single gourd. Not one clothes line has been commandeered. Not a single tire painted. And I am surrounded by these most lovely bug eaters. I don't know if they will stay. I have no idea whether or not they will tell their friends and families about our Stinkbug Horn of Plenty. I do know I have hundreds of new feathered friends. And I am in Heaven. Just saying!

Universal Man Flu

2009-09-28T00:01:00.002-04:00

Those of you who read my blog with some regularity know there is a Dane in my basement. For those of you who do not read my blog regularly, there is a Dane in my basement. He was invited and is about to start week number three with us. He has been charming and funny and delightful to be around. Until yesterday.

Verner, said Dane in said basement, has the dreaded Man Flu. He is coughing and wheezing and snorting and looks to be just this side of absolutely miserable. I know inquiring minds will want to know if we are dealing with the Swine Flu. Inquiring minds will be relieved to find that he has already suffered through the piggy flu whilst still in Denmark. With his wife. A much stronger and patient woman than I. He has what appears to be a bad cold. The kind of cold that most women will take a powder for, and keep on plugging. Did I mention he was male?

Men in this country - and I have only been able to speak for American men to date - are not good patients. With a single cough or hack or sore throat, they morph into a more dependent, needy version of your average eighteen month old child. All of a sudden, strenuous exercise, such as using the remote to change the TV station, is unbearable. They can barely crawl to the bathroom, and once there have no energy left to aim with any precision. They bundle up in the most pitiful assortment of cardigan sweaters, plaid flannel jammie pants, and Arctic worthy wool socks - think British pensioner meets Sesame Street - and huddle shivering in the tattered remains of their childhood blankies. Attractive. Really.

I guess I thought a Scandinavian or European male might face an illness with a little more panache or dignity or SOMETHING! I was completely incorrect in my thinking. Verner emerged from his cave (i.e. basement) wearing a cast-off sweatshirt from John over a tired sweater the color of baby poo, my grey rag wool socks, and hair not unlike Albert Einstein. With a three day stubble, and a barking cough that surely would attract a seal had we been closer to the ocean. He looked completely helpless and hopeless. With an accent. Which, I noticed, became more pronounced with illness.

I have forced fluids, and enforced rest and hand washing. I have introduced him to the trusty apple cider vinegar and water gargle. And I managed not to giggle at his attempt to get the crap down. I made him home-made chicken noodle soup, and have washed and re-washed his pillow cases. All the while watching his behaviour for my own study of the Man Flu and its inherent idiosyncrasies.

I really do feel a bit sorry for Verner. He is thousands of miles from home, and now adding to the stress of lecturing in another language, he is facing having to do so in a raspy deep voice. The kinda of voice that would be sexy except for the dripping nose, sneezing, and coughing up of lungs accompanying said voice. But I digress. Anyhoo, I know how miserable it is to be sick away from home. I enjoyed my encounter with the piggy flu whilst in sunny Australia. Fun times.

My point to all of this, is well.....okay, I probably did have a point, but it got lost somewhere. The fact is I have a Dane in my basement and he is sick. And he is no different than John is when he is sick. When I want to send him back to his mother. 'Cause there is little less attractive than a grown man whimpering and whining 'cause his sniffer is stopped up, or 'cause his wittle head is hurting, or 'cause his wittle throat is sore. Just saying!

Mr. Clean.....Right!

2009-09-23T22:31:00.003-04:00

What is it with the makers of cleaning products? I think they must live in an alternate reality. Do they honestly believe a man would willingly and with purpose clean a potty or mop a floor? I have yet to see proof of this, and I, being an admitted serial marrier, have had ample opportunity.

I love the idea of a big, strong man taking over the household chores. And if he wants to wear a gold hoop earring or two, I would learn to accept it. But I ask, how many times have you spotted an enormous, muscled MAN cleaning your bathroom? Heck, I would be thrilled with that ninety-eight pound weakling from my comic book days. Yet, some executive - obviously male - decided to stretch the bounds of imagination and name a cleaning product Mr. Clean. They then turned the idea over to another male - duh - in advertising and developed an antiseptic version of Mel (from the TV show Alice -ask your Mom if you are younger than thirty) to sell this cleaner. To women!

Mr. Clean was not the first to dare suggest that men actually clean. In fact, Ajax used the White Knight in a series of ads in the sixties. Even in my most deluded state of hypnotic daydreaming, I would not for one nanosecond think a knight would rescue me from cruddy toilets and nasty floors. Give me a break. The campaign ended with a group of women protesting and calling for a boycott of the ad campaign. I don't personally think the ad was sexist in the traditional sense of the word, I just think it is ludicrous to suggest any man would go to that much trouble to clean a bathroom.

I hate to bash on my favorite icon, the Brawny guy, but I am just as skeptical of his ability in the cleaning department. He is rugged, cute, and sports some pretty fab flannel, but I just cannot picture him on his knees with his sleeves rolled up scrubbing a tub. He seems more likely to tear a moldy shower down and start over. Hmmmm.......he may be on to something. But I digress. Anyhoo, again a strapping macho male is the symbol for a cleaning product. What gives?

My favorite is the Ty-D-Bol Man. Remember him? And, although he was male, he more accurately portrayed a real man in a cleaning situation. He was fully dressed in a turtleneck, blazer and nautical hat. He scooted around in a boat. He never actually touched the toilet or toilet water. He supervised. He advised. He proclaimed. Just like a man. I'll bet he didn't close the lid either.....

My point in all of this is that while I appreciate and love the men in my life for their abundant gifts and talents, none of those gifts and/or talents include cleaning. Anything. I realize someone like me with my gray hair in desperate need of a trim, sporting an old collegiate sweatshirt four sizes too big over bleach stained flannel jammie pants and fuzzy purple socks would not be the first pick as an advertising spokesperson. I would, however, at least be believable. Just saying.

The Yard Wife

2009-09-23T00:01:00.001-04:00

I am a housewife. I didn't think much about this particular label until I heard someone else apologizing for the same. I got to wondering.....what exactly is a housewife? Are there other kinds of wives out there I never knew about? I guess I should be grateful I am not a yard wife.... I at least get a roof over my head. But I digress. I am struggling a bit with the whole concept of being a housewife.

I did not start out to be a housewife. I was a registered nurse for many years. Prior to that, I worked in every industry imaginable and did just about any job that would pay a decent salary. And, no, I never worked in "the" profession for a variety of reasons. One being I cannot stand the sight of me sans clothing, so I could hardly ask someone to pay for that particular...ahem...privilege. Anyhoo, I have worked outside of the home since I was about sixteen. When I became a housewife, I honestly thought I had won the freaking lottery. After all, I no longer worked twelve hour nights or weekends or carried around a beeper. I was in heaven! The euphoria lasted maybe twenty minutes.

I finally realized I had a rather daunting task ahead of me... sure I cleaned and cooked and shopped and dropped while working full time, but working brought a ready excuse. Somehow it was more acceptable to have a little dust around and a less than sterile kitchen when I worked outside of the home. Now it seems I must strive for a hermetically sealed vacuum. I have a difficult time achieving this. Maybe the yard wife thing would be easier.

I don't mind cleaning. Cleaning can be cathartic. Cleaning gives me a certain satisfaction. I have learned some pretty innovative cleaning techniques as well. Instead of obsessing over a little dust here and there, I simply name my dust bunnies. And dust bears. And dust giraffes. Who am I kidding? I have a freaking dust zoo in my house! sigh.

I have tried hard to become the perfect housewife. I tried to grow an herb garden and a few flowers to cheer the place up. Only one problem with this - I hardly have a green thumb. In fact the only things I can successfully grow are mold and mildew.

A good housewife plans delicious, nutritious meals for her family. I try new recipes and make every attempt to excel in presentation as well as taste. I have no idea why I bother. Me: "those flowers decorating the plate are edible as well as beautiful." Child number one: "Why would we want to eat FLOWERS?" Me: "You don't have to eat them, I am just stating that they are edible. They are there to make the plate look more appetizing." Child number two: "Why not just put some flowers in a vase?" Child number one: "Yeah, I mean it is kinda gross to have little flowers pretending to be food on my plate." Child number two: "It is pretty, I guess, but I don't see the point." Husband: silently chewing, not noticing anything different whatsoever.

I think in my next life I would like to be a kept woman, please. I would like staff. I would like to be inundated with quazillions of glossy brochures for boarding schools (she giggles with just a hint of maniacal hysteria). I would like to have a personal chef. And a personal trainer. And personally, I would do without the pool boy if I could have a potty boy. I want someone else to scrub the potties.

In this time of financial uncertainty, I should be grateful I have a job. I do believe mine is secure. And in spite of my whining and moaning, I really wouldn't trade my dust zoo for anything. 'Cept maybe that potty boy. Just saying..

National Elephant Appreciation Day

2009-09-22T00:52:00.002-04:00

I hate the drudgery of creating meals for every day. I despise having to conjure up culinary masterpieces every single solitary day of the year. I am frankly bored with the entire process. I have even contemplated serving a bowl of cereal to my children and calling it supper. After all, most cereals brag about having 100% of the daily requirements of vitamins and minerals. But, I digress. Anyhoo, if I have to come up with yet another wonderful way to win over my family with poultry, or suffer through another casserole with cream-of soup, cheddar cheese and mystery meat, I may just hurl.

I do enjoy cooking for occasions, however. I am, I guess, what you would call an occasional cook! (I crack myself up!). Maybe then, my problem is a matter of perception. If, for example, I knew that Thursday was a holiday, I could then tap into my inner Julia Child and VIOLA! A feast is born. I think I just may be on to something.

Tonight I planned to serve an uninspired, done-it-a-thousand-times, plop on the plate Tuesday meal. A Tuesday night meal doesn't have the panache of a Sunday dinner, or the spontaneity of a Friday cook-out, or the hope of a hump day supper. It is just a Tuesday. I am bored just thinking about it (she yawns for effect). But wait! A little googling on my trusty 'puter, and tonight's meal is suddenly a celebration! An event! Turns out today is National Elephant Appreciation Day!! Who knew?

This is exciting. This meal now has promise. Let's see. Wonder what one cooks for something this huge? I could prepare peanut crusted chicken strips or a Satay in honor of our pachyderms penchant for peanuts. Except that elephants don't actually eat peanuts. Hmmm. I could prepare a massive roast or whole turkey to celebrate the elephants unapologetic girth. For dessert I could fry up some batter and coat with powdered sugar to create my own version of a state fair staple; elephant ears. The possibilities are endless. Though, I am not sure I am quite ready to embark on such a culinary conundrum.

This is harder than I thought. I haven't had time to prepare. Maybe if I had known before today, I could have made a list. I will need to research this further, and make another trip to the dreaded grocery store. I mean, I can hardly serve some mundane hot dish or meat loaf for such a notable commemoration. Wait! I know - maybe we should just eat out! After all, it is a special occasion! Just saying....

Do You See Me?

2009-09-21T00:01:00.003-04:00

After a particularly hellish day at the local supermarket, I found myself struggling to express the myriad of emotions I felt. I realized I had come as close as possible to explain how I feel in this blog originally posted many months ago. I still hold out hope we will become a kinder, patient, more empathetic people.

Do you see me? Do you see me leaning on my husband's arm, as I try to navigate a seemingly endless parking lot or gargantuan store? Do you sigh or raise your fist at me because I am too slow? Do you see that my legs simply cannot move any faster? Do you see that I am embarrassed beyond belief because I cannot do this alone? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see me straining to see the tiny print on cans or bottles or jars? Do you understand that I don't mean to hold up traffic in the aisle? Do you know I don't mean to back into you, I just don't realize how far away or close things are to me? Do you have any idea what it took for me to get out in the cold and rain, and to do this simple task? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see how frightened I am because I lost sight of my husband for a moment? Do you have any idea what it is like to feel completely lost, and alone? Do you know how hard it is to figure out where the bathroom is? Have you ever thought what it must take to go into a bathroom alone, and not be able to maneuver buttons and clasps and zippers without assistance? Or the doors, or faucets or dryers? Do you see me?

Do you see me? Do you see me as I try to avoid running into you, or your children as they dart in front of me? I don't mean to bump into your buggy as you whiz out of nowhere. I hear your comments. I hear you call me clumsy or inconsiderate or drunk. I hear your children laugh at me; I hear you allow them to call me names. Do you see me?

Do you see me? I am a human being. I care about others. I care about you. I would do anything possible to change my circumstances. They are what they are. I cannot see you as you huff past me, knocking into me on your way. I can hear you. I hear the muttered "stupid" or "why can't you come on another day". I hear the heavy sighs and the cleared throats as you insist on shoving past me, at times causing me to lose my balance. I hear the comments when I use my cane.....yes, I do need it....and no, I am not looking for sympathy or a hand-out. I hear you complain because it takes me too long and I am blocking the aisle. I hear you. Do you see me?

Do you see me? Not just me, but any child of God that is struggling to navigate this world. A world for those who see clearly; who walk without a stumble; who are completely independent; and who are too rushed and busy and important to see.......me.

Bread Of Life

2009-09-18T00:01:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy, gloomy day. It was, as Ashley's dad dubbed it once, a grismal day. The clouds hung with a heavy sadness over my mountain cloaking it in a sodden shroud. It was one of those days when you wished you could just pull the covers up and stay in bed. Yesterday's weather was the perfect day for a thick, rich bowl of soup. And so I made soup.

I love soup and bread. Note the bread part. The problem with wanting bread with my soup, was that ordinarily one would not attempt such a culinary feat in 100% humidity. The damp can wreak havoc - the dough never really gets that perfect satiny texture. The tendency is to want to continue adding flour to the sticky mess, but that would mean a loaf of bread not unlike a dense clay brick.Great for a doorstop - not so great to eat. Ugh.

I decided to tempt the fates, and make bread in spite of the weather. I only know one recipe for bread. I am sure there are other recipes, but I grew up with only one. My Dad started making his Herb Butter Bread when he was juggling fatherhood and graduate school. Then he used the butcher-block top of our dishwasher to knead out all of his frustrations. We liked that he was frustrated. We got to eat the most delicious bread as a result! When Daddy finished his PhD, Mom presented him with an electric stand mixer heavy enough to handle this two loaf recipe.

Apparently Dad learned to deal with the stressors of life better, or he got lazy, or maybe just craved a big honking piece of whole wheat bread. 'Cause after graduate school we only got to eat Dad's bread at Christmas. Dad started the tradition of making loaves for his friends and family as Christmas presents. He would take two full days and bake as many as 35 loaves. I loved the aroma of fresh bread permeating the air. To me Christmas is less the smell of fresh pine or cedar boughs, and more browned butter and the herbaceous yeastiness of daddy's bread.

In recent years, Dad's health has made it all but impossible to spend days standing in the kitchen baking his bread. My siblings and I have taken over much of the process, although we still have him ready as a consulting baker. To us, the fragility of Daddy's health is most apparent during bread baking time. I guess we have a hard time thinking of Christmas without the image of Daddy with his chef's hat and his apron leaving a Pigpen style cloud of flour in his wake. Dad at his best was a symbol of strength as he hand kneaded that wieldy dough.

A couple of years ago, Daddy traded up for a newer mixer with tons of features. Heck, it will make sausage, pasta, and probably paint the house if needed. I inherited his first industrial strength, kid-proof, defense department issued, steel-belted stand mixer. The newer models are nice. They even come in colors to match the decor of your kitchen. Mine is standard white. It has no bells and whistles. It is perfect.

Yesterday, in the somberness of that gloamy day, I found my thoughts wandering down the inevitable avenue of reminiscence. As it sometimes will happen, my mood became quite melancholy. I longed to return of the innocence of childhood,where cancer hadn't etched its indelible mark of pain. I longed for a time when all of life's unfairness and angst and frustration were cured with a "there there", or a lollipop from the drive-up teller, or the seemingly magical appearance of that wonderful bread.

Daddy's bread. I drug out that clunky,counter straining, heavy mixer and began to assemble the ingredients; yeast, thyme, caraway seed, and basil. I carefully browned the butter until it was nutty and rich. I scalded the milk just as Dad taught me. I slowly added the flour and watched as the dough hook worked its magic. Soon, I had loaves of bread filling the house with the wonderful aroma of my childhood.

As I stood ready to succumb to the blackness of pity and despair, I had an epiphany. Life is not always fair. There will be pain and loss and heartache. But, somehow, through the act of baking my Daddy's bread my senses transported me to a time and place filled with joy and love. I experienced the inevitable circle of life as it rounded its way towards me. I did have to consult with the master baker himself, and he called to make sure my bread was a success. It was. And it represented all that is right and good in my little corner of the world. Just saying.

You Can Hear The Whistle Blow A Hundred Miles....

2009-09-17T00:01:00.006-04:00

My Dad returned to school to obtain his PhD in the late 60's. Being that I was not yet old enough to fend for myself or drive, I, along with Mom and my siblings, went along. The late sixties were tumultuous at best. I saw first hand the grief when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were both assassinated. The Vietnam war was in full swing and with it protests and peace marches. I watched the nightly news with its daily reports of death and destruction. The end of the decade was marked by the Kent State Massacre, causing nervousness and curfews at my Dad's campus and others.

The unrest of the sixties had a distinct soundtrack. Peter, Paul, and Mary defined the era with their lyrical calls for peace and the end of turmoil. Their music proved to be timeless, and their pleas for a time where all the world would join together for the better good never ceasing. I remember hearing Peter, Paul and Mary sing Puff the Magic Dragon, and Blowin' In The Wind. I remember the haunting lyrics of 500 Miles. I loved the passion of If I Had A Hammer - Mary could sing it like no other. Peter, Paul and Mary made music that wasn't simply the soundtrack of a generation, it was the soundtrack of my childhood.

Last night, Mary Travers died after suffering from leukemia for the last four years. She was 72. And, through her music, immortal. Mary and her singing comrades didn't just sing meaningless words. They believed in what they taught through song. They believed together we could make a difference.

I had the absolute joy and pleasure of attending a concert of Peter, Paul and Mary in Brevard, North Carolina with my in-laws. I sang along enthusiastically with every single verse and chorus. The trio was amazing. Their harmony was exquisite and the love of their music evident. Then, Mary stood out front a bit from the others and began her iconic If I had a Hammer. She sang from her soul. Her voice was as strong and sincere as it had been forty years prior. She sang with a passion unmatched by any other artist I have ever heard. Her voice was powerful reaching into the depths of the life-worn and dulled passions of the audience. An audience that was once as eager and sure of what was right as she. Her words just as appropriate for this generation.

I have loved Peter, Paul and Mary since I was a child. Their music has proved to be timeless and their message beyond the boundaries of any one generation. Mary's authenticity, her passion, and her boundless energy in the pursuit of a better world community will be sorely missed.
And my soundtrack will never be quite the same.

Mary Travers

November 9, 1936 -September 16, 2009

Living a Hitchcock Movie

2009-09-16T00:01:00.002-04:00

It has happened. I am living a vintage nineteen fifties horror movie. Except that with new technology and all, mine is in living color. ARRGGHH. Instead of being swarmed and attacked by birds, we have been invaded by stink bugs. And, why do they call them stink bugs you ask? Why because the odor emanated by these crusty arthropods, well......STINKS!! The smell is something akin to a cross between a full litter box and a high school senior's gym shoes. Attractive, really.

I have done everything I can think of to combat these nasty flying entomological annoyances. I have sealed every crack possible in my house. I have sprayed. I have been careful to dispose of these little gifts from HELL away from the house so as not to attract others to their STINK. Which turns out to be the equivalent of Chanel Number 5 to fellow stink bugs ( she shudders visibly). I have vacuumed and swept and flicked and flushed these little darlings. I am gonna need extensive therapy before this is all over. sigh.

I have searched and searched for a remedy to our insect dilemma. The Internet has been oh, so helpful. There I learned that there is no real effective way to rid one's home of these creepy crawlers. Time and again, I have read how the hard shelled body is relatively impervious to sprays. I learned that foggers are useless, and powders completely ineffective. I am left with one option. I will have to tear my house down and start over. I simply cannot take this anymore.

I can handle bugs and insects and slimy things living outside. I do not try to invade their turf. I sleep inside. I wish these armor coated odiferous invaders would extend to me the same courtesy. While they are disgusting to watch as they flit around the exterior of my home, I am warming to the idea of sharing that space with them. When, however, they decide to engage in bombing raids on my guacamole, I draw the line.

I am normally an extremely tolerant person. I love all of God's creatures. In fact, I think this may be part of the issue. No way in all that is holy would God decide to create such a nasty, vile creature, would she? I cannot fathom having to continue this existence. I am, as we say in the South, nutting up over this insect invasion. I am at a loss. This is really bugging me. Just saying...

It's The Jerry Springer Show!!

2009-09-15T00:01:00.002-04:00

My mother taught me manners. Not only did she teach me how to behave, she instructed me as to the seriousness of a breach of decorum. My mother is the epitome of a lady. I think she needs to hold a boot camp for those in the public eye who seem to have forgotten their raising.

Representative Joe Wilson needs a spanking. And then he needs his mouth washed out with soap. That is what would have happened to me if I had DARED to utter ANYTHING out loud in an address by our President. I could have said "why I think your tie is divine" and I still would have been punished for rudely interrupting someone while speaking. Add to the equation the fact that this was the President, and I would be looking at some serious grounding. But Joe Wilson didn't merely shout out his approval of the President's accessory choices. No, he decided to forgo all sense of reason and decorum and call the President a liar. WOW! I'll bet his Mom is really proud.

I am astonished at the scores of folks who are proud of what Joe Wilson did. They are extolling his "courage". Puleez! He would have shown courage had he stated his disapproval in an open forum. He would have my respect had he voiced his outrage with thoughtful discourse in the presence of the President. To shout out from his seat was not courageous. It was an act of cowardice wrapped in up in made-for-prime-time bravado. The Sergeant-At-Arms should have put him in time-out.

Serena Williams was not to be outdone as she was anything but serene at the US Open Tennis Tournament. Serena made a boo-boo. It happens. 'Cause as much as she, like other high-profile sports stars, think somehow the rules don't apply to them, they are fallible. Instead of accepting her very humanness, she decided to call into question the parentage of the line judge. She then offered to share her tennis ball as a meal option. Apparently she decided the line judge was suffering from hunger induced temporary blindness. Serena's show was less than ladylike. It was not indicative of good sportsmanship. It is a good thing my Mom wasn't there. She would have jerked her up by the ear and marched her to the girl's bathroom to have a "little understanding". Serena would have returned teary-eyed and humbly apologized for her lack of ladylike behavior as I am sure Mom explained it would have behooved her to do. Serena should have her allowance pulled. At the very least.

One ladylike act stood apart from the appalling behavior shown in recent days. When Kanye West stormed the stage during the VMA Awards and yanked the microphone from seventeen year old Taylor Swift in a pathetic attempt to extol the relative virtues of Beyonce's contribution to the rock/pop video world, Beyonce showed a great deal of class. Later in the evening when her video won the award for its category, she gave up her moment in order for Taylor Swift to finally have hers. Beyonce's Mom must have been bursting with pride. Beyonce made a terrible,awkward situation a teachable moment about grace. Kanye needs a switching. My Mom would have pinched a plug out of his thigh and made him wish he had kept his mouth shut. Then she would have made him get on his knees (so she could look him in the eye) and she would have explained life. Kanye would have gladly crawled back on that stage to apologize for taking up vital oxygen for his useless rant. And then Mom would have taken his car keys.

What has happened that it is suddenly trendy to be offensive, confrontational, and downright, well....my Mom calls it common? Have we lost our collective minds? These town hall meetings on health care turned into excuses for vitriol and ranting and show boating and behavior one expects at a roller derby - not a meeting. Can we not have disagreement without shouting and in-your-face spiteful one-liners? Can those we hold in high esteem not contain themselves? I know it is hard to sit through that terribly long joint session of Congress. Those meanie-heads made them miss "So You Think You Can Dance". I would have been ticked too. And that meanie-head line judge probably didn't like Serena Williams. Yeah, that's it. She would risk her professional reputation to make a bogus call during the US Open. All who believe that get a free booklet on "How to Behave Graciously in Public" from Kanye West. Jeez.

My Mom taught me better. I would wager that most Moms have done the same. We know better. We were exposed to right and wrong. We learned how to behave. We have become caricatures of ourselves. And our Moms must be sorely disappointed. Just saying.

Almost Heaven

2009-09-14T00:01:00.001-04:00

After a tumultuous week, we received good news (all things considered) about Dad. This bit of respite from worry and grief enabled us to enjoy a wonderful weekend in Morgantown, West Virginia. Or, as our friend Tom calls it , West-By-God-Virgina. The weather was on the cool side as we enjoyed upper 50's to low 60's temps for the East Carolina vs West Virginia University football game. We were determined to show our Danish exchange students a typical American football Saturday. And our WVU friends did not disappoint.

I think it interesting to take something as familiar as a collegiate football game and see it through the eyes of a foreign visitor. One of the most difficult explanations was the idea that West Virgina is a separate state and not simply the western region of Virginia. We had finally cleared that issue up, only to have to explain that West Virginia University's opponent for the day was East Carolina University. From the state of North Carolina. sigh.

Our hosts grilled hot dogs and bratwurst for us at our tailgating party. Hot dogs are enjoyed in Denmark as well as the US as my more devoted readers will know. I, in fact, LOVE the Danish version of our American classic. The Danes were equally enthused about our version - grilled to a crispy brown and served on soft buns with mustard and onions. What could be better? Mmmmmm. Heaven on a bun.

The concept of spending an entire day at a football game was completely puzzling to our friends. Although they enjoyed the tailgating, pregame show and post game festivities, they could not believe Americans will willingly give up twelve to fourteen hours for a single sporting event. After leaving our home at 7:00 am and falling into bed a full fifteen hours later, I started to question our traditions as well. I was so exhausted - how exhausted was I, you ask? - I was unable to stay awake for the only game that REALLY mattered Saturday. That would be the Carolina/Georgia game for those of you who are not true sports fans. I understand the game was exciting. I was too tired to frankly care....I know!!

Our Danish students were overwhelmed with the, well.......ahem..... shall we say...ENTHUSIASM the fans showed for their team. And while some of the antics and slogans and finger gestures and intellectual discussions with the referees were at times entertaining, not one time did a brawl erupt. No riot police stood at the ready. In fact, the most exciting altercation was between an entire section of fans tossing a beach ball in the air and the most humourless state patrolman on the planet. I think we taught this group of European football fans that one can indeed enjoy a healthy rivalry without bloodshed or arrests.

The students were wonderful. They took hundreds of pictures, charmed our hosts, and showed more enthusiasm than the most die-hard Mountaineer fan. They stood at attention with us as we sang our National Anthem, and joined in eagerly with the traditional Country Roads sung at the end of the game. I was proud to show them a bit of our sporting tradition, and prouder still to see them embrace the whole experience with such joy.

A Simple Plea

2009-09-10T00:00:00.003-04:00

I have written and re-written this post. I have experienced a myriad of emotions so diverse as to be the inspiration for a House episode. My attempts at finding the words to express these emotions have failed. My Dad's cancer has decided the brief reprieve of stable disease is over. His cancer has begun to grow again. Later today, we discover whether or not it has spread further. And there simply are no words adequate.

After many starts and stops, rants and tears, I finally had an epiphany. For as long as I can remember, when life was producing lemons faster than I could squeeze them into the proverbial lemonade, my Dad would simply say "there, there". Two little words. Two little words that spoke volumes. Two little words filled with love and compassion. Sometimes we don't need a dissertation, or sonnet, or bit of free verse to express what is in our heart. We worry so much about the right words, when sometimes the thought behind the words is what is important.

Today I need to hear "there, there". The problem with this is that Daddy needs to hear it too. And Mom. And my siblings.

So, today, I ask that you take just a moment of your time, and send a mental "there, there" to all of us - especially my Dad. 'Cause I know from experience just how powerful those two little words can be. Just saying.....

And So It Begins...

2009-09-09T00:01:00.000-04:00

It is official. I am old. My younger daughter starts high school today. I realize most of you have already shed your tears over your own children, but our school calendar begins two days after Labor day. The way God intended. But, I digress. I would like to know how it is that just yesterday my little cherubic faced child was exclaiming over her ability to color in the lines and recognize the primary colors. Did I experience some sort of Rip van Winkle sleep state? sigh.

As sad as I am to realize my little girl is growing faster than my feeble brain can process, I am excited about school starting. That seemingly endless, yawning span of time bathed in interminable heat and cloaked in boredom is over. We have a routine. We have a schedule. We have order. We have homework.

I love homework. I am sure my darling girls do not share my perverse pleasure at the sheer volume of work to be completed at home. Parents should embrace homework. Sure, there is the odd paper needing parental assistance to print, or a ridiculous diorama requiring a Lowe's project card to complete, but mostly homework brings with it a daily mantra of peace. Need some quiet time to read the paper? Send the kid to their room to do homework. Want to watch Tom DeLay attempt the Paso Doble? Homework!

I realize I sound, well.....cold. I love my girls. Both of them. I celebrate their successes and comfort them through their failures. I suffer through bleacher butt syndrome caused by endless hours cheering for the home team. I dig through the mismatched sock basket to find the "good" socks. I search diligently for the best lunch items. I also enjoy the eight or so hours I can finally steal for me...minus the hours spent washing clothes, planning and preparing meals, sweeping, mopping, wiping.....like I said, I enjoy the thirty minutes I can finally steal for me.

So, today, I celebrate the passage of time and the promise of a bright future as Lauren enters the ninth grade. I am so very proud of her and of her accomplishments. And in those few minutes I can finally steal, no doubt my thoughts will moprh into a mental slide show of her young life, resting for a moment on the image of that little bitty girl carefully coloring within the lines. Just saying.

Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash

2009-09-02T16:35:00.006-04:00

And so it begins. Thousands and thousands of eager young faces beam up expectantly at parents and coaches and strangers as they offer tubs of cookie dough, glossy wrapping paper, thick candy bars, and endless magazine subscriptions. While I understand the need for cash, I wish I could give dough without having to actually purchase, well....dough. sigh.

I have no problem with helping the track team or Troupe 98 or the academic team. I am not opposed to Mr. Smith's third grade class going to Washington. Band needs new uniforms? Count me in. I will help buy textbooks, computers and copy paper.

What I despise about the call for cash, is that in order to help, I have to purchase a roll of wrapping paper not quite large enough to cover a ring box. Or, I can pick from a catalog of "gourmet" chocolates and popcorn. For my twenty bucks, there might be enough for a single serving. If you are a toddler. Don't even get me started on the scented candles, pocket calculators, and all-in-one tools.

I think I have the solution to the whole fundraising issue. I think there should be a Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash fundraiser. Just as the symphony or ballet has friends of or benefactors, so should schools and scouts and little league team. You could give any amount you see fit, and said organization would get 100% of the donation. To me this makes much more sense than earning fifty cents for every two hundred dollar box of navel oranges. The same ones that cost me four dollars at Kroger.

In all fairness, I am a fan of a couple of the more traditional fundraising ideas. I will buy Krispy Kreme doughnuts for any reason one can come up with. I admit I don't even care about the group I am supporting. Somehow the lure of those tasty treats of lard and sugar erase all sense of reason. I will gladly fork out more than a mortgage payment for a box of them. The other fundraiser I think worthy of my hard earned cash is Girl Scout cookies. I am an ardent supporter of the Girl Scouts. I particularly like to support them through my annual purchase of Thin Mints. Although, if the United Steelworkers decided to sell Thin Mints, I would support them just as much.

The problem is that there are so many groups who need money, and so few clever ways to get the needed cash. Somewhere along the way, we lost faith in the idea of asking for what we need without worrying about what is given in return. I really do not need the tchatchkes and the trinkets and the dust catchers these kids are forced to peddle. I think my Keep Your Crap, Take the Cash Idea is a win-win; the organization gets the financial boost it needs and I don't have to feign interest in yet another desk set, calendar or cookbook. Just saying...

The Perfect Gift

2009-09-02T16:27:00.003-04:00

I have thought a lot about gift giving of late. I found myself having to defend what I wanted to receive as a birthday gift. It seems we often decide what other folks would or should want to receive as a gift. We label a gift as appropriate or not based on our own expectations. I have actually had arguments over whether or not I truly wanted the gift I requested. Frustrating as the process may be, I completely understand why this occurs.

We are inundated with billboards and television advertisements and glossy magazine pages portraying the spectacle of giving and receiving the perfect gift. The tiny velvet box holding one's future presented in a platinum and diamond setting; the promise of life long success with the sleek sports sedan under an enormous red bow; forgiveness or sympathy delivered in a glorious floral arrangement. We are conditioned to believe that in order to publicly proclaim our love and devotion, we must have THE bracelet or pendant or earrings from a national jewelry chain. And without such a trinket, we have failed.

This saddens me. I have received many wonderful gifts over the years. Of my favorite presents, only one is a piece of jewelry. The gifts most dear to my heart include the second-hand version of a coat I coveted when Dad was in graduate school, the quilt covered in photographs of Ashley and me, and a sunflower print John purchased for our first Christmas together. These gifts were tangible evidence that the giver knew me, and therefore knew what would give me pleasure.

Some of the gifts I have received were not intended as a present for a particular occasion. They include a post card my Dad wrote me when I left home for college, a letter penned by my grandmother to offer encouragement when I most needed it, and several photos of my girls taken by a dear friend. These gifts become extensions of the heart to be forever treasured.

As much as I love gifts from the heart, I appreciate practical gifts as well. I might wish to purchase a trendy new outfit, or try the latest cosmetics, or add another trinket to my shelves, but am unwilling to sacrifice funds I deem best spent elsewhere. A gift card from one that understands this concept is a great way to allow me to enjoy such things without guilt. I have enjoyed receiving what are considered by many to be rather mundane utilitarian gifts such as new cookware or solar lights for the walkway.

My point is that in order to give the perfect give,one has to truly know and understand the recipient. When this happens, any gift given becomes the perfect gift. Just saying...

By the by, my gift was a weed eater!

The Greatest Gift of All

2009-09-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

Next week is my birthday. WOOT! I am not thrilled about inching ever closer to the big 5-0, but I do enjoy the perks a birthday affords - namely the presents. This year, I put my foot down and requested a specific present, not leaving my husband and children to decide what THEY think I want. Although they were not nearly as excited by my choice as I, they decided to indulge me. I am so excited!

Oh, you probably want to know what in the heck it is. And you are probably wondering why I haven't told. I thought it would be fun to give a series of hints, and see what folks guess. Doesn't that sound like fun? Okay, it more likely sounds like I have no life and am easily entertained. Anyhoo, here is my cryptic description of this year's birthday present. Enjoy!

1. It fits in the palm of your hand
2. It is easily adaptable
3. It is vegan
4. You can drop it a line
5. It is cutting edge
6. It is a tree hugger
7. It is boisterous
8. It is house broken
9. It loves the outdoors
10. It will string you along

Do Not Go Gently Into That Dark Night

2009-08-30T00:01:00.001-04:00

The funeral and subsequent burial of Senator Ted Kennedy struck a chord with me. I was taken with the exquisite clarity of the Ave Maria; the striking pageantry of the mass; the aching strains of Yo Yo Ma's cello. I saw what has become a larger than life fairy tale family grieving as the rest of us do when one of our own leaves this earth. Their very real and exposed wounds were left gaping and raw for all to see. In spite of the pomp and circumstance, this was the funeral of a man. A man with children and a wife; grandchildren and a sister; countless nieces and nephews.

I realized while watching the series of events these last days, how much funerals are not for those who have departed as much as they are for those who are left behind. I wonder if folks took the time to share the accolades with Kennedy prior to his death. I wonder if he was able to share the stories and the laughter with his legion of friends in the days leading up to the end. I wonder if he knew how loved and admired he was.
I think we all struggle with our legacy - how each of us will be remembered. Will we leave an indelible mark? Will our children and grandchildren know of our great deeds? Will our friends consider it an honor to eulogize us? Will we make a difference? And, will that difference matter? Will we go gently into that dark night, or we will go kicking and fighting all the way?

I have heard thousands of times one must live their life as if each day were their last. I understand where this concept comes from. The idea that if we treat each day as if we know there will be no tomorrow, we would somehow fill the day with more meaning. Nice idea, but wouldn't it be better if we treat each day as if it were our first. Each morning we wake up with a new sense of purpose. Each day we turn the page on the mistakes and foibles of our yesterday and begin anew. Each day is filled with hope and promise and a chance to be better than we were before.

To me it would be too daunting to live each day as if it were my last. The pressure of making each day fulfill some great lasting legacy too much to bear. The need to make every moment count to some higher standard impossible. The likelihood of failure too real.

As I am writing this, I realize it sounds much more pessimistic than I intended. I do not mean to dismiss the sincere efforts of those who believe each day should be treated as an opportunity for greatness. I understand the need to feel as though every thought, word and deed somehow matter in the larger picture. It is just that I believe sometimes we too quickly sum up our lives, and the lives of others, in shallow little isms and miss out on the breadth of what makes each one of us special to those who truly matter.

Maybe life isn't really about what we achieve, or who we know, or how successful/powerful/noble/brave we are. Maybe it isn't about making a huge difference in society as a whole, or contributing to the greater good. Maybe our contributions will not be front-page worthy. Maybe the differences we have made will not be readily noticed. Maybe, if we live our lives to the very best of our abilities, given our very human spirits, it will be enough.

Paper Anniversary

2009-08-29T00:01:00.001-04:00

Today is the first anniversary of this little 'ole blog. I looked it up, and appropriately, the first anniversary is the paper anniversary. Except that I don't actually write my blog on paper, but you get the drift. Anyhoo, I have surprised myself with the number of entries I actually managed to come up with. It takes a certain discipline to create an entry on a regular basis. Or a very real need for public scrutiny. Or I am seriously disturbed. Hmmm...

Just in time for my big celebration, I was notified that my blog has been nominated for The Divine Caroline Love! This Site Award. You can see the pretty badge on the left of my blog. In lieu of expensive gifts, or small ones crafted from paper, I am asking each of the tens of you loyal readers to please click on the pretty badge (again located on the left of my blogspot) and please vote for me!! In return, I will refrain from making derogatory comments about you in public. Or not....

As an extra treat, well, maybe treat is a little strong.....okay, okay, I'm busted. Not a treat so much as it is Friday evening and I am pooped, therefore and ergo and so it would seem, I am cheating and reprinting that very first blog! And the crowd goes wild!!! Enjoy, and I thank you for your support.

Renewable Resources
I have heard a lot in the past few days about finding new renewable resources for the energy crisis. Once again, if they had just consulted a woman.....jeez! This one is easy!! Dust bunnies!! I have tried swiffering, sweeping, traditional dust cloths, my shirt tail, socks, the cat - NOTHING gets the dust away. I can dust one room, go to another, and as soon as I return there is a layer of dust so thick I can write graffiti in it. Let me tell you, it is not pretty to have "for a good time call...." on my buffet. With my mother-in-law visiting. Don't even get me started on the creatures that lurk under my bed. I swear I have mistaken them for long lost stuffed animals......sigh. Its not that I don't clean. I do clean. And sweep. And dust. I just think I have an unnaturally large repository of dust in my home. Kinda like the natural gas reserves that other states brag about.So, I'm just saying.....maybe there is a way to gather this stuff (or fluff) and find a way to once and for all end our energy crisis.

Lament of the Challenged Fashionista

2009-08-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

I am style challenged. I get it. And I accept it. And whatever lingering issues I had with my complete and total lack of fashion imagination disappeared with one single episode of Project Runway. Seriously.

Is there a rule that in order to be considered high fashion, the clothes must be completely unwearable? High being the operative word, cause in order to create such, well...creations, one would need to escape to another plane of reality with the aid of chemical enhancement. But, I digress. I am perplexed. I am stunned. I am certainly not ever going to be considered fashionable in this lifetime. Unless the Brawny guy becomes the symbol of iconic American fashion.

I have long struggled with finding my own personal style. This is made more difficult when one is the second of two girls. My personal style growing up was in fact my sister's personal style with the added bonus of being a full season or two behind. Of course, I did not notice I was totally out of sync with fashion. If Kimmie wore it, it was divine as far as I was concerned. Somehow I hoped that merely donning her garments would transform me into a much younger version of her. She had olive skin , long thick mahogany hair, and was small boned. I yearned to be her. I would have gladly traded my defensive lineman broad-shouldered build with her. I, in the era of Joan Collins and Dynasty, never needed shoulder pads. Ever.

My girls have their own style. I personally have a hard time with some of the fashion options available to them. I cringe at the thought of paying more for jeans with rips and tears and holes than one would pay for an intact pair. They call them distressed jeans. That is because it causes parents great distress to pay nearly a hundred bucks for something our own mothers would sew patches on. After decreeing they would only be worn for yard work. I remember having to wear Sears Toughskins as a young kid 'cause you couldn't rip a hole in them if you tried. I know. I tried.

Now that I have matured - that is code for almost as old as my much older sister - I have found a sort of personal style. Okay, style may be pushing it. Anyhoo, I lean more towards a comfortable tailored look. Kind of a preppy meets logger. I still am the poster child for What Not to Wear while in the confines of my own confines, but I have learned to be more presentable when out in public. Which means I am totally bereft of any fashion sense. 'Cause in order to be fashionable, I would have to wear something unwearable....Just saying.

Lions, Tigers and Bears, OH MY!!!

2009-08-27T00:02:00.003-04:00

This is a re-run...mostly. We had more bear visitors this week, hence the inspiration (I use that term quite loosely). Anyhoo, we have enjoyed watching our bear friends roll down the hill and then run back up to do it again. And again!

I have never been a fan of garbage. My least favorite chore growing up was taking out the garbage. On the days it was my turn, the garbage was always piled up to the top of the can, requiring me to squash it down to make room for one more bag. I grew up in the South, so with the heat, the large outside can served as a fermentation unit for its contents. It was gross.

Now I have children and a husband that do garbage duty. Since we live out in the country, we have to haul our garbage to the dump. I’m really sad I don’t have that chore....NOT! We have this large plastic bin with a lid that protects our pungent gift to the landfill from varmits ( that is a southern term for raccoons, unwelcome cats, and any other furry scavengers) until the days we haul it away. We smugly thought we had out-duped any predator that might want our discarded scraps with our oh-so-ingenious plastic bin idea.

Boy were we wrong. As I said we live in the country. We live on a mountain at the end of the Blue Ridge. In the country. Bear country. Yep, this morning I met what I am sure is a relative of Smokey The. He had figured out how to open our tightly secured bin, and was pawing through our left-overs. My dog was absolutely no help....he took one look at the bear and decided his services were much more effective from INSIDE the house. My dog, Shiloh, even gave up his potty opportunity in order to bark at the bear. From the safety of my kitchen. In fact, I have never seen a dog run inside so fast. I feel so safe. But, I digress.

Anyhoo, back to the bear. He just sat there feasting on a bag of discarded jelly beans. I'm with him, if I had to choose between last night's chicken carcass, some mystery meat long forgotten in the freezer, four days of coffee grounds or the jelly beans, I’d be right with him..... picking out the orange ones. I couldn't quite tell which ones he liked best, but it was apparent he didn't mind they were from at least two Easters ago.

Of course Smokey The decided his snack-time was over about the time we dug out a camera. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a working camera at 6:30 in the morning? And, as if the stress of digging through a hall closet determined to spill every useless item on my head while looking for a camera determined to not resurface until well after the bear has gone into hibernation isn't enough, did I mention Shiloh was barking the entire time? Of course, the minute said bear ambled down the hill disappearing out of sight, John's brain started to function and reminded him the cell phone in his hand was actually capable of taking photos. sigh.

We have decided to alter our garbage storage from now on. I have mixed feelings. I love watching these seemingly cuddly bundles of playful fur. But, they do scare the poo out of my beloved Shiloh. And they do have teeth. Lots of teeth. Just saying...

Do You Know Me?

2009-08-26T00:01:00.001-04:00

Do you know me? You know what I am willing to share. You know of me. You know little snippets carefully edited leaving shreds and shards of truth to be discarded. You can deduce and decide and interpret based on what I present. I am all of the things you believe, and none of them.

I am strong when my strength is needed to carry another towards victory. I am weak when my demons and fears devour that strength. I am joyful and joyous at this exquisite world filled with beauty and light and life. I am immersed in sadness so profound it clings to me like a viscous shroud. I am angered at injustice and unfairness. I am soothed by seemingly insignificant acts of kindness.

I am a child seeing and tasting and experiencing life without the cynicism of advanced age. I am an old crone bitter and jaded. I am an eager teenager yearning for acceptance and love. I am a wise adult battle-worn with my mistakes and trials held high as hard won trophies. I am an infant needing to be held and cuddled. I am a petulant prepubescent wanting to be left alone.

I am fastidiously sloppy. I am genuinely insincere. I am acutely dull. I am clearly misunderstood. I am comparatively unique. I am a happy pessimist. I am hopelessly optimistic. I am terribly nice. I am tragically amusing. I am a conservative liberal.

I am witty and wry. I am corny and silly. I am serious and studious. I am laid back and high maintenance. I am introspective and shallow. I am curious and apathetic. I am flippant and sincere. I am sarcastic and literal. I am empathetic and unfeeling.

I hurt. I feel. I sob. I yell. I ache. I curse. I needle. I sneer. I erupt. I falter. I sigh.

I giggle. I sing. I jump. I dance. I heal. I understand. I support. I hug. I soothe. I love.

I am human. I am me.

The Rest of the Story

2009-08-25T00:01:00.002-04:00

I have read endless laments on email and Facebook about children returning to school and their mothers left grieving and wistful. I, too, wrote of Ashley's first day back to college. My younger daughter is attending academic pre-season sessions in preparation for the start of high school in two weeks (family members will please resist making comments about my age). I do realize am less sentimental than, well..... most human beings, but I have been known to shed a tear or two regarding life's passages. It's just that, um......see....okay, I have to come clean. Deep breath. Here goes......I cry out of absolute unadulterated joy at having MY HOUSE BACK!! There. I feel better.

I love the start of school. Gone are the endless days with interminable hours left for me to fill with entertainment and meals. No longer do I have to hear that nerve shattering, fingernails-on-the-blackboard whine of "I'm boooorrrrreeeddddd". I can eat what I want for lunch without a care in the world about nutrition, or sugar content or reports to children's services. I can watch hours of HGTV and Food Network and (shhhh, don't tell) The View. I can read an entire book without having to give a symposium on the plot or list of characters or how it has affected me.

I know. I have flunked Mommyhood 101. I am not supposed to like the fact that my little chickies have flown the coop. I am not supposed to giggle with unabashed glee as the car pulls out of the drive and I am left with the sounds of silence. I am supposed to weep and rend clothing and immerse myself in PTA, or PTO or whatever they call those insomnia curing gatherings designed to fill the void of that much discussed and cussed empty nest. I am supposed to become a room Mommy and bring 'Nilla Wafers and Kool-Aid on cue. Hmmm. Wonder if they still serve Kool-Aid in high school?I did love the grape kind. Yum. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I just cannot bring myself to, well, BRING myself to these events.

I love my girls. I am their biggest cheerleader. I am unbelievably proud of them. I enjoy spending time with them. It's just that I have already GRADUATED from high school/college and have been there, done that with sleep overs and shopping trips and make-up and school dances. I don't speak their language anymore, and have no clue about most of their music. I don't get verklempt about the new Twilight movie or orgasmic about the Jonas Brothers. I don't get spending more money for torn up/ripped up jeans than one would pay for a pair with the knees still intact.

My point to all of this drivel is that while I adore my chilluns', I love my time equally. I like quiet. And quiet is hard to come by in this house. Even without the girls here today it wasn't as quiet as I would have liked. 'Cause it turns out that Shiloh AND Spike snore. Loudly. I had no idea cats snored.........Anyhoo, when I have the opportunity to exist in a world absent of Delia's catalogs and ranch dressing, even if for a few hours, I appreciate my girls more. Just saying..

First Day of School

2009-08-24T00:01:00.002-04:00

I remember vividly Ashley's first day of school. She looked precious with her crisp plaid dress and perfectly tied navy grosgrain bow. She had picked out her school supplies carefully and with great excitement. She was bright and eager as she skipped down the hall to meet new friends. That day was seventeen years ago. And a lifetime.

Today Ashley returns to college. This is not her first experience with college. Like her Mom, Ashley had to figure out her life a bit before deciding on a long term career goal. Ashley has not had an easy time since graduation from high school. She has earned a lifetime membership in the School of Hard Knocks Hall of Fame. And somehow, her sweet and joyful spirit remain intact.

Ashley is as eager today as she was all those years ago. And frankly terrified. She worries about fitting in, and being successful. And I am just as nervous as I was watching my five year old baby girl walk into kindergarten. Instead of hoping for a lunch mate, I wish for her a friend to share coffee. I am confident she will find her way to the bathroom and library. This time, I worry about her finding a parking space near her classrooms. I hope her teachers appreciate her journey, and encourage her to shine.

Seventeen years seems like such a long time. Yet I can shut my eyes and picture her marching into her classroom with confidence. I can hear her giggle when she learned her teacher was the mother of one of my classmates. I can smell the brand new boxes of crayons, and the dusty residue of the chalk. I can taste the saltiness of stubborn tears choked back. Seventeen years of triumphs and failures. Of joys and heartbreak. Of hope and despair. Of learning to close one by one each intricate chapter of our lives, and turn the page to a new one.

There will be little fanfare for this first day. No photos of Ashley entering her new school. No balloons or banners or packing boxes or those elusive extra long twin sheets. No cubes posing as appliances, or invitations to mixers. Not this time. This time Ashley is taking with her determination, drive, tenacity, and wisdom. The wisdom of one who knows who she is, and what she wants to do. And I have never been as proud.

A Whole Lot of Nothin'....

2009-08-20T00:27:00.003-04:00

I was gonna go to bed without posting anything. 'Cause I just flat couldn't think of anything to say. I know! I will pause whilst my family members close their gaping mouths........Anyhoo, I am blank. Empty. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. You get the picture. sigh.

I have inspiration. I have lots of inspiration. My youngest niece started school today. My older daughter returns to college Monday. My sister-in-law is back from a long sojourn to India. We are in the middle of a national health care debate. We still have troops overseas. Top Chef started a new season....See? There is a lot going on. One would think I would be able to draw from some of this - ANY of this - and write something witty, or clever, or inspirational, or meaningful. One would be sadly mistaken. The best I can do is offer this up as relief from insomnia.

Maybe it is my dinner. Too many carbs in my carbonara. Maybe I am just pooped. I don't know. I do know that I still fear my much older sister, and she depends on this blog to start her day. She is a creature of habit - what can I say? So, Kimmie, this pile of nothingness is for you. I hope maybe tomorrow I can come up with something. Just, well...not saying....

Understanding Each Other

2009-08-19T00:01:00.016-04:00

"Try to understand men. If you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and almost always leads to love."
— John Steinbeck

I think it important to understand each other better. In order to do so, one has to understand the time and place and circumstances in which a person was born. For the past 12 years, Beloit College has published a "Mindset List" to "look at the cultural touchstones that shape the lives of students entering college." We are all aware our kids have never dialed a telephone, or typed on a manual typewriter, or known a time before space travel or Internet. The Mindset List gives us further insight into students' cultural awareness. Here is this year's list. Enjoy!

The Beloit College Mindset List for the Class of 2013

Most students entering college this fall as new freshmen were born in 1991

1.For these students, Martha Graham, Pan American Airways, Michael Landon, Dr. Seuss, Miles Davis, The Dallas Times Herald, Gene Roddenberry, and Freddie Mercury have always been dead.
2.Dan Rostenkowski, Jack Kevorkian, and Mike Tyson have always been felons.
3.The Green Giant has always been Shrek, not the big guy picking vegetables.
4.They have never used a card catalog to find a book.
5.Margaret Thatcher has always been a former prime minister.
6.Salsa has always outsold ketchup.
7.Earvin "Magic" Johnson has always been HIV-positive.
8.Tattoos have always been very chic and highly visible.
9.They have been preparing for the arrival of HDTV all their lives.
10.Rap music has always been main stream.

11.Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream has always been a flavor choice. 12.Someone has always been building something taller than the Willis (née Sears) Tower in Chicago.
13.The KGB has never officially existed.
14.Text has always been hyper.
15.They never saw the “Scud Stud” (but there have always been electromagnetic stud finders.)
16.Babies have always had a Social Security Number.
17.They have never had to “shake down” an oral thermometer.
18.Bungee jumping has always been socially acceptable.
19.They have never understood the meaning of R.S.V.P.

20.American students have always lived anxiously with high-stakes educational testing.
21.Except for the present incumbent, the President has never inhaled.
22.State abbreviations in addresses have never had periods.
23.The European Union has always existed.
24.McDonald's has always been serving Happy Meals in China.
25.Condoms have always been advertised on television.
26.Cable television systems have always offered telephone service and vice versa.
27.Christopher Columbus has always been getting a bad rap.
28.The American health care system has always been in critical condition.
29.Bobby Cox has always managed the Atlanta Braves.
30.Desperate smokers have always been able to turn to Nicoderm skin patches.

31.There has always been a Cartoon Network.
32.The nation’s key economic indicator has always been the Gross Domestic Product (GDP).
33.Their folks could always reach for a Zoloft.
34.They have always been able to read books on an electronic screen.
35.Women have always outnumbered men in college.
36.We have always watched wars, coups, and police arrests unfold on television in real time.
37.Amateur radio operators have never needed to know Morse code.
38.Belarus, Moldova, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Armenia, Latvia, Georgia, Lithuania, and Estonia have always been independent nations.
39.It's always been official: President Zachary Taylor did not die of arsenic poisoning.

40.Madonna’s perspective on Sex has always been well documented.
41.Phil Jackson has always been coaching championship basketball.
42.Ozzy Osbourne has always been coming back.
43.Kevin Costner has always been Dancing with Wolves, especially on cable.
44.There have always been flat screen televisions.
45.They have always eaten Berry Berry Kix.
46.Disney’s Fantasia has always been available on video, and It’s a Wonderful Life has always been on Moscow television.
47.Smokers have never been promoted as an economic force that deserves respect.
48.Elite American colleges have never been able to fix the price of tuition.
49.Nobody has been able to make a deposit in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (BCCI).

50.Everyone has always known what the evening news was before the Evening News came on.
51.Britney Spears has always been heard on classic rock stations.
52.They have never been Saved by the Bell
53.Someone has always been asking: “Was Iraq worth a war?”
54.Most communities have always had a mega-church.
55.Natalie Cole has always been singing with her father.
56.The status of gays in the military has always been a topic of political debate.
57.Elizabeth Taylor has always reeked of White Diamonds.
58.There has always been a Planet Hollywood.
59.For one reason or another, California’s future has always been in doubt.
60.Agent Starling has always feared the Silence of the Lambs.
61.“Womyn” and “waitperson” have always been in the dictionary.
62.Members of Congress have always had to keep their checkbooks balanced since the closing of the House Bank.
63.There has always been a computer in the Oval Office.
64.CDs have never been sold in cardboard packaging.
65.Avon has always been “calling” in a catalog.
66.NATO has always been looking for a role.
67.Two Koreas have always been members of the UN.
68.Official racial classifications in South Africa have always been outlawed.
69.The NBC Today Show has always been seen on weekends.

70.Vice presidents of the United States have always had real power.
71.Conflict in Northern Ireland has always been slowly winding down.
72.Migration of once independent media like radio, TV, videos and compact discs to the computer has never amazed them.
73.Nobody has ever responded to “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
74.Congress could never give itself a mid-term raise.
75.There has always been blue Jell-O.

copyright -Beloit College Mindset List

Why Can't They Just Behave??

2009-08-18T04:00:00.004-04:00

For Deb.....

We have all been there. The heavy sighs at a mere suggestion...the scowls....the arguing...the talking back...those LOOKS!!......the answers-to-everything-we-say-no-matter-what....the "I have all the answers and you are a freaking idiot" attitude. sigh. I know! Parents these days can be really difficult to handle!

Yup, I said parents. My parents taught me to listen to those in authority. To listen to doctors. To follow directions. To take the "yucky medicine" even when it tastes bad, or is a pain to remember, or -insert excuse du jour. My parents insisted we follow up with due diligence every ache, pain, or anomaly with a medical professional. And, they never once told us our friends, acquaintances, folks on the street, receptionist at the vet, or soap opera characters counted as medical professionals.

What in the heck happens to parents after a certain age? Are they just so pooped out from raising kids they can no longer process anything rationally? And, add in the deafness, blindness and other sensory deficits that come with ageing along with the surliness and "the world has crapped on me" attitude, and you are left with what a dear friend said so well - a Helen Keller type existence without the sense of altruism. I liken it to a geriatric version of the Seven Dwarfs - Grumpy, Grumbly, Dribbly, Drooly, Snarly, Snoozy, and Woozy. Oy! By the by, said friend and I have a pact that when one of us gets to this point, the other must step in and relieve us and humanity from our misery.

And before you think I do not love my parents, you are sadly mistaken. As Tina Turner said, "What's Love Got To Do With It?" I saw my own parents dealing with an increasingly difficult grandfather. He regulated the temperature for the entire house based on his comfort level. If he felt cold, the heat was on. In July. In Florida. He wouldn't drink enough water. He insisted on large glasses of orange juice in spite of being diabetic. He could be maddening! He was still my Dad's father. And we all loved him. My grandmother decided what she could and could not eat with cardiovascular disease and atherosclerosis. She could not have shrimp (too high in cholesterol) but insisted on Bojangles fried chicken at least twice a week. She would hand out a list of food "dos" and "don'ts", but continued to smoke four packs of cigarettes daily. While on oxygen. I kid you not. But, she was my grandmother, and my parents went out of their way to accommodate her.

I would do anything for my parents. As would John, or any of our friends who find themselves "of an age". We know our parents have changed a gazillion diapers, cleaned up a bazillion cuts and scrapes, wiped countless snotty or bloody noses, wiped our brow, and said "there, there". Our parents have driven the equivalent distance from the Earth to the Sun to ferry us to piano lessons, and dance lessons, and scouts, and football games and birthday parties. Our parents have given and given and given. And now it is our turn. I understand this concept. I embrace this concept with honor and love.

So how do we balance the love and respect we have for those who have given their hearts and souls so we could be.....well, the "we" we are, with the need to guide and direct them as their ability to make sound decisions decrease? How do we show them they are loved in the middle of wanting to box their ears? How do we bridge that ever decreasing gulf between child and caregiver, knowing sooner rather than later the roles will shift completely? Just as there is no instruction manual for raising children, there is no manual or guide for raising parents.

Somehow you just muddle through. You try to avoid edicts - the "you need tos". You try to slip in a subtle (or not so subtle) reference to a friend of theirs...."So and so tells me she/he has discovered that taking his/her blood pressure medicine has decreased his/her headaches and blurred vision". You sometimes resort to reverse psychology. Hey, they did it to us, so all is fair....And sometimes, you just decide it isn't worth the battle. That sometimes we have to back off and let them live. And sometimes, we have to back off knowing they will die. 'Cause in the end, dealing with the fear of no longer having these wonderful, bright, loving, caring, folks that nurtured, and sculpted, and molded us into what they hoped would be masterpieces born out of love, is the hardest part. Just saying...

Excuse Me!

2009-08-16T04:00:00.001-04:00

When I was young, I was taught to say "excuse me" before walking in front of someone. Note the before. My Mom and Dad never once said, "AFTER you plow into someone, THEN say excuse me." Their method of teaching was apparently avant-garde. An enigma. Alien to human life forms. Because I, along with my siblings, was apparently the only one to be taught this way. sigh.

Ashley and I went exploring in some of the smaller towns near our house today. We meandered through shops and cafes. The day would have been perfect if we hadn't somehow been completely invisible to everyone else. For some reason unbeknownst to moi, folks were unable to detect our presence until they had trampled over us. Then, as we were left examining our extremities for signs of permanent injury, the tramplers would toss a casual "excuse me" over their shoulder. What the heck?

I am not a small person by any stretch of the imagination. Except at Ryan's tonight. And there I felt like a freaking Barbie doll in comparison. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I am not hard to miss. Even if I could somehow slip by undetected visually, my size 10 boat feet would definitely pose a logistical issue. I am aware of my girth. I am aware of my lack of vision. Because I am sight impaired, I try extremely hard to be aware of my surroundings. I work diligently to avoid inadvertent collisions with folks. I frankly have no idea why I bother. I learned today that most folks do not care one teensy weensy bit who they run slap over to get to their destination.

It got so bad, Ashley and I got the giggles at one point. Serious giggles. With much spewing and a snort or two. I guess it was a bit of hysterical laughter. A release to keep from sitting in the corner crying at the lack of human kindness and basic respect. Because after this happens over and over, one starts to question.....well, everything. Is it what I wore? Did my deodorant give out? Do I look like an easy target? How in the world did I tick off a complete stranger so much?

I really don't think it is personal. And there lies the problem. We have stopped seeing each other as fellow human beings. With feelings. And, well...feeling. We see through other folks instead of seeing them. We frankly do not care about each other. We have become so hurried and rushed and important and insulated and isolated we can no longer feel empathy. Or a basic care and concern.

One time today I fought back a bit. I was sitting on a bench holding multiple boxes along with mine and Ashley's purses. The bench was situated in a wide aisle. In front of me was a little less than a foot of clearance. Behind me, the aisle had over four feet of clearance. A woman wheeling a suitcase (I kid you not) decided to squeeze her less than petite frame (think Barney - as in the dinosaur) whilst WHEELING THE SUITCASE in front of me. With less than a foot clearance. Much less when you factored in my previously discussed size 10 feet! As the front wheels started over my feet, she scowled at me and spat out "excuse me." I then said, " I am sorry Ma'am, but you are not excused. There is no excuse for you to attempt this when there is much more space the other way."

I'll bet you are thinking what I said made a difference. That the woman realized the error of her ways, and apologized. That she was horrified and mortified at her insensitivity. What I said did indeed make an impact. Because before I knew it, the second set of wheels impacted on my feet. Right over the tops of them. And then she said......wait for it......."Bitch". I kid you not. Yes, I apparently offended HER! I was left with little choice. I had been taught the right way. I knew I had to turn the other cheek. To take the high road. To be the better person. So, I simply responded "excuse me." Just saying.......

Heart of the Home

2009-08-15T07:53:00.003-04:00

We have all heard the kitchen is the heart of the home. And, in my family, this is true. I started thinking more of this concept as I was simultaneously cooking and watching HGTV and The Food Network. John's newest PhD student and family have just arrived in Virginia with a 26 foot moving van, two children, assorted anxious family members and great hopes and dreams for a bright future. My way of welcoming them, and making (I hope) their day run a bit smoother, is to bring food. Food prepared in the heart of my home, and taken with love to the heart of their new home.

As I was preparing the various dishes, I couldn't help but notice the difference in my kitchen and those shown on television. I have a nice kitchen. And it is functional. I don't have granite counter tops, or a 6 burner gas range with grill. I have just enough cabinets, and one lazy Susan - or, as Lauren calls it, a spinning Lucy - but I don't have warming drawers or glass racks or an appliance garage. Heck, I don't have a car garage! But, I digress. Anyhoo, my kitchen is a one butt kitchen.....and my one butt is about all it can fit comfortably. It does have a really large island and the apparently requisite stainless steel appliances. It doesn't have bells, whistles, or any WOW! factor.

What my kitchen does have is a soul. I had many great kitchens to emulate. My first memories are of the smells in my great-grandmother's kitchen. Mama Jones' home seemed always to smell of something wonderful baking or simmering in her kitchen. My Gran's kitchen was always busy. Gran cooked for family, friends, neighbors and strangers. Neither of these women had gourmet kitchens. Their kitchens lacked wine fridges, and roasting ovens,and built-ins, and pendant lights. Their kitchens had utilitarian floors, not slate or hard wood.

One of the most ridiculous things I have heard on television, is when recipients of a grand kitchen dare to say, "I guess I will have to learn to cook now." HUH? Are you kidding me? These are not kitchens intended to provide the life force of a home. I think of the waste. The whole concept of creating a kitchen just for "show" is lost on me.I think maybe Pottery Barn should come up with a grown-up version of a play kitchen - one that looks pretty, but without working appliances. In this world of take-out and dining out and keeping up with the Jones', our homes are suffering from a kind of coronary disease.

I think of what my Gran and Mama Jones and others in my life could have created with such excess. And then I realize they would be completely out of place in a magazine perfect kitchen. Their kitchens were made for use. Lots of use. They expressed their love in every morsel they created. When you broke bread with them, you were sharing so much more than mere nutritional sustenance. You were sharing a part of their soul. Just saying...

Tightening the Belt

2009-08-13T00:01:00.003-04:00

Times are tough. The economic crisis has hit all of us in some form or another. And, while John and I are eternally grateful he is employed, even institutions of higher learning are not immune from feeling the pinch. John has been awarded raises every year he has been at GMU. Unfortunately, the State of Virginia hasn't had the money to actually pay those raises. Some of the options discussed for further reductions in spending include lay-offs and pay cuts. I just hope we can agree that failing to pay a raise or two equals a pay cut and leave it at that. But, I digress. Anyhoo, I got to thinking about the whole situation, and I decided to share my own thoughts on some of the actual money saving tips being shared over the Internet. Okay, I realize most of these are frankly not helpful at all except as inspiration for my latest rantings. It is my blog. And if I didn't laugh, I would cry.

Forgo Luxury Items

Um, duh! When you are faced with economic hardship, you must learn to do without. I get that. However, there is a limit. When toilet paper becomes a luxury item, life has ended as I know it. There is great fluctuation in price from the cost-cutting, butt cheek chafing, splintery, wood chip filled one ply, and super-soft, doubled rolled, quilted, tufted, aloe infused upscale brands. Think 1000 count Egyptian cotton vs. sandpaper. Why is it that you have to endure splinters when you are poor? The difference in price is astonishing! Unless you factor in antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids... I am all for giving up my yacht, country club membership and laser hair removal treatments in order to have decent toilet paper.

Eat In, Not Out

Here is a no-brainer. I have scoured the Internet for tips and they all tell me this piece of non-information apparently written by CAPTAIN OBVIOUS! DUH! Can someone, somewhere also then tell me how to keep my very fragile hold on sanity in the meantime? I mean, if I have to concoct one more freaking culinary masterpiece out of a can of beans and a few packets of left over taco sauce, I may just scream. Sometimes a takeout meal or dinner at a restaurant is all that keeps me from rocking in the fetal position in the corner. I will give up wine, lobster and steak dinners, expensive desserts and vow to never order a starter again. But give up a sanity saving blue plate diner special? No way!

Change Your Appliances to More Energy Efficient Ones

Here again is a little factoid from those who write these useless...ahem, I mean, useful tips on line. If you are broke, you can hardly afford to go out and re-do you kitchen! K? Enough said.

Have a Family Fun Night at Home

This is code for a)YOU plan a meal that is affordable, nutritious, "fun" and appeals to everyone; b) YOU come up with games or movies that are age appropriate and (again) appealing to everyone all the while enduring comments such as "this is soooo lame"; c) YOU act like cheerleader extolling the value of such an evening as compared to going to a theater, bowling alley, or friends house; and finally d) YOU get get to clean it all up! Now, wasn't that FUN??

Buy Block Cheese Instead of Pre-Shredded

Yup. This tip is going to keep us going financially. Seriously, this tip is all over the Internet. I kid you not. Some folks must spend an absolute FORTUNE on cheese! I mean, changing from shredded to block cheese might just save me ten bucks. A YEAR! sigh.

Sell Your Useless Gold and Diamond Jewelry

Are you kidding me? I have never been so wealthy that I have a ready stash of "useless" fine jewelry. I don't even own much in the way of costume jewelry. I have always felt conspicuous in jewelry. Much like a tree adorned at Christmas. Without the twinkle lights, of course. But, again, I digress. Do you think I could get anything for my Pat Benetar feathered earrings from college? They were HOT!!

Forgo Designer Coffee and Make it at Home

I really worry about folks whose financial stability hinges on the amount of coffee they drink and the location they obtain said coffee from. I love an occasional Grande Skinny Hazelnut Latte -no whip. But I don't drink so many cups of this decadent indulgence that I am forced to choose between my house and my latte. And besides, when did coffee move from the life sustaining necessity column to the frivolously indulgent column? Really!

I realize I am a tough customer. What I really want is to keep on going without changing much of anything, and somehow save hundreds of dollars a month in the process. Unless someone has a magic wand or genie in the bottle or a winning Lotto ticket to share with me, I realize this ain't gonna happen. And before someone out there with less cynicism and more fuzzy wuzzy in them than I can muster at the moment sees fit to remind me, I am grateful for what I have. I know of MANY who are facing much tougher hardships everyday. I have a house. I haven't had to face the prospect of foreclosure. I have plenty of food. And I have a family that greets yet another tuna dish with a smile. Just saying....

Those Were The Days......

2009-08-12T00:04:00.002-04:00

Some of my old friends gather once a month for lunch in my home town. I have been a few times; my sister more often. Most of us have reconnected by way of Facebook. I have had a blast reconnecting with ghosts of my distant youth. It has been fun seeing how each of us has aged. It has been more fun to see those that have fought the aging process with a vengeance. The social groups and cliques that seemed to define us thirty years ago are no more. The lines of division are as blurred as our bi-focaled vision. High school and its drama and angst seem almost foreign now.

I wasn’t ugly way back when by any means, but I definitely suffered from fashionista challengus. That is Latin for a complete dork in the wardrobe department. My yearbook picture in the tenth grade shows a shag hair-styled me in overalls and these really odd looking blue plastic upside down framed glasses. I kid you not. I tended to gravitate toward the Garanimals for teens look. Kind of first grader meets Mister Rogers.

I was a band geek and darn proud of it. There I fit in. We wore a uniform, so at least once a week, I was dressed as cool (or not) as everyone else. I excelled in school academically - not so much socially. I had lots of friends -we were a kind of support group for those that couldn’t buy a popular friend. It wasn’t that the popular kids were disgusted by us, they just weren’t able to see us. We existed in a kind of alternative reality to them. They were cool. We were not. In a twisted ironical sense, we became kinda cool by virtue of our absence of coolness.

Because we existed "off the radar," we were able to get away with some really cool things in high school without ever being suspected. The huge fiberglass Bi-Lo cows from an empty grocery store ended up on the roof of our school. Not one person thought to look at us. We climbed the water tower, and put hundreds of "For Sale" signs in our friend’s yards. We became masters of toilet papering houses by employing our paper-route friends. They could throw a roll like no other. We even built a working still. Those were the days........

At the monthly reunion lunches, some of the geekiest of all geeksters meet up and attempt to prove once and for all that good guys finish first. We are lucky. Some of the popular kids show up as well. They have apparently forgotten that we weren’t worthy of their presence nearly 30 years ago. Either that, or all of their fickle cool dude pals have dumped them. We share pictures of our children, husbands, wives and dogs. We give little snippets of our lives, carefully edited to eliminate anything less than stellar. We promise to stay in touch, and "do this more often." We laugh heartily at the dumb things we did in high school.

I come away perplexed as I often am at the impact three or four years out of an entire lifetime can have on a person’s psyche. I didn't enjoy high school so much. I did all the requisite activities.......marching band, prom, powder puff football, clubs, sleep-overs, etc., but I never had the perfect Farrah Fawcett flip, or an add-a-bead necklace. I didn’t know all the words to Heart’s greatest hits, and I didn't "get" the musical genius of Van Halen. I couldn’t pull off the Madonna look if I worked at it for a week solid.

Solid. That was my group of friends. We have become teachers, and nurses, and doctors and academics. We have raised good kids, with good values and a strong sense of family. We were able to rise above and sail beyond what was trendy and cool, and find ourselves. We have taken our experiences all - the good, the bad, the painful and the heartbreaking, and have written our own "rest of the story" that has exceeded all expectations of the jocks, the cheerleaders and the "it" crowd.

I have raised two wonderful kids. One is sparklingly outgoing with personality that exudes light and life and fun and exuberance. The other a proud geek in her own right - scarily smart with a wicked sense of humor and loyal to the core. They both are inundated with good friends. They make no apologies for what they stand for and who they are. They are both equally accepting and tolerant in a world that seems less and less accepting and tolerant. My kids aren’t popular in the "Hollywood" or "made for TV" version of reality. They don’t own the trendiest clothes, or have the latest hair styles. My oldest drives a white Saturn - no expensive SUV or sports cars here. What they are is everything I wanted to be - loving, giving, accepting and kind. Maybe one day, that concept will be popular.........

Lots and Locks of Love.... Part Deux

2009-08-08T15:50:00.007-04:00

The photographic evidence!!

Hair today, gone tomorrow...

Officer, I really didn't do it!

Note the look on Lauren's face...

Tracey was very kind

Here goes!!

Wow!!

All smiles, and very proud of herself!!

The new "do" takes shape

Lauren with 12 inches gone, but with her beautiful spirit intact!

Lots and Locks of Love

2009-08-08T09:04:00.008-04:00

Today my Lauren is donating nearly a foot of her hair to Locks of Love. Four years ago, my Dad was diagnosed with a recurrence of colon cancer. He had undergone surgery six years prior to that to remove the first tumor. This time, it came back with a vengeance. Donating her hair is a tangible way for Lauren to honor her Papa, and recognize what he has endured.

Lauren was quite young when Dad's battle against cancer began. She and my Dad shared a love for and a teacher of the pipe organ. Dad thought she was witty and sweet; she thought he was nothing short of wonderful. Lauren struggled to find a way to deal with her emotions, and to help the greater cause. She decided to grow her hair to the length required for a donation to Locks of Love. Locks of Love provides real human hair for hairpieces and wigs for those who lose their hair through the treatment of cancer.

Lauren's hair does not grow fast. And it is baby fine and stick straight. The growing out process has taken quite some time, and a great deal of patience. There have been times when she has thrown her hand up in defeat and declared the whole process ridiculous. But then she realizes the impact her gift could have on another person; particularly a child.

Lauren's Aunt Mona is battling breast cancer as well. Lauren's determination only grew with Mona's diagnosis. The effects of chemotherapy and radiation continues to be one of the cruelest blows a woman can endure - in fighting a disease that involves a part of what defines us as female, many women have to then suffer losing their hair as well. Lauren wanted to be a part of restoring a sense of normalcy to someone. And so she continued on with growing her hair.

Lauren's hair now cascades down her back in a lush curtain of sable silk. In a few hours, it will be shorter by a foot. Twelve inches. No doubt there will be tears shed; tears shed for her Papa, Aunt Mona, her English teacher, dear friends at church, and countless others who have lived through this hideous curse of the worst kind. She will mourn the loss of her hair as well. But, knowing Lauren, that mourning will be kept quiet. She will not lament publicly her loss. Because she knows hers is but a fleeting glimpse at what others live with every day. Just saying...

And That's The Way It Was.....

2009-08-07T04:00:00.003-04:00

Remember when Walter Cronkite ended the evening news with his famous tag line "and that's the way it is"? He was the epitome of a classic correspondent and anchor. He was there when the Cold War began...and ended. He brought us the first images of man on the Moon. He with real emotion broke the news of John F. Kennedy's assassination. When he gave us "breaking news" we stopped. And listened.

News is no longer what it once was. The news shows more resemble 24 hour reality shows. While Oprah denounced the genre of salacious talk-smack shows rife with in-your-face confrontational "issues", the television "news" networks embraced the style. Because they are labeled as news shows, a tacit credibility is given where none is deserved. Oh, there are individual exceptions to the rule, but they are buried in the quagmire of a publicly endorsed and embraced fertilization program. That would be the spreading of manure, folks.

As long as the public accepts the 24 hour news outlets for what the truly are; 24 hour entertainment for those for whom prime time has become too safe and sane, then we may be able to rise above the fray and keeps things in perspective. I love to be entertained. I love the use of pertinent social issues and current events to show our vulnerabilities. I enjoy a healthy belly laugh aimed at those who take themselves way too seriously. I do fear, however, that we have gone too far. I love Jon Stewart and think him a comic genius. There are many folks that actually use his show to replace the "real" news. This is a dangerous practice. One has to have the knowledge base to truly "get" what he is poking fun at. Without watching or reading the actual news stories, one is missing a huge piece of the puzzle.

Thank goodness for print news. The writer has to use his written word to convey all the emotion the on air "personalities" shriek and scream at us ad nauseam. Instead of yelling over someone or patronizing a guest, the writer is left open and exposed to critique and verification. The news stations have become nothing short of tabloid news outlets; the National Enquirer disguised as a sleek television production. And some of the anchors are no better than those that write of alien abductions and Elvis sightings.

I don't love this era of sound bites and play by play news. I don't love the continuous crawl under every single broadcast. I am cool with news once a day. Or not....I think we have so inundated our society with so called news, we have turned ourselves into a jaded, cynical, unfeeling nation incapable of being shocked or awed or surprised. Tell me what is good about that? We are interrupted so many times with "breaking news", we no longer believe it to be true. We are more often annoyed at the inconvenience of our regularly scheduled programming being preempted.

I am a blogger.Duh.Therefore and ergo and so it would seem, I can then be a bit critical of this new medium as well. I think blogs are great. They are, however, often brought to you by folks like moi who have not one wits worth of expertise on most of the subjects we write about. Blogs are great forums for STARTING a discussion, or to invite folks to read more on a given subject. They should never be treated as the definitive word on, well.......anything.

I don't twit, tweet, or Twitter. I know a twit or too, and they appear in great numbers on most of the news outlets. But I digress. I simply don't get it. I think Twitter adds to the apparently insatiable need for instant, just add water news. Or non-news...

The point in this rather lengthy diatribe is that we have lost what is really news. When we make news out of issues and situations and events where news doesn't exist, we leave ourselves vulnerable to complete and total desensitisation. And what follows is a harsh, uncaring, cynical world incapable of recognizing what is important to us all. Just saying....

Bad Words

2009-08-06T01:00:00.000-04:00

Republican. Democrat. Socialist. Conservative. Liberal. Each of these words have been used with all of the spite and venom and vitriol and disgust as any traditional "four letter" word. Which one do you spit out with all the anger one would reserve for "cursing" someone? Because the "honors" don't fall to any one party or group. We have become personal. We like to inflict pain. And the political arena has become the venue of choice. Wow! What a country.

When did this happen? When did the lines between rational, intelligent discourse and a Jerry Springer-esque jive fest become so blurred? When did we ALL get so self righteous? And narrow? And tunneled? When did the idea of compromise become so frightening we can no longer even THINK of the possibility? When did any disagreement bring with it an accusation of being somehow less than American?

I have frankly had enough. I started my young fledgling political awareness as a republican. A Reagan republican. I believed in the ideals he seemed to stand for. I liked that he seemed to be larger than life.....an American's American. I watched as tears streamed down his face as I along with other college students performed for him the night before his inauguration at the Ellipse. I saw him beaming as we sang with him the National Anthem at the Kennedy Center.

Since then, the Republican party has left me behind. I can no longer support their platform. I do not hate "them". I simply and respectfully disagree with the ideals they support. I have become more liberal as I age. Perhaps it is the line of work I found myself in. Perhaps it is the rigidness I perceive my former party to adhere to. Perhaps it is my very real and sincere belief that we are a country of immigrants and that we need not forget that by becoming isolationists. I have never liked the idea of "I got mine, you get yours." Perhaps it is because I have a real problem with a political party defining "appropriate" morals. And yes, I do concede that all republicans are not rigid, or isolationists. I know many who are the most giving of all. I am talking of the broader party line, not individuals.

And there lies my dilemma. And this dilemma belongs to all of us. I have dear friends with whom political discourse simply cannot occur because it gets personal. Very personal. As if we have somehow become completely intolerant of those with an opposing view. Before all republicans denounce me as one of "those" democrats, I am not a democrat either. I have a hard time accepting their party line as well. In fact, my "party" doesn't exist. And folks, party is a completely inappropriate term to describe the riotousness and mean-spiritedness of most political organizations in this country.

I am dumbfounded by those that e-mail and spread rumors they have made NO effort to authenticate. On both sides. Or all sides. The latest "news"/rumours about the health care bill are frightening at best. Is our current system broken? Yes! Does Obama and his team have all the answers? No! But it is a start. My husband has lived overseas for most of his adult life and is a dual citizen of Australia and the United States. All of the countries in which he has resided have some form of socialized medicine. Are there problems? Sure. But the lies and distortions shown on e-mail and television make it difficult for someone to form an intelligent opinion. I know personally a surgeon in Denmark. I was treated for a sudden illness in Scotland. I observed emergency care in Australia. None of what I know or have observed comes close to the horror stories bandied about recklessly. And I have personally endured some pretty horrific medical coverage experiences on this side of the pond.

I am a retired nurse. I advocate health care coverage for all human beings. Period. I don't frankly care what color, creed, nationality,sexual orientation or political party they represent. "They" and "we" are all precious human beings. We all deserve to be healthy. Period. When we become a nation of "us" versus "them" we start a dangerous precedent. Obama is at least trying to start the discussion. He is giving us a place to begin. Do I agree one hundred percent with every detail of the plan?Are you kidding me? I don't agree one hundred percent of the time with much of anything. But we cannot afford to go much longer by simply placing Band Aids on an arterial laceration. It is a political plan. Yes. Who would you rather make these decisions? This is the very foundation of how our country works. Majority rules in a democratic process to provide for its constituency.

I love this country. I am no more or less patriotic than those who declare "us" different or flawed or less Godly than "they" wish. I can see the best of many countries and governments. I can see their flaws as well. We are not a perfect Union despite our best efforts. "We" are not better than "them". We are different. We are a country of diverse heritages, backgrounds, social classes, thoughts, ideas, opinions and beliefs. And there is room for all of us. Just saying.

The Little Things

2009-08-04T07:15:00.004-04:00

I have travelled around the globe these past months. I have had life altering experiences. I have seen incredible scenery captured digitally and stored forever in my own memory bank. I have watched the sun rise over the Pacific ocean and extinguish over the Atlantic. I have breathed in the all encompassing arid dustiness of the Outback and watched snow swirling over the Alps. I have heard the boisterous songs of the Hofbrauhaus, and the stirring life rhythms of the Maori. It has been an incredible journey.

It is the little things that have made this journey a life changing adventure, however. Those moments are harder to capture. They don't translate well in a Kodak moment. I still think of my first hot dog in Denmark - it sounds so cheesy, but it is true. After weeks of preparation, and tears and frustration; after leaving my kids and my dog behind; after a brutal journey and a horrendously long layover; that hot dog bridged the two worlds colliding in my psyche. It was a tiny bit of home, but all Danish in style and preparation. Crisp, hot, juicy, and covered with just the right amount of piquant mustard and crispy fried onions and pickles with a hint of sweetness, that hot dog fed my travel weary soul.

One of my favorite things to do in Denmark was to do...... well,.... nothing. We had a great place to do nothing, too. Our flat was a block or so from the Aarhus Bay opening up to the North Sea. Walking paths and thick green grass went on for miles at the water's edge dotted with park benches facing the view. We would go down and watch the sailboats take advantage of the sea breezes. Or we would watch people strolling or jogging by. We would just sit. And watch. It was heavenly.

Coffee. I love coffee. I am an admitted coffee-holic. We had some amazing cups of coffee on our travels. Vienna was lovely and stunning and beautiful - insert mind blowing adjective here. But it is the coffee I will remember most. Vienna does coffee like no other place on the planet. Coffee isn't just a beverage; it is a form of art. Coffee is presented with a flourish on a small silver tray with teensy little dollhouse-sized sugar bowls and cream pitchers. The aroma is decadent, the temperature perfect and the taste sensational. To drink coffee in Vienna is a sensual experience. Australia comes in second in my coffee ranking. Their Flat White is creamy without being sweet or cloying. Just great robust coffee married with the perfect amount of frothy steamed milk. Yum!

Some of the little moments were not so small. At least in the big scheme of things. Skype was a lifeline to home, and often a lifesaver. As simple as it sounds - in the midst of great scenery and adventure, I liked the moments with my kids on Skype - yet, the fact that I could video conference with them from halfway around the world wasn't a small thing at all.

When one of our students had the seizure on our plane, I went to his aid. The scene was rather chaotic and tense as you might expect. I knelt at his head for over an hour waiting for the paramedics to board the plane. I was stressed beyond belief, and after only 2 hours sleep from our all-nighter at the Sydney ER, I was also exhausted. I remember seeing another student praying and meditating in his seat throughout the ordeal. His calm composure and sweet face carried me through. I will always remember his face.

His was not the only kind face in the midst of crisis big and small. Frau Storm in Hamburg rescued us after missing the last train connection back home to Aarhus. The duty manager for the Sydney airport sought us out to make sure we were able to re-join our group after disembarking with our ill student. Some kind faces were found in little moments of joy. Gary "the voice" in Hallstatt made us laugh and helped make an ordinary meal extraordinary. Our Polish friend on the train to Krakow helped us navigate the train station and then giggled the hours away on the train with us. Our translator in Prague worked tirelessly and with an easy smile to bridge the communication gaps between us and John's colleague at Charles University. Countless bus drivers in Australia gave wonderful detailed history lessons and provided much laughter.

We are home from our adventures. We are staying stateside at least for a few months. My house is full again with girls and pets and friends and the life clatter that makes it home. We are busy. Ashley has registered for college and Lauren is involved in volleyball camp. Our friend, and John's colleague from Denmark, comes in a mere four weeks to live with us and teach at John's university. John's new PhD student and his family are moving to Virginia. We have school uniforms to shop for and text books to purchase and meals to cook and errands to run and........and in the midst of it all, I look over to see Lauren stretched out on the couch, bone-weary from her first day of volleyball camp. She has a small smile even in sleep. Ashley is on the love seat trying to get her schedule sorted out for this fall. Her brow is furrowed, but her eyes are bright with excitement. It is the little things that matter. Just saying...

The Diva Does Down Under

2009-07-27T12:01:00.000-04:00

Do you remember the television show Designing Women? Julia Sugarbaker was the lead character. She was opinionated, quintessentially southern, and had more than a slight bent towards the dramatic. I know Julia Sugarbaker. Or at least the inspiration for her. My Kimmie. Kim has a southern drawl not often heard outside of Gone With the Wind or a sweeping front portico whilst juleps are being served. She is opinionated. She is brash. And she is nevah, evah, seen without the perfect fashion accessories.

I took this southern bell/diva with us on our trip to Australia and New Zealand. Kimmie had never ventured out of the United States save one emotionally scarring trip to Jamaica. For weeks, she assembled her travel wardrobe. One might think that would include a backpack or sturdy walking shoes or an all weather jacket. One would be terribly mistaken. And one would not understand fully how a diva operates. Kim would nevah sacrifice fashion for the sake of orthopedic health and/or comfort. Where I wore my rubber-bottomed-Velcro-fastening-water-proof-hiking/wading/trekking shoes, Kim donned high-heeled, open toed, leather slides. I kid you not. To her credit, she did not once complain about sore feet or aching legs. She was thrilled about the versatility of these leather slides. They did match nearly everything she took.

No self-respecting southern bred and born gal would go without the perfect hat to shade her delicate complexion from the harsh effects of the sun. And so Kimmie wore a hat. Not a ball cap, or crushable/foldable utilitarian hat. Nope. She found the only girlie straw hat with sweeping brim available in the southern hemisphere. Seriously. It looked like it belonged at the Kentucky Derby at the pre-race brunch. It did look really nice with her faux safari wear. And those damned open toed shoes. Oy.

Kimmie did manage to forgo jeweled ornamentation on this trip. She was not completely unadorned, however. She found a pink and red plaid scarf at the Sydney Swans game that was to feature prominently in her wardrobe for the remainder of the trip. Who knew one could purchase a pink and red plaid TEAM SCARF at an Aussie Rules football game that would meet and/or exceed the expectations of an American DIVA? Who knew? Kim always managed to looked put together on the trip. I looked slept in and schlepped in. sigh.

The one day that I will remember forever with a delightful mix of perplexion, amazement, awe and respect is the day the Diva donned her high heeled open toed shoes to go trekking in the woods and on the beaches of north Auckland. While the rest of our small band of merry makers took water shoes, and wore fast drying clothing and comfortable sweat shirts, Kim sported a denim ensemble topped with that dang plaid scarf tied in the perfect fashionable knot at her neck.

We hiked to a couple of water falls, and then trekked out over towering sand dunes to reach isolated beaches dotted with looming lava formed rock peaks. Kim finally gave up the high heels and went bare-footed. About this time, one of our group detected a narrow path leading up the tallest of the rock fortresses. Kim decided it would be fun to climb the rock. I had to forgo as I decided a blind chick with little depth perception probably had no business trying to hang on to a sheer cliff face. So John and I stayed on the ground and watched as the others made their way along the rocky path slick with ocean spray and moss. John was convinced I needed to brush up on splinting techniques for the broken bones he was positive we would have to treat.

We watched as the three more adventurous/stupidly eager members of our group carefully tip toed up this cliff face. At one point, the path is so steep and so treacherous, there is only a rope hand-hold secured by a couple of bolts into the rock. Kim was undeterred. She kept up with the others and without mussing her hair, or losing that perfect knot in her scarf, she scaled that rock. Soon she was a tiny dot high above us. Her reward for her stupidity......ahem....bravery was a panoramic view of hundreds of miles of the most gorgeous coastline on the planet. I was proud. I was amazed. I was laughing my butt off. 'Cause she still had to get down.

Carefully, and without breaking a sweat, she managed to get off of that rock in one piece. Barefooted. With accessories intact. Julia Sugarbaker aka Kimmie the Diva had climbed her lava mountain, and lived to tell about it. In great, glorious, sugar-coated detail.

One might think I could be jealous of my sister. Or that I don't respect my sister and her oh so southern ways. One would be wrong. I admire my sister. I love that she is who she is - proudly and without apology. I love that she was willing to take chances and risks and still managed to keep intact what makes her, well....HER. I am still, however, the little sister. It is my job to point out her uniqueness. And, okay...... on occasion poke some fun. Just saying....

Piah - note the tiny person on the beach

Beach at Piah

Kim and the dreaded hand rope

The druid and her trees

Waterfall...duh

A New Best

2009-07-23T05:23:00.002-04:00

Hallstatt, Austria has long been what I deemed to be the most beautiful place on this planet. I was taught to believe this from my father. And he knows everything. And I believed him. Hallstatt is truly breathtakingly stunning. It is, however, not the most beautiful place on the planet. Sorry Dad.

Today we rode a ferry boat out to Waiheke Island which lies around 15 nautical miles from Auckland. The ocean is the most exquisite aquamarine blue with the slightest jade tint. Lush islands in more shades of green than I have in my vocabulary arsenal with sheer lava cliffs peek out from pounding surf and sandy beaches. I have found paradise. And I just might not leave it.

Waiheke is the best of Ireland, Scotland, South Africa and vintage Napa Valley. Wineries and olive groves form a patchwork quilt covering most of the open spaces. Tiny beach cottages share the same space as multi million dollar mansions. Sheep, alpacas, and a kaleidoscope of birds coexist in perfect harmony with their human friends. There is a relaxed feel; unhurried and peaceful. A sign reads "slow down, you're here" when you disembark.

John and I shared a bus tour of the island with the rest of our crew. We loved every minute of it, but were able to spend the rest of our time alone exploring this Utopia. We enjoyed a lovely lunch of fresh caught seafood and a glass of cool, clean Savignon Blanc. We strolled down tiny streets and ventured into the few artsy boutiques, kitchy souvenir stands and elegant wine shops. All the while we were surrounded by miles and miles of unspoiled beauty - a deserted beach; a lone tree; a fog shrouded mountain.

Peace. This place has a peace about it not often found in the hurried places we find ourselves. I felt a calm and comfort I have not felt in many days. One can be completely isolated on this island, and yet share the warmth and camaraderie of its inhabitants when ready for company.

I did make it back on the ferry to Auckland albeit with some resistance. I know I will be back to Waiheke and to New Zealand. There is something magical about this place that has made an indelible mark upon my soul. And I will not soon forget it. Just saying...

Far and Away

2009-07-21T21:17:00.005-04:00

No, I have not gone off to that elusive blog spot in the sky, or disappeared into the wilds of Australia, or been eaten by a Dingo. Internet has been frightfully expensive and wireless access rather difficult at best to find. At least with a signal strong enough to allow me to actually use the dang thing. So, for those of you waiting patiently and with great anticipation for the next monumental blog post from me, I apologize. For those of you with actual lives, I totally get that you have not even noticed my absence. And I forgive you. I think.

Anyhoo, we are actually in New Zealand now, having just arrived after fourteen glorious days in Australia. We have done the usual "touristy" things one does when they venture to the ends of the earth. We cruised around Sydney Harbour and rode the monorail and visited Chinatown. We attended an Aussie Rules football game and had an exclusive "behind the scenes" tour of the Olympic Stadium. I also was treated to a night in a Sydney Emergency room. As a nurse, I was thrilled to be able to see how Aussies deal with cuts, scrapes, cardiac arrest and other maladies. Right.

I will start this story at the airport. We had completed our rather extensive tour of Sydney and were traveling on to Surfer's Paradise on the Gold Coast, and then on to Brisbane. Checking in with 36 people and bags took us only minutes. We headed towards our gate and readied ourselves for boarding. Some of the students ate very expensive Krispy Kreme donuts ($25 Australian a box), while others opted to wait for the delicious breakfast we would surely have on board. Just as we pulled away from our gate, the pilot came on and told us we would have to return to the gate as someone had checked illegal fireworks in their luggage. Seems to me they could have "discovered" this little factoid prior to this point, but whatever. Anyhoo, after about a thirty minute delay, we began our taxi to the runway. As the plane was turning into position for take-off, one of our students suffered a massive seizure. The plane stopped and we were able to get him stabilized. John and I left with said student and returned to Sydney.

We were not entirely shocked and/or awed by this seizure. We had spent the previous night in the hospital with the same student after he collapsed in his dinner plate. Apparently Miso soup is not his thing... The dinner incident was his first seizure.Ever. The ER staff determined he was more than likely suffering from profound dehydration. His activities certainly pointed to that - especially the 14 mile hike immediately preceding the first "event". He received many liters of IV fluids and deemed safe to travel on to the Gold Coast. Oops! By the by, he is now completely recovered and home safe and sound with his family. John and I were able to get him settled in hospital, contacted his family etc. and made our way to join the rest of the group.

We were treated like royalty by Quantas - I was the only medical person on board at the time of the "incident" - and they got us on the next available flight to Brisbane. We boarded the plane - by now we had been awake for nearly 36 hours - and settled in. The pilot then came on with an announcement that we were being delayed because a child had refused to board the plane, but his luggage ( and his parent's bags) were already stowed. Oy! I was beginning to believe this was a sign I should just stay put in Sydney! After twenty minutes or so, we finally took off. I think. John and I were busy serenading our fellow passengers with a lovely snore duet and did not notice.

I am glad we moved on to the Gold Coast, as it is stunning. I had been before to Surfer's Paradise, but not to Brisbane. Brisbane is beautiful and clean and completely surrounded by water. The river snakes its way through Brisbane, and opens up to a large port. Public parks and green spaces are abundant. We took a river cruise out to where John lived and worked while in Australia, and visited a Koala sanctuary. We got to feed and pet kangaroos, watched a sheep dog demonstration, and held Koalas. We saw Tasmanian Devils, and Wombats and Duck-billed Platypi. John led a walking tour of downtown and we ate at the river at South Bank.

From Brisbane, we flew to Cairns. There we visited a rain forest in Kuranda, saw the Coral Sea and learned about the area's significance in World War II, and saw an aboriginal demonstration. I got sick. Really sick. I am calling my illness the Kanga flu. I have not seen many piggies on this trip, so I have to believe my flu is not the dreaded swine flu. As if that matters when you have to schedule rest breaks between the bed and the bathroom due to extreme fatigue and malaise. So, while the rest of the group went out to the Great Barrier Reef, I stayed in my less than great hotel in my much less than great bed drinking endless cups of tea. Great. The group was treated to quite an underwater show, and I think they all count the Reef as a highlight of the trip. I know I did last year.

I was able to drag myself out of the bed after a day or two, and ventured to the Outback. We took the students to an tiny little village 560 km away from the next town continuing West. We had lunch in a country pub and visited the general store. We more than doubled the population that day. We did get to see Kangaroos in the wild and some great limestone outcroppings. From there we traveled back into the rain forest and treated the kids to a swim in a pristine watering hole at the base of a water fall.

Yesterday, we were up and on the bus at 4 AM for our departure to New Zealand. We arrived yesterday afternoon, and only had a few hours of daylight. What we saw was incredible! New Zealand has to be the most beautiful place on earth. Hands down. As this post is now starting to resemble a PhD dissertation, I will leave our journey for now. I will try to post the "rest of the story" as soon as possible. Thanks for all that have inquired about our travels and those that have missed the blog!!