Random Bits Off the Floor . . .

True beauty... or not

2012-02-13T20:19:00.001-06:00

As has been previously discussed, I'll admit fully to being a blue jeans and t-shirt kind of gal. I'm much more comfortable in a pair of cowboy boots than high heels any day of the week, including Sunday. I'd rather put on a baseball cap and tennis shoes and go take in a ballgame than to dress up all prim and proper and attend a formal event.

It's not that I don't know how to do those fancy things, because I DO. Momma was very strict on matters of etiquette... at least with me... and I know which fork to use with which course. But the reality is that I dress up mostly for Sundays at church and to attend the temple and the occasional event with my hubby like this past year's Christmas party for his job. That was actually a lot of fun.

Unfortunately, those events don't happen with sufficient regularity to make me like primping up all the dang time. I'd rather slip into my Levis.

Now comes the confession... when I do take the time to dress up, I'd like to look more put together than a wanna be hayseed hick come to town in my best dressed overalls. I may not be Cosmo or Vanity Fair worthy, but I should at least look like I don't belong on the cover of Farmer's Weekly with the potato crop.

Sunday, I was pretty well comported. I had on a mostly black ensemble simply because it alleges that I am slimmer in black. Whatever. I think I look more like one of those wide stripes on the bar code that means the price is higher than you thought it was. The point being is I LIKE black on me. It makes me feel like I'm powerful and useful.

So I do the hair and makeup routine, spritz on a little bit of "I'm every woman" cologne and choose a nice pair of earrings. It's better than the "I'm going to the gym" or PJ"s look that are my alternates to the jeans. There I am, ready for church and thinking I'm doing pretty well...then, alas, I make the fateful discovery that I'm a bit more hirsute than I would like to be...

Just how in the heck do you miss seeing a hair that long and in such an odd location? Am I turning into a wolf? Is this just the tip of the hairy iceberg? Is this some sort of Darwinian throwback joke? Grrrrr!!

Snatching the tweezers, I briskly and with malice aforethought yanked out the offending hair and felt the pain explode in my brain. Holy Hannah! Pain is not my idea of a good time! Why is it that these random hairs always seem to be attached directly to the most powerful pain receptor in my entire body? My eyes are now watering like Niagara at spring thaw which means my eye makeup will have to be redone, and I am feeling faint and slightly sick at my stomach.

In the deepest nooks and crannies of my warped brain, I secretly hope that all those glammed up fashionistas have some random, rogue hair that causes them a magnificent amount of pain. I know that isn't a kind thought, but face it... they are the pre-selected icons of how we regular women should all look and are made out to be the airbrushed and Photoshopped perfection of womanhood... all in the name of being more than God gave them. So maybe they need a dose of regular ol' woman humility in the form of a whacking long hair that randomly grows in a weird location seemingly overnight.

To add to the equality, I hope the hair doesn't match the color of any hair anywhere else on their body. And no matter how violently they tug and yank and rip out the offending hair, it will always grow back more long and luxurious than ever.

Yeah, I'm mean... call it a weakness.

One day, I will either succeed in burning out the hair follicle that offends with its mutation of hair or, as my vision continues to change as I age, I will become so blind it will no longer matter where I have any hair growing. You know... out of sight, out of mind, right?

Strange Things are Happening to Me

2012-02-07T09:09:00.001-06:00

Night is a funny time.

The activities of the day should be sufficient to make me tired enough to sleep restfully.

Sometimes that is just an impossibility. For whatever reason, my mind views the night as an opportunity to hit the road and try out every possible and impossible scenario as if it were real.

Trust me when I say, in my sleep, I have done it all.

Last night was a prime example. I was at astronaut camp. Yep. Me. They wanted me to come join the astronauts because of my vaunted skill set developed over years as a wife, mother and homemaker. My educational credentials, limited as they are, even impressed them. Apparently, NASA has really low standards in my dreams...

I was living in an odd time bubble where I was experiencing life both an adult as I am now and as a teenager in high school. One of my friends from that time period of teenage angst and school was ALSO at the training facility. Mary was part of the mission crew. I had no doubt in my mind why she was there. She is BRILLIANT. She has cool mad skills. She knows about computers and coding and how to make things successfully complete the designed mission. She also plays the flute, which somehow wove its way into the whole mission. It was a strange moment where the flute somehow was part of the science experiments on board.

I began to wonder if I was just there to whip up a batch of space brownies.

The scenario unfolded in dramatic fashion...

Prancing around NASA's vast campus in my blue jumpsuit, I was learning a lot about how the whole of NASA made space flight a reality. I was attending classes and lectures, I was driving the moon buggy and I was learning what the astronauts would experience when THEY blasted off. It was exciting. I was eager to be part of the team, but couldn't see how making Dutch oven dinner would be useful in space. The day arrived where we were given our assignments. I was fully expecting to be part of the ground crew prepping the actual astronauts who were to carry our mission and message to the stars. I could see myself in a NASA barbecue apron toiling over some hot coals for the pre-flight dinner they would be enjoying.

Then... my name was called as part of the team. HOLY MOSES! Are you kidding me? A "mission specialist". My brilliant and wonderful friends in the group sure looked like the NASA worthy professionals that would be able to pull it off. They all smiled and assured me I was going to do a great job.

I was terrified and wondered how I was going to manage it with my family left at home. For heaven's sake, Jared can't even drive and would be at home alone all day. For whatever reason, my mind cooked up a scenario in which Rick would be traveling for his company and Jared would be left in the capable hands... uh, make that PAWS, of Gypsy who would watch over him and report each day's progress via satellite linkage.

As if that wasn't weird enough to make you say "Do what???", the nagging thought of my own weaknesses physically thrust themselves into the conversation. Sometimes, I get motion sickness, so how was I going to manage a space flight? I don't think NASA has little foil lined barf bags aboard their rockets..."THAT DOESN'T MATTER!!" the booming voice of our faceless trainer intoned. I'm glad HE thinks so! Our adventure began.

We trained, we ran, we did exercises to ready our minds and bodies for the tasks that would be part of our crew's jobs. We were launching on a modern, updated version of the Saturn V. A great whacking rocket painted in the brilliant white and starkly contrasting black that we've come to expect from our space program. I've always thought that being launched into space would be kinda cool... I can get over my motion sickness and enjoy the ride in due time.

Partway through the events of our post launch mission, we were eating these little floating bags of Cheerios. I love Cheerios, so that part of the dream didn't seem all that odd, except for the fact that the little bags would just appear when I needed a snack. It actually kinda made me happy. I don't want to eat weird stuff in space. That might add to my motion sickness in ways we shall not discuss here.

What happened next still strikes me as scary-strange even though I know it was a dream. We were immersed in our various mission responsibilities when we heard a loud metallic bang. It was not good news. A rent in the spacecraft was threatening our mission. Warning klaxons sounded out their dire distress tones. Our ship and our lives were in danger.

Everyone looked at me. With my Cheerios in hand, I wondered what they were looking at. "You need to fix this for us and take care of us!", they chirped.

Do what???

Have you all lost whatever remains of your everlovin' pea pickin' minds???? Do I LOOK like I can fix this???

You have engineers, physicists, scientists, computer geniuses and all manner of experienced NASA ready people who can most certainly do a better job than I can muster to repair this ship... yet you have all turned into some kind of helpless and floundering goombahs who are unable to ascertain the problem, let alone how to fix it??

Holy Moses! In my dream I was praying: "Lord, please help us all... for they are depending upon me who must certainly be the "least of these" on this ride!"

Acting robotically and reaching into my Mary Poppins carpet bag (I told you this was weird), I pulled out a London Fog Umbrella. Woo hoo! It was just like the one I had destroyed for Daddy when I was an adventurous kid trying to fly... and yeah, I'm seeing the irony in this moment.

Pushing it through the hole in our spacecraft, I popped the button to deploy the umbrella then, in an instant, was performing EVA work to seal in the atmosphere of the ship with some camouflage duct tape which I secured around the rim of the umbrella. The camo tape part is totally Brad Paisley's fault since I was listening to him before bed.

The hilarious thing was, the slapdash repair even lasted for our reentry. NASA's heat tiles and their failure doom ships, yet a London Fog umbrella guaranteed our safe reentry. Go figure. At last I can redeem myself for flying with Daddy's umbrella!

Dream meanings are escaping me on this one since it is such a mismatch of some very real life circumstances blended with fantasy of the most epic nature.

Is it, as Momma used to say, a 'liver and onions dream' that is just weird? Or is there something revealing about my personality that will certainly prove to be either dangerous or just plain psychotic?

What does it mean? Does it mean anything? I don't know. I may never know.

But now you know why I wake myself and others up by talking in the middle of the night in gibberish and gobbledygook about Cheerios, NASA and dog babysitters.

Manners Matter

2012-02-03T09:31:00.003-06:00

We are not the same. We cannot be. That is not the journey for which we have been sent to this earth. In making that statement, I am acknowledging that I truly realize that our various life circumstance differ. Our upbringing and our tolerances are shaped by the realities of how we are raised and by whom the job is done.

But I am sick to death of hearing stories of our society increasingly revealing to the world that we have, individually and, in some cases, collectively, been raised by wolves.

Manners matter. And good manners change how we are viewed by others in the social world around us.

Of late, I have been distressed by the number of bullying and video taped fights that are making their way into the mainstream social media. It makes hooliganism gather friends and adherents instead of keeping anti-social behavior as a thing to be avoided under most circumstances.

The news media grants credence to the reports by airing them over and over again ad nauseum. Do we not have any GOOD things to report?

Of course we do.

Sadly, our society has managed to fall into the trap of believing that we need scandal to survive by making ourselves feel better by viewing the horrible actions and tragedies of a fellow traveler on this third rock from the sun.

Why do we do it?

When we are toddlers, we believe might makes right.

It is arguable that many have simply grown into larger toddlers who still function as if they push harder and talk louder and gesture more broadly that they are right in everything they do. It isn't true, but they believe it and act as if it is a truth enforceable by muscle and might.

Can we please return to civility?

Does anyone truly remember what that means?

Miss Manners needs to pay a visit to every school and refresh the remembrance of what is socially acceptable and what is not.

Radioactive Me

2012-01-18T18:46:00.001-06:00

Cardiac stress test.

Like my regular life isn't a stress test all by itself! Sheesh!

Today I had to make an appearance to be stressed. The point being is heart health but I understand the secret part of testing is to strip you half naked (or whole naked in some cases), rob you of your dignity, shove needles into sensitive locations and pump in various solutions and fluids which have been lovingly shelf stored in the Antarctic somewhere near Mr. Popper's Penguins.

I had on skivvies, shorts and an exercise t-shirt beneath my winter wear today. The temperature dropped overnight from about 60 degrees to somewhere near the freezing point. Little did I know the place for the testing wasn't much warmer and had plans for me to see just how cold they could make me from the inside out.

The first shot of radiated solution made my mouth have a momentary metallic taste that passed through as almost an afterthought. As the tech was telling me that might happen, it was over and gone.

I got a saline flush and then I went to sit and wait until the stuff have coursed through my veins enough to register.

While I was sitting there, a man older than me was cussing, fussing and fuming because he, too, had been told to come at 8 a.m. for a cardiac stress test. He must never have had one before or he'd know how the lobby shuffle works. It's like 3 card Monte for an 8 a.m. slot while they jack you up with a port in your arm and the first injection of "glow juice". Since he wasn't there when I passed back through later on my way to get my Doppler done, I assume he finally won his "hand" and got jabbed, too.

As my name was called the second time to return to the reefer truck that held the equipment, I realized that the ambient external temperature and the allegedly warmed internal temperature were a scant two degrees apart. They apologized profusely for the "chill" then commanded me to strip down to my skimpy exercise clothing for the treadmill test.

Did I mention that they injected me a second time at this point with some more solution? Yep another shot in the arm of TVA's finest iceberg temperature rinse water with some radioactive waste in it. This time, the metallic taste in my mouth was more like chewing aluminum foil for the savor. I'm kinda concerned that with all these isotopes floating around in my body that I will be my own night light later this evening...

They assure everyone that won't happen, but I remember telling patients years ago the same comforting words of hope and promise while jacking them up with their own glow juice for their scans. Nothing like injecting or drinking poison to save your life, right?

The gal that was there to apply the various sticky patches that would read my cardiac function apologized over and over for her cold hands. She needed to. I've dressed dead people who were warmer. Seriously, sister, buy some dang gloves for those frozen digits! And the alcohol prep pads had also been kept on ice just for me.

Perhaps I forgot to tell you this little gem: that they also use a bit of sandpaper to ensure a good contact point? Oh, you didn't know that did you? Yep, they use some fine grit sandpaper and rub the hide off of you just enough that the adhesive will stick well and then rip off the second, third and fourth layers of dermal tissue and leave you looking like a polka dotted victim of modern medicine upon their removal later in the day.

By the time we got the scans underway the second time, I was so dang cold that couldn't feel my fingers or toes. And I'm reasonably sure parts of me froze and fell off. I just hope it wasn't anything I might need later on. Of course, it can't be my saddlebags, my gut or my butt that froze off... everyone knows it NEVER gets cold enough to truly freeze your butt off. Kinda sad...

Anyway, when all the testing, sliming, sanding, poking, injecting, scanning and sweating were done, I was commanded to return Thursday of next week to receive the results of the testing.

I hope they got the information they needed. Because frankly, this gal is all tested out. I think I have won a free pass to say "NO" and say it emphatically the next time they gin up some kind of procedure they want to see me naked to perform.

I'm about ready to buy a burka.

Should you happen to pass my house later this evening and see a glow coming from my windows as it is passing through the home, don't worry... it's just me. They promise I'll flush this stuff out of my within 24 hours. The question is, will the pee glow... and do I need a black light to find out?

But Daddy, we're SHARING!!!

2012-01-13T10:02:00.001-06:00

Anyone who has welcomed a hound into the household as a fully fledged member knows that they are soon the boss of life in general.

Such is the case with our current canid resident who believes that she alone is the arbiter of right and wrong within the confines of the four walls of our home.

Although reluctant to offer us space in her comfortable doggy beds (yes, there are more than one of them... shut up!), Gypsy is more than happy to share OUR furniture with us because after all, we are FAMILY.

Rick has become the unfortunate butt of the jokes when it comes to our dogs over the years. Smokey, our first furry child, was a fond visitor to his pillow. He would lie upon it, lick it and steal it for himself. Sometimes, he would craftily sneak down into the covers, make a U-turn and then lie down on his back with his head on Rick's pillow and his front paws extended over the covers like a small, hirsute child. And he would smile with his brilliant, Pepsodent white teeth showing as if to say "Thanks, Dad, this is mighty comfy!"

Gypsy has a slightly different take on it all.

She sneaks and insinuates herself into various places in the house. Not content to lie upon the bed in Daddy's spot, Gypsy steals his pillow, tosses it high into the air, body slams it and apparently, from what we have both ascertained and seen in actual demonstration, does cannonballs on the bed itself. Because we have an air mattress type bed, and because we each have our own settings, it is patently obvious that she prefers the "spongy" side of the bed where Rick sleeps to perform her death defying gymnastics. That is the place where the divots remain when she has exhausted her repertoire of mind boggling feats that the circus can only dream of duplicating.

In addition to the bed stealing and frequent cover hogging that Gypsy enjoys. She has taken a liking to various other furniture in the house. Most notably is her fondness for napping in "Daddy's chair". Daddy's chair is a navy blue, floral wing back living room chair that we purchased secondhand when the first secondhand chair died an untimely death.

This chair is admittedly comfortable, but I have trouble getting out of it because it is TOO comfortable. Plus the angle of my knees to my hips when I am buried in it makes getting up a trifle difficult. I seldom use this chair. That was, apparently, an open invitation for use by other household members and Jared was NOT first in line.

At first, Gypsy would stealthily creep up into the chair paw by paw as if it was some sort of night maneuver of a guilty looking paramilitary force. There was scarcely a sound of the compression of the cushion as she would insert her body into the chair's comfortable space. She would look around to see if scolding was to follow and when she was assured that it was not forthcoming, Gypsy would settle down and close her eyes with a victoriously smug smile on her face.

When she would hear Rick's footfall, she would rouse and leap from the chair to prevent recrimination and discipline.

But now, age and seniority have apparently kicked in. She has overheard us discussing the ratio of human to canine years and is smart enough to do the math. She is the senior citizen of the household and as such feels fully justified in asserting her "right" to the chair.

Gypsy is smart enough to understand that Daddy doesn't WANT to share his chair and cunning enough to enforce her will upon him. Naturally, she will reluctantly move herself from his chair and come to me for reassurance when Daddy scolds her for leaving her furry butt marks all over HIS domain.

Gypsy doesn't mind. Literally. She does NOT mind. As soon as he leaves the chair to go get a drink, visit the bathroom or just get a book from the back, Gypsy slides up into his chair with a triumphant glee that rivals anything Cleopatra ever considered. She is queen of the chair, just like Cleopatra claimed queen of the Nile status. The big difference is that Gypsy bows to no one in her quest for comfort.

That Rick is deprived of a place to sit means NOTHING to her. Gypsy just stretches out, arches her back and looks dolefully upon him as he banishes her from the furniture yet again. She knows she will be back. McArthur-like, she will be back to claim the beachhead and establish her landing craft on the soft cushions.

She thinks they are SHARING.

Or at least that is the impression she wants us to believe. In reality, this cunning hound knows that sharing isn't the modus operandi at all. Chair dominance is the name of the game. She plans to have the chair for herself any time she desires to use it.

Our comfort doesn't matter to her at all.

Not one whit

Because, with her guilty little chocolate brown eyes, she tells him "But Daddy, we are sharing... on MY terms!"

God is good!

2012-01-12T11:03:00.002-06:00

The pathology report is back:

NO CANCER!

God is good and I am so thankful!

Slice, dice and pathology

2012-01-08T09:24:00.000-06:00

Post op report.... the doc thinks that he got it all. A nice little lump of suspicion and conjecture.

Very superstitious... and the little lump turned out bigger than anticipated. Surprise.

So now, we await the report on pathology on just what they carved out and what comes next.

I now have a small valley in my left breast.

But I AM STILL HERE.

And regardless of what comes next, I'm not done yet.

I'm ready to keep going. Like the mean little girl I am, I'm fighting for my life the only way I know how... I fight dirty.

The pain medicine is keeping me comfortably loopy and the shower yesterday took most of the "oompa loompa" betadyne wash off of my skin. The bruising on my body isn't too bad.

My right arm looks like a gorilla was in charge of the blood pressure readings during surgery. And this lovely "surgical bra" that I came home in as a parting gift from the procedure is zero fun. It's itchy and scratchy and, dang it all, necessary.

I'll go back to see the doc on the 16th to see what he has to say next.

Pathology should be back about mid-week and we'll see what they cultured up from the mess they removed in surgery.

Time to shower and go back to bed.

Nap time.

Happy New Year 2012!

2012-01-01T21:58:00.000-06:00

What a wonderful opportunity to begin, on the Sabbath day even, with a fresh, clean slate to start the new year!

Off with the old! Partaking of the sacrament to renew covenants seems like a really good beginning to the project of becoming more than I have been in the past.

I filled out a passport application. I'm going to get my very first passport. I hope I get to use it for more than conversational fodder.

I started a new journal today.

I read two chapters in the Book of Mormon.

During church today, I was particularly inspired by the talks and the messages of hope and goal setting that were offered. I needed both of them. We also had a beautiful musical duet of piano and flute to "Ring out Wild Bells" and "If You Could Hie to Kolob". The blend of the two was inspired.

It's nice to get a fresh start.

Sort of like taking a clean towel from the cabinet to dry yourself on following a nice, warm shower, it is an affirmation that you have started over clean and neat.

No smudges, stains or messy erasure marks to mar the day. Just a new beginning.

That doesn't mean that smudges and stains won't come. They will.

But now, with renewed understanding from the past life lessons learned, they won't have to be so painful or so long lasting.

And the erasure marks will be a blessing because we can see them for what they are: a chance to start again, wiser than before.

Happy New Year!

Post-Christmas and into the New Year

2011-12-28T10:38:00.002-06:00

Our Christmas was very good this year. We kept to simple things, tried really hard to NOT use the charge card for ANY purchases and just kept to the Spirit of Christ as best as we could.

The fellowship and fun of being with family where we shared a meal and the comfortable companionship of togetherness was enough for me.

We have talked about going to a cabin lodge or the beach for Christmas one year and just taking our collective holiday spirit with us on the road. It would be so much fun. We can play games, laugh, talk and reconnect.

Our lives seem to be so fragmented sometimes. Technology, for all its wonders, sometimes separates instead of drawing us close.

Rick and I have emailed each other while sitting in the same room. Stupid I know, but there you have it.

I'm thankful to know that a baby born in a manger was so much more than just a baby. I'm quite sure other babies were born that same night in Bethlehem. But they came for their own purpose and mission. That baby came to be the messiah. There wasn't an alternate plan nor a different Shepherd who calls our names to be gathered into His fold.

Though the world chaps at "religion" today, the feelings I have for the Savior and the blessings in my life go beyond "religion" and into what I hope and pray are living embodiments of how I have been taught and the lessons that have shaped my spirit.

Merry CHRISTmas and Happy New Year!!

Rejoice because thorns have roses

2011-12-23T10:11:00.002-06:00

It's all in the way you choose to look at things.

I'm 49+ years old and had my first mammogram November 25, 2011.

I had my second mammogram a week later followed by an ultrasound.

Thanks to the "thorns" on the medical rose, I have been diagnosed and will have surgery January 6th, 2012 to remove what they have found.

Where does this all lead?

No clue, but I have already chosen what comes next.

I'm going to live.

A thorn in the flesh is just a minor consideration when you know the beauty and fragrance of the rose that accompanies the tiny prick in the flesh that the thorn may or may not give you.

But often, we spend our mortal lives living in fear of what might be instead of opening up the doors of our heart to receive what is already there on the doorstep that can be life-altering for good.

I love roses.

They have infinite beauty within each delicately scented petal. It's almost as if you can see the carefully left behind thumbprint of the Master upon each one as you look upon the wonder of the singular creation of each blossom.

God doesn't make mistakes.

Whatever journey this all takes from lump to life is not a mistake at all. It's a learning curve.

I've always like to learn new things.

Even when the learning curve has been bumpy or painful, I am thankful because there is always a reason that any particular classroom has been opened up to my use. God wants me to know something new about His love and care for me as his daughter. I just have to be willing to put in my time and faith to receive the lesson He has so skillfully prepared for me to receive.

Sometimes, like pruning back a bush that is overgrown and tangled, the process of becoming more tomorrow than I am today really and truly hurts. I don't like to be so severely "trimmed", but there of necessity must be times where the Master Gardener sees the beauty within which can only be found through the refining process of removing that which is no longer needed for this part of the lesson.

Gardens are an apt metaphor for our lives. We all want to be that idyllic setting where the love of the Lord is in evident bloom in our lives. Yet we forget all to soon that the process of becoming a thing of beauty in His hands requires the care and keeping of one who knows that the weeds and distractions must be plucked from the tender soil and removed from the rootstock. We must be fertilized and grow through the adversity of life that is sometimes a bitter solution to drink, yet a necessary one if we wish to become that rare specimen the Father has seen within us all along.

Sometimes, so mangled have we become through the challenges we face that we are not even able to receive the Light upon our growing parts. It is in those times that the things that block the reception of Light must be removed. And it is with the skill and delicacy of the Master Surgeon that cuts are made, dead and decaying processes and actions must be removed and the opportunity to bask in the warmth and glow of His presence must be restored.

Only then are we able to renew our roots, take stock in new growth and become a vital and glorious representation of the measure of our creation.

All of my life, Momma told me to "bloom where I was planted" and to "take joy in the journey". I truly am trying to do so. I have moments of fear, but I'm trying to replace them with evidences of my faith... to say my prayers like they really matter and to remember that whatever load I think I have is nothing when compared to the agony of other souls tied to mortal chains which I could never bear.

As I tried to go to sleep last night digesting the thoroughly undigestible contents of a painful day, I was moved to a rush of tears as the warm and tender thought of Gethsemane came to my mind.

There I pictured my Savior enduring the agony of my problems without one thought for His own discomfort or pains. He took it all upon himself in a private moment meant for Him and me alone. There were no others crowding His thoughts. It was and is a vivid view of the fact that Jesus Christ doesn't see any of us as just another number in the vast host. He literally took it all upon Himself and paid in His blood for everything that I feel helpless to endure alone. And then he has promised that I will NEVER be left alone through this whole thing.

I am so thankful for my family and friends who are indeed the roses in the garden of my life. And more especially thankful I am to the Master of the Garden who tends with care each delicate bloom so that He can, through His power and grace, make beauty from the thorns.

Raindrops keep falling on my head

2011-12-20T18:31:00.000-06:00

I'm seriously considering buying stock in umbrella companies. I'd make a killing.

Today, the phone rang and a command performance at the doctor's office is on the table for me tomorrow. Yippee.

Blood test results are in and they want to see me face to face to share what will not be happy news. Of this I am sure. Having worked in a doctor's office and making some of these calls myself to anxious patients I know that when the doctor calls, the news isn't good. They don't call and say "yippee, everything was great!". It's more like "Hmmm. Can you come in and discuss this."

I'm kind of at my breaking point right now. I'm planning to show up at the doctor's office in my workout clothing because I am going to the gym regardless of what results they share. I'll either celebrate the good news or pump iron and do crunches to the bad with a loud blast of music from the headphones in my bag.

Whatever the news is, I'm afraid to hear. It is sure to be a life-altering moment no matter what is pronounced. How do it get through this?

People are praying. Lots of people.

And Beth came over so we could cry together - she over the loss of EZ and missing his ever-ready presence in her life and me over news that could well terrify me to death if the malady isn't enough to do it.

Sometimes trying to see past your own issues to help someone deal with their own is a blessing. Right now, I need all the blessings I can get. Trying to sort out my emotions about all of my issues is getting to be a bellyful. I'd rather do my best to try to comfort Beth for all of her hurting in the absence of her wonderful puppy and friend. It reminds me so much about my own feelings of loss, hurt and emptiness when my beloved Smokey died. It's a wound that just aches. Time helps, but there will forever be a paw print stamped upon my heart from Smokey. It is no different for Beth. Even if you accept a new furry friend into your life, it will never be the friend who has gone on before.

I hope I help her to feel better. Sometimes I fear that my own minor crises in life are overshadowing the greater burdens of a larger world than my own.

Is there any of this that makes any sense?

Not sure... not sure at all sometimes. God knows the sense in all of this. And upon His understanding and strength I must depend.

Making the Breast of a bad situation...

2011-12-15T11:48:00.001-06:00

So, I went to the doctor.

The results of the TWO mammograms and follow-up ultrasound are in.

The follow-up will now have a follow-up.

I'll be meeting with my surgeon on December 22nd. Ho ho ho and a very merry Christmas to you, too.

It's not the first time I've been under the gun during the Holiday season and perhaps that might be fitting. Right now, I am thinking very much about the life and mission of the Savior. Though he started in a manger, he didn't stay a baby forever. That tiny babe of Bethlehem grew up to be the Divinely appointed Savior of the world. The words of the "Messiah" remind us that 'surely, he hath born our griefs and carried our sorrows'. There is something soothing about knowing that he is carrying the weight of all that troubles the human heart.

The grief and sorrow of things that don't work the way you expect. Even the sorrows that come from worry over a pound of flesh skillfully arranged into a woman's breast...

I don't know what the further biopsies will reveal. Right now, I'm scared but okay. If the tests show that the breasts gotta go, then I hope my life is worth more than a couple of pounds of flesh that are more show than substance. They aren't that big anyway.

I just wish that the timing would be better since it is obvious that this particular "cup" can't be "passed from me". I don't want to ruin everyone's holy day of Christmas with a nagging concern for my personal issues. It makes me feel horrible.

While I am no martyr nor am I unconscious of the fact that everyone has an appointed time to come and an equally important appointment with our departure from mortal life, I am not really enjoying this view into my own mortality. It makes me feel so exposed, vulnerable and, well, human. I hope for more time in this part of my journey. And I feel like that human part of me that is struggling to stay welded to the divine that also makes up my being is not keeping up its end of the equation by bailing on me this way.

Just who gave my boob permission to go develop a problem like this anyway? No one asked me about it and I didn't receive any messages from the "Head Office" telling me this particular trial was coming down the pike. But I suppose that would defeat the purpose, now wouldn't it. God isn't malicious or cruel. He allows nature to take its course and works through natural means to bring about the purposes he has in mind. It's just sometimes that those life lessons we are to have sorta suck like lemons....

My patriarchal blessing talks quite frankly about the Job-like aspects of my life. That is kind of a scary reminder that the world will ALWAYS rage around me this way. I don't always have the kind of fortitude for the battle and frankly, some days, I'd just like a nap. When I was younger, I didn't understand what that admonition was all about. I still don't, but as you go over the scars and map of my life via the procedures I have endured, it is certainly a cautionary "jobian" tale of just what God might have in mind.

Despite knowing that we don't all get the same journey precisely because we are different children on an individual learning curve, there are days I think in my finite understanding that I wouldn't mind trading my trials for those of another.

I hate feeling so vulnerable and scared. Being a wussy isn't part of my normal nature. Sure, I have my moments, but most of the time, I am charging hell with a water pistol. The reality is I'm concerned for me, but more concerned for other people who might depend on me. I simply don't want to let anyone down. I don't want my concerns to derail their happiness nor to prevent them from achieving their life purposes.

But now, the breast has spoken. The leviathan that is the mammography machine and its equally formidable minion of the ultrasound machine have spoken and what they said was not fit for public consumption.

Will things be okay, be altered or be gone?

At this point, I really don't know and I'm too frightened to really contemplate it.

I'm trying to rely upon the mental image of a pair of scarred hands, wounded in my behalf, resting atop my head to take away a bitter moment that he has already endured in Gethsemane for me.

From what well may be a very damage breast, He is taking on the feelings and fear and making the best from the situation in the way HE designs. I just have to have the faith to believe that He will show me what that best way is and how I can do what is needed and learn the lesson that He wants to share.

2011-12-12T13:41:00.004-06:00

She said "yes"!

It's hard to believe that my young'un is this old, but he is.

Thomas and his newly affianced sweetheart Tianna are about to embark on their life together ...

May 12th of 2012 is the day.

I'm so happy for them, I could just about bust!

And yeah, for all you grammarians, I know the approved phraseology is "I am so pleased that I feel I might burst with happiness." but it ain't country enough to cover the emotion. Some times, saying it how it feels is the best anyway.

Since I just don't have a whole lot of extra words to add, I'll just say this:

CONGRATULATIONS TO MY SON THOMAS AND HIS LOVELY TIANNA!!

People Let Me Tell You 'bout My Breast Friends

2011-12-07T15:35:00.001-06:00

I got back my first mammogram.

It was not good.

When they CALL YOU and tell you to "come back in for some more angles and further testing", it's not because the tech was enjoying the view, if you know what I mean. It's more like, we don't like what we saw... not at all. And, relatively speaking, I'm a smart gal when it comes to this kind of thing. And, sadly, I know from past experience that this kind of phone call could spell trouble with a capital "B" and I mean boob, you spell it "breast' and we're talking possible cancer.

Having danced with the "Big C" before for another type - because one type apparently ISN'T enough for me - I know full well what a cad he really is. I say 'he" because even a really mean woman wouldn't take another gal's boobs. It just seems pointlessly cruel.

But, guys who lack boobs (and no, 'man boobs' do NOT count!), seem to invent ways to see just how tough a gal really is. It is the only conceivable explanation for the mammography machine and the required removal of every shredded pretense of dignity that you may once have possessed. Men inventing the procedure would also explain why the attendant is required to grope you like an over-eager bad prom date who skips out without even buying you dinner or being carted off to "juvie hall" to pay for the experience at your expense. It would also explain why, with tears in your eyes and running down your cheeks, you tell the attendant, "NO! I'm just fine! Let's get this done!!"

I can virtually guarantee that if the male inventors of the mammography machine had their "man berries" shoved into a vise and crushed like grapes, there would be a sudden uptick in non-invasive technology and a whole lot less groping. Well, maybe everywhere but San Francisco...

As I was there today for the repeat mammogram and the further procedures that were to fill my day, the morbid side of me set in and I began to realize something... it truly begs consideration of this "fact"... the diagnosis is in my "good breast".

Yeah, I realize that sounds ridiculous because you aren't supposed to play favorites, but the left side has always been a bit, well, perkier and better shaped than the right. Until now... I'm beginning to wonder about just what might have caused the perkiness since that is the side currently being scrutinized, smashed and radiated within an inch of its life.

Questions popped into my head from the second that I got off the phone to make this "fun" appointment. The "dread" part hasn't taken over because I refuse to allow myself to wallow in what might be until I am presented with full evidence of what is going on and how we can handle it.

Hmm. Bad choice of words there. I think I have been "handled" enough today, thank you very much.

It sounds almost sacrilegious to talk about the body as if it was merely the sum of its parts be they great or small. Yet, I have grown quite accustomed to having my breasts be right where there are. The thought of them being in a lab smear on a microscope slide is slightly disconcerting. And further, the consideration that they may or may not both be going away entirely is disturbing. I am not a fan of being totally flat-chested, it being a native condition for a majority of my life. But to be fair, what I have now isn't much more than that since it's mostly the accumulation of too much junk food and every time I lose weight, they go away.. the boobs that is, not the junk food.

And I can't consider going with a 'single'. That would just look stupid. Like half a mustache... The "twins" have been together forever... quite literally. They are a matched pair, or at least as matched as my asymmetry allows. There are two of them and they have been side by side through the training bra stage to the sports bras and to the push up bras that made me look like I had something when I don't.

But what if I don't have anything there in the due fullness of time? Can I live with that? *SIGH*

Yep. It's just a pound of flesh. Quite literally in my case, I am sad to say... the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Of course, I am not trying to jump the gun. We don't have a definitive diagnosis yet. I'm just trying to sort out what life might be like. Because right now, I do not know what comes next. I truly don't. We wait for word from the doctor who was reading all the various tests to see what his clinical eye and wisdom decrees to be the next step if indeed a next step is to be taken at all.

The worst part of this is that it is an area of my life where I need help and prayers from those who love me in spite of me. I have to tell them news that may turn out to be just a big scare and mean nothing in the long run or which may well alter the landscape of life for us all. I hate making other people feel sad, particularly when I am the reason for the sadness. And, oddly enough, it seems like these earth shattering announcements regarding my health have always fallen in December. Ho, Ho, Ho! A very un-merry Christmas present to say the least. Try to gift wrap this kind of information and make it exciting... uh, not so much.

I'll try to remain positive about all of this.

I keep talking about needing to lose weight and if a couple of boobs gets the ball rolling, so to speak, then so be it. That isn't to say I'm happy about the thought of it. Because I am not. We have been taught to think in our minds "come what may and love it". So, if this is something that is to come to me, then I reckon I'll get to learn to do something besides shop for bras... which never fit right anyway.

There is one aspect of the whole cancer issue that IS truly troubling... the people that might be left behind should this get ugly.

While I'm a pretty bright gal who managed to graduate from school and understand that I'm not the center of the universe, I'd like to believe that the people I love might consider me to be somewhat important and maybe even nigh unto irreplaceable.

Is that vanity?

If so, then chalk that up to my fragile ego needing a stroke or twelve. We ALL want to be someones world or at least a significant enough chunk of their world that if we were gone they'd miss us once in a while.

But my ego is sufficiently well developed enough to not want to die at all. Too many lives NEED me. At least that's what I tell myself when I'm tired, cranky and worn out from running the calendars of everyone else on the planet...

I have one favor to ask though. Keep my and my two breast friends in your prayers. That really isn't such an odd request. Though I may indeed be a charter member of the I.B.T.C. (Itty Bitty Titty Committee), I have no desire to be the president of the pushing up daisies chapter of "so long! it's been good to know you!"

I still feel like I have things to do, people to help, places to go and adventures to enjoy. I'm just praying that Our Father feels the same way...

Snow, milk, bread and eggs

2011-11-29T07:30:00.001-06:00

Our resident weatherman is leaving... yep. Dan, Dan the Weatherman is departing for more exciting opportunities elsewhere. For the record, he's the one weatherman who panics people into a frantic drive to the store in perilous conditions for bread, milk and eggs. You know. Winter survival food in the Deep South.

Apparently, covering tornadoes that rip the state to shreds isn't exciting enough to keep him here. He's off to places that appreciate his winter weather forecasts that boost the stocks of companies that sell the milk, bread and eggs. He is off to predict weather in other locales that will appreciate his panic driven warnings of wintry doom.

Yesterday, his forecast called for snow up to 2 inches in many places... and, to be fair, we DO have flakes drifting past the window.

Two inches of snow. That's enough to cripple the area since most drivers here have no idea how to drive in the snow and are a danger to themselves and others. Of course, that can be said for drivers everywhere in snow. People who live in areas blessed with greater snowfall amounts each year tend to get cocky and overestimate their ability to "handle it" on the road and drive like maniacs. This would explain the wrecked cars that are perched precariously on mountainside passes that you can see during the spring thaw. Some eager beaver who KNEW how to handle the blizzard just kept pushing on despite the fact that the semi trucks had all pulled over to the side to wait out the storm.

Stupidity in snow isn't regional. It's a global phenomenon.

But back to the forecast. We have snow. SNOW! Yippee! Visions of hot cocoa and floating marshmallows fill my mind.

The top of the car has a few flakes dusting the surface... time to pull out the sled and hitch up the Huskies for the trip to the gym today. I must remind myself to stop at the store on the way back. I'm low on eggs and this farcical amount of snowfall makes me want French toast with warm maple syrup.

ON YOU HUSKIES!! MUSH!! MUSH!!!

Wait... hold that request... the snow is now mixed with a sleety rainy mix. That doesn't bode well for the forecast of fun. Instead, we get rain. Cold, wet, winter rain. In buckets. Filling the ditches. Making low-lying areas a danger.

So, SWIM YOU HUSKIES!! SWIM!!!!

Good thing they have a well developed backstroke. Nothing worse than being a sled pulled by a dog that flounders around in the water wallowing through the choppy waves created by the panic driven paws doggie paddling along.

Sadly, at 35 degrees, the snowy show will not last long and the ground is far too warm to start planning where to build Frosty the Snowman in our front yard.

Oh well. November is too early for whatever snow and ice we would normally get anyway. Time to sit back, relax and dream of an all SEC National Championship with the Tide clutching the crystal football when it's all over...

It Comes in Three's

2011-11-28T06:02:00.001-06:00

First, we drop some serious coin getting tires, brakes and rotors for the car. Not cheap even with the resident skilled handyman performing the work.

Then second, the washer died. Dead. Can it be repaired? Sure, but at a cost greater than buying a NEW one with the sales for Black Friday going on... naturally, the company no longer makes the model that will match the dryer which still works. Expensive decisions were made... we bought an entirely new set.

Now, our precious college student son Thomas just informed us via text message that his laptop computer has died. Number Three. The dreaded third shoe dropping. Yippee. In the way that I mean NOT... I don't believe the Dallas Cowboy's cheerleaders could be coaxed into a dance line for this announcement.

And by the way, if anyone knows where the money tree is located, I'd appreciate knowing where it is so I can gather a few leaves to pay for all of this. I promise to not be greedy and take them all.

I have begun to think the defining script on my tombstone should simply be a rolling tote board indicating the level of debt that has accumulated directly and indirectly in my life. It might be interesting to watch since there will be times that it will reflect the reality that is a financial blur... see those numbers just whooshing by?

I'm thankful that we have been able to arrange financing to take care of things thus far, but I must confess there are times that I wonder what it must be like for those who are truly monetarily rich to just simply say "sure, here's the money for ____, go right ahead and buy it" without once considering what sacrifices would be needed to pay for whatever "it" is.

Thomas needs this type of technology for school... it's virtually impossible to get along without it otherwise.

I guess until we sort this out he can use the computer lab and hope for the best.

♫ Santa baby, slip a Brinks truck under the tree for meeeeeeeee ♪♫
♪♫ I've been an awful good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight...♫♪♫

Bobbing Along

2011-11-15T06:56:00.001-06:00

I truly didn't want to get out of the pool yesterday.

My exercises and PT were long completed, but I wanted to stay in that warm water cocoon of relative peace and quiet. I realize being "pruny" from the water isn't a fashion statement, but I don't believe anyone who knows me will be all that concerned about my lack of care regarding that particular issue.

I just needed some quiet in my overly loud life.

Took Daddy to see a physionometrist yesterday. Fancy word for a doctor who specializes in telling people to go get physical therapy. I'm not sure this exercise will truly help. Lord knows if it does, I'll be happy that it improves Daddy's quality of life.

But I saw the MRI and I understand enough about anatomy and physiology to be a danger to myself and others.

The compression in his spine and the narrowing of the channels for the nerve conduction are so restricted that I'm afraid the repetitive motions will simply cause greater harm.

There are also at least TWO bone spurs which are pressing in upon the already stressed areas of the back. I for sure saw one that is pretty significant in size. But as of this instant, Daddy is NOT a surgical candidate.

Meekly, I took the prescription for the month of PT for Daddy. The folks at the rehab will HAVE to yield to my schedule on this one. With my own needs of rehabbing a still recuperating ankle, I can't supersede the PT I have to do just to get Daddy to his. And I can't keep adding things to an already overfull schedule. It's not like I have a "mini me" closet to draw from to build enough support to fill in the gaps. Sadly, I don't even have a single mini me. That would be both helpful and disconcerting at the same time.

So I spent some time after PT with my head down in the water playing dead. Not that I want to be dead, of course, but some days, it's nice to have a break from the noise outside of my head just long enough to concentrate on the noise INSIDE my head.

Think two BB's rattling around inside a box car...

I relaxed enough to just float drifting along with the current from the water jets.

Sadly, the time came which compelled me to get out of the pool. I hopped into the hot tub long enough to ease the tightness in my leg and ankle then dried off to go home.

It is a pretty good break from life. Sadly, you always have to come back and shoulder your load again, but some days, I think the trip to the pool helps me deal with things a little better.

At least that is the goal.

The Peppered Eye

2011-11-08T06:20:00.001-06:00

Pepper is a wonderful thing!

It creates a little spark of fire in the throat and a tingle on the tongue when properly applied. It can mean all the difference between a salad that is just okay, and a salad that is amazing. Pepper is great with eggs and bacon, adds a touch of class to a humble homemade hash and turns a bowl of stew into something worth eating.

But one thing pepper does NOT enhance. . . my eyeball.

I feel like half of my skull is on fire and the flames are licking out of my right eye socket.
HOLY FLAMING CAT SNOT AND FIERY DEATH!!! OOOOOOOOOHHHHH!! This is a pain that should be inflicted on some of the bad people of our world!!

Based on the suffering I am having to endure at my own hand, I'm not sure my love affair with pepper will last much longer if this inferno doesn't get extinguished soon.

Is it possible to go blind by accidental peppering of the eyeball? Can you die from it? Right now, both questions are up for grabs. Can someone PLEASE hose off my eye? I can't possibly be the only one who sees these vivid flames curling up from under my eyelids!!

The sad tale of woe that brought us to this point isn't monumental, unless we are measuring stupidity. Confessing that while I am not more than a modest home cooking kind of gal, I do humbly state that I enjoy cooking most of the time. I like making things that my family will actually want to eat. To that end, I have a little Ziploc bag with some fresh, coarsely ground pepper in it. My supply is dwindling by the day. But ham and navy bean soup needs a bit of pepper to help it cook along, right? A little of the supply must be sacrificed for the soup to have the taste that it needs.

Plunging my clean hand into the bag, I gathered up a couple of pinches of pepper... enough to season not to scorch. After extending the sprinkling of the vital grains over the beans in the Crock pot, I washed my hands. You can't be too careful.

Careful. HA!

I laugh at myself through my tears.

Apparently, one tiny, minuscule hardly even worth mentioning let alone seeing grain of pepper was chameleon-like in its skill and ability to camouflage itself against my finger into flesh tones with a cunning that the military would love to possess. The tenacity with which it clung to my skin even through the washing and drying process would give Velcro a run for its money.

Innocent in my understanding of the tragedy about to befall me, I went to go about my daily morning activities. While sitting at my desk, I casually rubbed my eye.

With fire.

Does the fact that it was completely unintentional matter?

At this point, I am certain that my right eye will never be on speaking terms with me again.

Murine Plus drops, generic store brand drops, water right out of the sink... all have been applied in a liberal deluge to my deeply offended eye and its mucous membranes. They are reporting with great accuracy that the savage attack has left them both irritated beyond all measure for polite society, but that they are now planning some kind of retribution that will involve me having blurred vision for quite some time today.

It is open war.

My protestations that the offending particle of pepper have now been most assuredly washed from the battlefield of topical violence does nothing to sway the eyeball. It has its mind made up. I will now be compelled to walk through this morning with a blurry reminder that the peppered eye is not what's for dinner.

The sting is down to a dull roar now. I have this odd slimy feeling on my eyeball that tells me the mucous membranes surrounding my eye have indeed gone into full battle mode and applied riot gear as they slime coat all the surfaces of the eye to continue forcing the contaminant and the effects of same to retreat from the battle.

It seems to be working.

Perhaps in due time, my eye will forgive me.

But I have the sinking feeling that the next time I reach for my little bag of pepper, my right eye will involuntarily slam shut and refuse to assist in the cooking until the all clear has been sounded by the left eye.

Who knew plain old table top cooking pepper was such a deadly weapon?

Perhaps the stores need to sell it by permit only.

Hmm. Yet another governmental intervention for the perpetually stupid.

*SIGH*

Someone really needs to save me from myself.

Legally Blond

2011-10-29T09:03:00.002-05:00

I have never claimed to understand the inner workings of the process of law.

It is beyond me how giblety Latin phrases can bring help or harm depending upon how they are used and which application they bring to bear.

But I do know that there are a great body of lawyers who fit the Bible's and Book of Mormon's description of them really well.

Matthew 22:35 talks about a slick man whom I am SURE would have advertised on television in a sharkskin suit if only either were available in ancient Jerusalem. He tempted Christ to say something that the Pharisees could twist into a blasphemy or legal corruption with which to justify slaying him. He asked which was the greatest of the laws. Jesus Christ not only told him the answer to the greatest law, but also to the second greatest and thus changed the flow of human endeavor in the holy writ by specifically outlining our personal conduct: we are to love the Lord and our fellowmen and esteem our fellows as ourselves.

In Luke 10:25, we read about a lawyer who attempted to use his assumed brilliance to make the Savior say something he could press a suit against him for uttering. Didn't work out so well. He was treated to a lesson on taking care of the wounded instead of fleecing them for their loot.

Alma 10 shares a scathing rebuke from Amulek to the legal profession who was trying their best to enforce their will through corruption. In verse 17, Amulek shares this opinion of the Book of Mormon lawyers... and it ain't good. "O ye wicked and perverse generation, ye lawyers and hypocrites, for ye are laying the foundations of the devil; for ye are laying traps and snares to catch the holy ones of God."

OUCH.

Lawyers and hypocrites.

Yet when you see the modern day advertisements telling people "GET WHAT YOU ARE ENTITLED TO! GET MONEY TODAY FOR YOUR PAIN AND SUFFERING! CALL ME AND I'LL WORK FOR YOU!", it sort of makes it sound like one phone call can change everything from crap to honey, sunshine and roses.

Money can't fix everything. And in truth, most people do not possess the good sense that God intended them to use when money is involved. They see dollar signs and go hog wild and then wonder where their loot went when their are nothing but moths left in their wallet after the end of the Vegas bender.

Because we were told that we needed to get some specific paperwork in place RIGHT NOW DO NOT DELAY LIFE HANGS IN THE BALANCE FOR JARED, I was calling various legal firms to seek vital information regarding the specifics and the cost of this 'essential' paperwork. The level of panic in me was rising to a fever pitch in the belief that we would not be able to ask for the things Jared needed for lack of a simple piece of legal paper.

Turns out, after talking to a very well informed lawyer who is neither a viper or a hypocrite, that there isn't such a huge rush after all. Since he has YEARS worth of experience in handling these types of cases, not only was he well versed in what to do, but also kindly enough to tell us that there are state laws that cover us and our son. Yes, we are protected to make medical and financial decisions for our disabled son. No, we do not need to bankrupt ourselves to get the paperwork in order by noon tomorrow or risk forfeiture of all that we know. He said that he also recommended that "we get a lawyer across from your courthouse who knows the judge". He said that way, they can handle it quickly and without any undue expense or fuss when the time comes. The lawyer also assured me that there are a great number of people willing to do any kind of legal work for money, but it isn't all necessary nor is it always helpful.

In the due course of time, and when we have the funds saved, we will indeed get the paperwork done to ensure that we have a legal recourse for Jared's long term needs and a conservatorship for his financial issues. The lawyer indicated, however, that most people whom he sees are over 70 years old and have one foot in the grave and are concerned for the adult "child" they will be leaving behind.

We aren't there quite yet...

However, I believe in being prepare in all things insofar as possible, so we will diligently save up the money (and it ain't cheap, folks!!) so that we can pay CASH at the time of the services rendered to have it done. That way, it can be done both in WISDOM and IN ORDER. My heart isn't pounding so loudly in my ears anymore.

And now, I actually feel calm. I think this says it all. "The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace." Psalms 29:11.

I also thank God that not all lawyers are only in it for the sharkskin suits and the money.

Old lady glasses leashes

2011-10-25T16:29:00.001-05:00

I have officially become the old lady who needs a leash on her glasses.

I always wondered about the level of dotty behavior required in order to need a leash to remember that your glasses were hung around your neck.

But after spending the greater part of half an hour looking for my glasses, I realize I am the dotty old bag who needs the old lady glasses leashes in order to keep from looking more stupid than usual.

They weren't on top of my head.

They weren't tucked one legged down the front of my shirt (a favorite "where did I put them" location that results in fingerprint smeared lenses as soon as I discover them).

The glasses didn't lie askew atop my desk (or more precisely the rubble of my life atop my desk).

Where did I leave those glasses?

I hate not having them and worse yet, I hate having them. Oh, how I miss 20/20 vision!!

I never had fingerprints on my corneas!!

Finally, after looking high and low and in places I don't ever recall having placed my glasses, I found them.

In the laundry room.

Atop the whites.

At this point, I'm not sure if I planned to throw them into the wash for a quick bleach run with the bath towels that accompany me to the gym where there may well be a fungus among us or if I was hoping that somehow a quick spin cycle would somehow right the slightly askew left arm or leg of the glasses that hasn't ever quite been right since I dropped them.

Either way, I now have my glasses back.

They are right here beside me on the des......

HEY!?!?! Where did they go?

They were just here a minute ago!!

Oh! Wait! Here they are! ON MY FACE!

I think I need a room in the hospital ward for the criminally clueless...

More Money Than Sense

2011-10-21T08:14:00.001-05:00

While doing my usual morning routine, I was struck by the sudden flash of understanding that people are crazy.

I'm sure that others have figured this out long before now, but I am compelled to say that this is not run of the mill crazy but absolutely fruit bat guano cave filled crazy.

I cannot understand why money makes us crazy, but it does. When we have money in our pockets, the siren song of "spend me, spend me, spend me" sings loudly in our ears and heart showing us the benefits of blowing our entire wad on things that the poor but sane would never even consider.

That is the only possible explanation for why someone would blow their cash to buy ANY of the following.

just in case you think I made this up

#10 WOLF URINE - 100% wolf pee. Really??? WHY??? Regular dog pee isn't offensive enough? So you have to get hyper pee? Are you trying to mark your territory and prevent interlopers from taking the females from your pack?

Or are you trying to impress your drinking buddies (more than likely) with the aromatic scent of your turf?

What would compel ANYONE to part with their hard earned cash for a jug o' pee?

If the need for pee is that great, why don't you just take a Mason jar into your bathroom and save your own for free.

Either way, that is just GROSS. Save your money and your reputation.

#9 STOP EATING POOP - In yet another gross attempt to garner your cash, this is alleged to keep your dogs from eating their own, well, you know... In a random bit of information, they indicate that the product includes yucca, which makes the allegedly tasty poo, taste, well, less tasty. It also contains peppermint and parsley to freshen Fido's breath after his less than savory snack.

I am compelled to ask, wouldn't the peppermint and parsley just make him want to eat the poo all the more since it will mask the offensive odors from his breath?

Doesn't matter. Still GROSS. Is there anything on this list not related to bodily waste? I sure hope so. Because this is just NASTY!!

#8 BODY MIST - blatantly offensive product meant to encourage homosexual encounters. Wrong. Evil. And just plain offensive.

#7 DR. JOHN'S FAMOUS PEE PEE - Really??? MORE PEE??? Who in their right mind really believes that no one knows they are high at work? After a while, they DO notice and carrying around a flask of pee in order to pass a random drug test is a dead giveaway that you are, in fact, a junkie.

Save your money for rehab. It looks like you are gonna need it.

And as a strange question I am compelled to ask, does the DEA get a head's up on who has ordered this product? If not, they should. Can you imagine how many people could be saved from harm if this was tagged and the bust on the dope-heads could happen in a timely fashion?

#6 TANK - Now, we are actually getting into a product that I can see someone purchasing. Can you imagine the reaction at the downtown Christmas parade when this bad boy rolls down the street blasting candy from the gun ports? Nothing says "Merry Christmas" faster than a tank!

Of course, it could start a neighborhood war when you employ it to take out the pesky folks that allow their precious Pinky to poo on your freshly manicured lawn. But your lawn would be poo-free.

#5 LIQUID @$$ FART SPRAY - again with the gross bodily function product?? Is there ANYTHING on this list besides the Tank that is worth the money?? Why would you or anyone else want to descend into frat boy behavior and spend money to do it??

Sure, making rotten egg gas was hilarious in 9th grade chemistry, but aren't we a bit too old to do this kind of thing now?? Really???

#4 UFO DETECTOR - Yes. Along with your tinfoil hat and the colander you are protecting your brains with, a UFO Detector is an indispensable item that fairly screams to the entire world, "I AM A FREAKY NERD!" and who doesn't need that kind of advertising? It's not like your wardrobe hasn't already tipped them off.

#3 ROSWELL SOIL SAMPLE - See #4. If you are in for a penny, you are in for a pound. When you believe our world is under observation by pink bald headed, big eyed aliens, then you'd better have proof of it or your dinner date is going to excuse themselves to the bathroom and never return. Never underestimate the ability of a grown adult person to get out of an 8x8 bathroom window in a crisis.

#2 DEER BUTT - One word: WHY? I cannot imagine any social setting in which your cache would be enhanced by bringing out your deer butt. And what kind of friends are you REALLY trying to attract anyway? The people who would appreciate this kind of item may not be the kind of folks who can upgrade your social standing and in fact, may well be armed and dangerous.

And finally, on our intrepid press to the top of Jackass Mountain, we come to our Number One selection of money wasting bliss.

#1 URANIUM - Yes, it's the real deal. I'm sure the FBI is more than happy to keep track of this little gem in light of the domestic and international terrorism issues of our day. And just how do you plan to explain your "lovely glow" to your parents, in who's basement you are living?

According to the write up, this product is for "educational and scientific purposes only" and what is more educational than learning how to build a proton accelerator or nuke?

Don't worry. When you order this, your lonely days in your underwear wearing, basement dwelling life are over. You will be introduced to a host of nice people who will be your friends in the Supermax. And the guards are such understanding people... not really, but for what you spent on the uranium, you deserve at little kindness because the Feds aren't gonna show you any love when you start setting off their Geiger counters.

I know that this is just a representative sample of stupidity that can be yours for the right price. And I am equally sure that there are a whole lot of other money sapping items of sheer stupidity that are available from retailers with more greed than sense.

But shouldn't you be willing to apply a little bit of caution? I mean you can expect to be branded as a loser for life with some of these purchases.

Oh well. Money never has equated with common sense. If that were the case, we could create a benefits program that would buy a clue for a lot of society.

Y'all have fun. And PLEASE do not put my phone number on speed dial.

I don't want to come pick up your deer butted, fart scented, glow in the dark self from the lockup where your new boyfriend Juan Carlos has decided that your wolf urine is a sexy smell.

Internet shopping is a caution. And y'all ought to exercise some when you are purchasing the next big thing.

Walmart Funeral... blue plastic bags optional

2011-10-13T14:52:00.000-05:00

Walmart isn't well known as a funeral service, but apparently, they do cater to the needs of the recently deceased.

The Walmart Funeral Home

From the gaudy, never fade, colored plastic or silk flowers to adorn the carefully mounded dirt to cover your mortal remains to the actual container that will hold said remains, Walmart is here for you in your time of need.

The website doesn't exactly scream about their merchandise for funerals, but seeking to have a finger in every pie or a hand on every urn, Walmart sells caskets, urns and all sorts of items you might need to take care of your dearly departed family member be they animal or human.

In a cost conscious society, people are looking ever more diligently for ways to save a dime on Aunt Maybelle's funeral and Walmart is here to help.

Funeral home trying to make a unjust profit on your suffering and grief?

Never fear, folks! Walmart is here to help with low priced supplies that will be sent to the funeral home of your choice - and in most states, they HAVE TO ACCEPT DELIVERY because of their state laws that require the consumers to have the ability to shop around for funeral services and merchandise needed to lay to rest those who have passed on before us.

There is one small caveat to this savings bonanza. Walmart does NOT accept returns on funeral items.

So if Aunt Maybelle makes a startling recovery, you are stuck with your purchase of the "Generously sized Star Legacy's Regal Wide Body casket".

Despite the fact that it "has extended dimensions width combined with an adjustable bed", the casket can't be returned unless it is damaged in shipping.

So unless Bubba Ray, the local delivery man, is willing to take a $20 to drop it just a little bit, you are stuck with the "exceptional quality, sleek design and squared corners that add to its contoured look".

Of course, come Halloween next year, that "hand-tailored white crepe interior and hand-painted, high gloss antique gunmetal" will come in handy for your front porch display.You can be thankful that it is galvanized metal, which means that your casket will never rust. So all those nasty kids that let their dogs poop on your yard will get a little taste of their own medicine when you make them poop in their pants after you jump up out of your very own casket on All Hallows Eve.

And, as an added bonus, you can always use the adjustable pillow and mattress to take care of the unexpected house guests that dropped in early for the funeral that now isn't happening.

The one thing that really puzzled me about this mad dash for a slice of the funeral commerce pie however, was the notation on the Walmart site that indicated that you could purchase these items as GIFTS!

G - I - F - T -S. Gifts.

Imagine the surprise on Christmas morning when Uncle Burford opens HIS present."We was thankin 'bout you and thought you might like THIS!"

Of course, it can also make an attractive and timely "Mother-in-Law" gift.

Just who decided Walmart was the next option in line for helping the bereaved through this painful time?

And why on earth is it so dang funny?

Maybe later on I'll have some answers, but right now, I'm too busy thinking about how you'd go about using those handy little gift cards to help you purchase that rose casket you've always wanted when it comes your time to go...

Y'all be nice.

It's a need.

And Walmart is meeting a need.

Just like they always do.

I only have one question: Is it wrong to pick up a six pack of Pepsi and some Cheetos when you're picking up the casket for the services?

Downward Dog and Other Lies

2011-10-12T15:09:00.003-05:00

"Come, you take yoga class. It be good for you. You see, it easy. You like.'

The little Oriental woman who is in my aqua arthritis class invited me. And yes, she really talks that way, that isn't some kind of biased nonsense. She's only been in the USA a very short time and her English isn't that polished yet.

Because she is so nice and because I am trying to figure out just how this gym membership works out for the various classes I'd like to try, I said yes.

I rode the stationery bike for just over 3 miles as the warm-up. I thought I knew what was coming.

Downward dog is code for 'you will hurt in places that even God didn't know you had'. Then, the fun began.

As we went through various moves, positions and maneuvers, our slightly built diminutive instructor talked about how these moves were relaxing and so easy.

As compared with building a space-worthy vehicle from a toothpick and some cotton balls, that may well be true. But the conceptual portion of the class was a universe apart from the reality that aliens who bent in unnatural ways inhabited that mirrored room.

I closed my eye so that I wouldn't be assaulted by the visual image of me and my contorted body to torture my senses. It was bad enough that I was experiencing it both internally and externally. I had no desire to have a permanent visual record of my agony to replay on loop for all eternity.

Even now, several hours later, I am wondering what the point to the various poses really was. Some of them, alleged to stretch various segments of the body, have left a kind of muscular-skeletal agony that is seldom reproduced in a full impact crash with another vehicle. I can attest to that having been in several collisions during my life.

At the end of the class, we were all encouraged to 'lie flat on our backs with our arms stretched out to our sides' so that we 'could enjoy a brief rest'. I confess that mine was more like a spread-eagle pose of complete exhaustion.

Those serene yogi who teach the various yoga positions on television do not sweat. I doubt that their training allows for it since they are all about relaxation, stretching and being so much more than limber.

Since I am neither serene nor yogi-like in my skills, I think I could rival the production of sweat from the last three Preakness winners. I was actually afraid that I might drown in the pool when it came time for that segment of the exercise.

The next time someone encourages you to join a class because you will like it and it will be easy, realize that there are only three reasons they do this.

#1 - they are new to the class themselves and don't want to go alone and since you already share one class, they feel that they are comfortable enough to ask you to attend,

#2 - they are genuinely hoping you will enjoy something new and different,

or, what I consider to be the most logical selection,

#3 - they are the worst in the class at mastering the yoga positions and they have tagged you as the logical replacement for chief laughingstock in the room.

Downward dog is not for wimps and it hurts if you don't do it normally.

I have come to understand that 'yoga' is another 4-letter word. And today it was really naughty.

Grocery Shopping Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

2011-10-08T08:50:00.000-05:00

I live in a small town. We are not well known for much. We DO have the Fiddler's Convention which draws a few thousand people to our friendly community once a year to listen to the bluegrass, the country, the folk and the atmosphere of music on the campus of Athens State University.

Because the town is small, we are shocked when odd things occur. This isn't New York City where the odd is actually commonplace, nor is it L.A. where the odd is considered normal. This is Athens, where we set our watches back about 20 years, where the pace is deliberately slower by choice and inclination and where we believe ourselves to be safe.

But yesterday, I realized that danger is where you find it.

I had found a parking slot near the buggy return at Hometown Grocery. The intent was to get in, get out and get gone. Little did I know that my life was in danger from the second my foot hit the pavement.

As I was walking toward the store, I noticed the Knights of Columbus group hawking Tootsie Rolls for their fundraiser to help the disabled. I continued forward with the intent of telling them to keep the Tootsie Roll but take the donation. That's when fate intervened.

The dude in the car was between 90 and 9,000 and should NOT have been driving. NOT AT ALL. He didn't even look back or into his mirrors while he attempted to back out right over me as I was trying to walk into the store. For the record, I was paying attention. When I proceeded forward, NO CARS WERE MOVING... until HE decided to jack his Caddy into gear and leave his slot without so much as a backwards glance. He didn't even look back one single time when he hit me in my right leg with his bumper as I was walking behind him nor did he look back when I hit his trunk with my clipboard and coupons.

I was then that the lady from the Knights of Columbus shouted out "HEY!!! He's about to hit you!!" Yeah, what was your first clue?

He of the clueless driving aged population already DID hit me and he never even looked backwards, side to side or checked his mirrors. His gold trimmed Cadillac just cruised majestically on as if nothing had happened. Which to his mind, of course, didn't. Not a single thing. I hope I scratched his trunk's paint job with the clipboard and that it rusts clean through in the next rainstorm.

I scooped my beating heart up off the ground and kept walking into the store completely forgetting my donation to the disabled and absentmindedly wondering what it was that I was supposed to do in this store. Oh yeah. I was here to buy groceries. How silly of me! Almost murdered, but the groceries needed to be bought.

Why did that seem so strange now?

As I got my buggy and started the trek through the store, I pondered over the singular event. What would have happened had he actually driven over me? Would he have noticed the not inconsequential "bump" that would have been created when his Caddy ground me into the pavement? What if I had been killed while trying to go into Hometown to buy a rump roast for Sunday dinner? Would it be horrific or hilarious? What kind of News Courier coverage would there be? Would anyone attend the funeral or would the giggles of " it could only happen to HER!" prevent their attendance?

It's hard to gauge just how that would have all panned out since I didn't get killed by the old dude and no one was required to come up with an obituary that tenderly pronounced me better than sliced bread, which all of my true friends would know was a lie anyway.

SOME OLD PEOPLE SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO DRIVE!! At the very least, they should have to have a test for their dexterity performed on a regular basis to see just how they are functioning mentally and physically before they are licensed to drive a two ton machine that can kill people in the parking lot of the grocery store.

I realize that taking the keys from someone who is becoming unsafe behind the wheel is hard. I know firsthand. It's worse than hearing you have to have an enema and a quart of 'go lightly'. But for the life of me (and thank God I'm still alive!), I cannot understand why fear of the anger of an elderly person who is learning they are no longer able to drive themselves around trumps the safety of the OTHER people who are dodging, weaving and jumping curbs to avoid being hit by an elderly driver who should not be driving at all!

We complain a lot about teen drivers. They are young, inexperienced and inattentive.

But we need to concentrate a bit of our efforts of complaint towards the elderly drivers. They are old, slow reflexes, inattentive and cocksure of their abilities long after those abilities have jumped the fence never to return again.

Having been left on the sidelines for a good portion of my life through various injuries, surgeries and recoveries, I understand full well why I shouldn't have been behind the wheel during any of those times. I wasn't safe. Yet the elderly don't give a single thought to the fact that they can't see across the living room, are unable to read the newspaper without the highest magnification lens money can buy and are slower than molasses in January in their reflexes. They can drive because by God, they have a license.

Uh. No.

While I'm sure we are all (or mostly all) thankful I wasn't killed in Hometown's parking lot, I can't help but be in fear for the next time I am in a parking area. People of all ages are inattentive. When can I expect that inattention to catch up to me and bring me to the long, dirt nap?

For the record, my favorite color is blue, my favorite hymn is "Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd" and I hate sappy sermons that make people out to be better in death than life ever knew. So when you are planning my funeral from "grocery-cide" please consider those things.

God bless and happy shopping. Be sure and take your crash helmet, football protective gear and a big ol' whacking hockey stick. You never know when you might need to save yourself from some idiot behind the wheel.

867-5309

2011-09-28T08:01:00.004-05:00

Do you remember where you were and whom you were with when that number became important to you?

I do.

The group 'Tommy Tutone' changed a generation and influence others that have followed with the slightly off center lyrics penned by Alex Call and Jim Keller. One wonders just what inspired their musing and why it became a phenomenon? It's just a phone number, right?

Years after the success from the song, Alex Call claimed there was neither a "Jenny" nor an actual phone number associated with the rambling words that everyone seemed to know. That kind of made me sad because as I sang the words, I truly pictured some beautiful girl who would answer her phone for the wounded young man who so desperately sang her telephone number seeking her help and aid in his troubled life. Now, I am left with the sad image that he called into the void and received only static for his troubles.

But the singers claimed it WAS a real girl and they had posted her phone number on the bathroom wall as a joke and made hay with the results for years laughing at what they had done. Kinda makes me wonder if Elmo La Teca (of the SLC Maverick gas station bathroom stall fame) ever found Jenny's number and what the results might have been?

That number has created problems in the intervening years for those who have actually HAD it as their phone number. Although no area code is provided and we know that the song originated long before 10-digit dialing became the norm in some locations, one can only imagine the puzzling commentary of the folks on the other end of the line when their version of 867-5309 was dialed and some persistent callers demanded to speak to "Jenny".

Worse yet might have been the actual unsuspecting "Jenny" who haplessly answered from HER real area code and phone number who wondered why she was suddenly getting all of these phone calls from half-drunken love starved barflies that sought her attention and advice just before closing time.

Because I care, here's a video of a live performance of the song.

867-5309

Listen to it and remember... then, randomly pick an area code, dial the number and PLEASE ask for Jenny. Then smile and hang up.

And the Monkey Flips the Switch

2011-09-21T18:44:00.002-05:00

We live in a technological age.

Allegedly.

I am discovering the limits of technology in a most personaland frustrating way right now. It has been made painfully obvious to me justhow dependent I am upon the Internet to conduct daily business, news, andcontact with the outside world.

Despite having DSL and then switching to a higher speedInternet service which should have made our lives better, we now have NEITHERthe lower speed, nor the higher speed which was advertised as being “oh so muchbetter”.

Trust me, it’s NOT better. It’s worse.

Instead of having slow and intermittent service, we now haveNO service at all of any kind. With Rick back in school and our son Thomas at aschool in another state, this service interruption has ground ourcommunications to a standstill. It also hampers my ability to play onlineScrabble, a minor consideration, but a consideration nonetheless.

I’ve never felt so ‘Stone Age’ in my life.

In our nation, we have the technology to send men to themoon and communicate with them at distance yet we lack the ability to transacta single simple request for home Internet service that is both reliable andfast. Where have we gone wrong?

For crying out loud, I can go to Burger King and transact a“hold the pickles” order of the mostodd combinations and get exactly what I describe from people who have not yetgraduated from high school however this technological flip of the switch isapparently beyond the skill level of the kind people at the phone company whoare supposed to be ahead of the curve on their brilliance in all things modern.

I am decidedly NOT amused.

Where are the trained monkeys who led the world in spaceflight? Ms. Baker, where are you when we need you most? Oh, yeah, you are dead…which probably explains our lack of noise free phone and Internet service sinceyou aren’t here to make certain the proper sequence of switch flipping hasoccurred. Maybe it’s time to revisit our employment standards and stopdiscriminating against our simian brethren. They could hardly do worse thantheir allegedly more evolved relations.

Now, the delightful young man from Bangladesh who isdefinitely not named Robert assures me that I will not be billed for this‘service interruption’ and that they are doing all in their power to assist mein this request for help.

May I please have a monkey?

I have bananas to pay for the assistance rendered.

I am currently on hold… the eternal game of patience insuffering. The idea is to see just how long you are willing to put your entirelife at a standstill in order to hear someone in a clogged call center in thebasement of the Hotel Bangalore reassure me that my concerns matter to them.

I’m not buying it.

They don’t care or they would have fixed this mess the firstgazillion times we called begging for help. I realize that they work for Satan,but I’m beginning to see that for most of them, they not only love their work,but they love their boss as well. I can see them standing by the water cooler laughingover how many transfers they can put you through before you lose the will tolive. “Yes, Mujibar, I completed 17 transfers through the entire department,through billing and through the customer complaint hotline before‘accidentally’ cutting off her connection right when we were about to ‘resolve’her issues!” Hilarity ensues as the backslapping and high-fiving one anothergives way to sitar music and dancing until the next call rings in.

Why do we put up with any of this nonsense?

In reality, we put up with it because we don’t really havean alternative to the phone company. They are evil and they know it and theyrevel in that knowledge because they know that we don’t have any other choices.Even our cellular service goes through Beelzebub’s phone company.

I yearn for the simpler days when hope sprang eternal thatone day we would have flying cars, food replicators and endless energy suppliesthrough dilithium crystals. I yearn for the days when we understood thatalthough our relatives are more hirsute than we are, they are actually the onesin charge as scenes from “Planet of the Apes” scroll through my mind. Now, theyare saying it could be 7 to 10 more DAYS before they are able to ‘address yourissues’. Bull. They have the power. They just don’t want to wield it in mybehalf because I lack the ability to choose something better than the demonsand imps at the phone company to provide the services I desire to have.

So we are back to square one. Waiting. And waiting somemore. The music from “2001: A Space Odyssey” begins to fill my thoughts as Ipicture simians in jumpsuits driving phone company trucks… and the monkey flipsthe switch… I just wish he’d get to our particular switch a little faster.

Spamalot

2011-09-20T06:59:00.003-05:00

While emptying the spam folder on my email the other day, I realized that I seldom look to see what the spam actually is.

That may or may not be hazardous to my health as there are generally several offers in there which I could use to enhance various body parts that I may or may not own.

Then there are the numerous business opportunities offered to me by the solicitors and intermediaries of various members of the royal houses of Kenya, Nigeria and Zimbabwe, all of which seem to have stored their millions in an offshore account to which I seem to hold the key of release if only I will give them my social security number, bank account number and my dog's shoe size.

They promise they will give me a generous percentage of the bounty if I will comply with their carefully composed request which often contain more grammatical errors than a freshman composition. They also seldom actually KNOW my name which is even more troublesome since they are asking for so much detailed information. Am I actually THE Shelley Merrill they are searching for who has the vast power to return them to their money sucking royal status, or do they want the dude named Shelley Merrill who lives in California?

And since we are asking questions, if the offshore pharmaceutical companies really have my best interests at heart with their various solicitations for products and services they wish me to purchase, shouldn't they care about what gender I am? Confident as I am in the knowledge that Viagra, Cialis and the plethora of lotions and cremes they are hawking are for my own benefit, I have to believe that once again they have me confused with that nice MAN in California who actually owns a penis.

From time to time, Reader's Digest encourages me to enter their sweepstakes virtually guaranteeing me that I AM the grand prize winner with only the mere formality of my participation holding me back from untold millions. I say "Cut to the chase and just give me the loot". Sadly, I appear not to have checked my spam folder to know which little digital stamp I need to transfer to what square to collect the riches held in the initials of S. M. somewhere in Alabama. I am reasonably sure that Sugarbear Mullholland is more than happy with his Reader's Digest check for 75 billion dollars because they sure haven't sent any money to the initials that spell out MY name.

Then of course, there are the various emails from the companies that I no longer wish to hear from but who cannot remove me from their mailing lists because I have forgotten what password I used when I logged into their company website to try and win a trip to Bombay, India. I still get emails encouraging my participation in their latest giveaway promotional that assure me that I might already be a winner.

Spam folders are pretty exciting. When I actually DO check them, I discover that for just a couple of clicks and the paltry sum of $39.95, I can discover who has been searching for me online and do background checks on strangers. I have no interest in either as my plate is full with all the activities that fill my calendar with other people's appointments.

To look at my datebook, you would believe I am the most unhealthy individual walking the planet as a soon to be corpse. There are appointments for doctors, neurologists, cardiologists, oncology specialist, veterinarians and a dental appointment that I will have to reschedule since it falls right on top of a therapy visit that I refuse to miss.

I promise they are not all for me, but they do all require some input from me... it's as if the entire world demands my attention if only to fill out the massive amounts of paperwork that are making some Indian cry somewhere in the world for the loss of forest habitat that I'm causing. Every time an appointment reminder dings, a forest loses another bird on the wing... or something like that.

Spam. It's food but also more. It's the meat product who's name was bogarted by the kind people who now use it as the euphemism for all kinds of digital junk mail. Thomas calls it "stuff posing as meat". I think that definition can be expanded to also include "stuff posing as mail".

The vagaries of life compel me to actually open and check the spam folder from time to time just in case I am missing something I actually need, someone I really want to talk with or some kind of appointment I still have time to attend. Mostly, it's just stuff posing as meaningful. Actually it is far more likely to be stuff pretending to be meaningful than actually being useful to me. Morbid curiosity compels me to check once in a while just to see if I am missing anything. The answer 99.99% of the time is a resounding "NO!".

Meanwhile, I think it's time to have a bite to eat and get ready to cart Jared to the doctor's for his appointment today.

If I use my prep time well, I still have some time to fry up some Spam... I'll save you a slice or two. I promise to email it to you along with a bonus offer for Viagra, the entreaty to save the whales and share your account information with me so that you, too, can be a winner of vast sums of Nigerian currency.

Hopelessly stupid

2011-09-10T23:25:00.001-05:00

For the life of me, I cannot comprehend WHY we do some of the stupid things we do.

Having lived more than 5 minutes, we have accumulated a virtual ton of stuff that we simply wad around from place to place over the 27 years of our married life as if it is important.

Some of it IS important in the sense that during our mortal life, it will come in handy to enjoy the life part of living. Some of it is necessary to prove that we are real people and not just part of the "Chicago political machine" who just vote early and often.

But a vast majority of it is stuff... okay, FINE, have it YOUR way... JUNK.

Junque. Treasures of trash. Tokens of passage. Reminders of a life well lived.

I'm beginning to think it's been lived a bit TOO well.

Take for example the discussion we had not two nights ago regarding the massive amounts of bed pillows we own. Or rather, which own us. It can no longer be described otherwise.

We have about 4 pillows to every man, woman, child, and dog residing in this house. Do we USE these pillows?

Unless we count my recent foot elevating unpleasantness, NO, we don't.

And the reason we don't employ them for our nocturnal positioning needs....?

Yeah, they are uncomfortable as hell because they are as old as our married life, plus or minus a couple of years and pillows here or there.

Yet we KEEP them as if they are a sacred treasure never to be parted from in this lifetime.

Vanna, can I please by some sanity???

If the pillows were the only example of this kind of asinine behavior, it could be excused as a mere trifling eccentricity... like leaving your Christmas lights hung out all year long.

But no.

We are creatures of junk. In the vast and immortal fear that grips our heart, paralyzes our mind and compels us to fill closets with crapola that we are not likely to need, want or use in this lifetime... we have become packrats to the higher good.

What good that is I have yet to discover.

We live in mortal fear that the very item we toss aside will be the very item "THAT CAN SAVE OUR LIVES!" during a crisis.

Trust me when I tell you that the pillows we have so carefully saved cannot be used as floatation devices in case this house makes a water landing. And since we've already established that they are NOT comfortable, we don't even offer them to GUESTS... but we keep them. Guilty shoved into the top of an already overstuffed closet, we keep the damn pillows as if there will never be any more pillows made for all of time and eternity.

Where has my mind fled? I miss it so very much...

Once in a great while, when I am not overcome by the physical reality of the task I'm about to undertake, I wheel our large green curbside dumpster inside to receive the treasured trash that not even the poor want to take. Honestly, I'd feel completely ashamed to put this crap in a yard sale. Almost like I should pay them to cart it away!

Since that is about as likely to happen as me discovering a vague genealogical connection to the Rockefeller's wallets, I think I'm gonna have to suck it up and start tossing things overboard just in case that water landing is in my future.

I think I'm safe in tossing my wedding dress. I have NO daughters and as lovely as it was lo these many years ago, it's hung in the back of closets and storage rooms for the 27 previously mentioned years. Dry rot has set in by now and the dress is unusable. Plus, it has SHRUNK in storage and no longer fits.

Since I'm tossing it, the matching shoes and crinoline slip can also go away.

I have a shopping bag that needs to come out of the closet and sit in my van for holding purchases. The only thing that has kept that from happening is that it is wadded into a corner underneath a few assorted paintings I did in high school. Yeah. I still have that shlock. They will be departing this week. Andy Warhol I am not and the Antiques Roadshow will make me pay them to have them throw them away.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder just how much we have that we could let go and truly never miss?

I do know one thing for sure. The pillows are going away. Far away. To the dump. And I will not miss any of them.

If that means we need to buy a few new bed pillows to fill the void, it will be money well spent. I intend to also buy the little washable covers as well. Then guests are free to use the pillows without worrying who drooled on it last.

Why are we so hopelessly stupid as to be held captive by our junk? Maybe the pioneer companies were right in limiting what they would allow the folks to pack and take toward the western skies.

A friend of mine said everyone ought to be compelled to move every couple of years just so they would learn what they could truly live without.

Like settling for ONE can opener, instead of the six that lurk in my kitchen even though only ONE of them truly works.

Someone needs to save me before they have to call those people on TV to my home to tell me 'What Kind of Fool Am I?".

Y'all have a nice night. I'm going to bed now... and sleep on a pillow that doesn't know that it's about to go to a far, far better place than it has ever known before...

Public Restroom Etiquette

2011-09-05T09:52:00.001-05:00

Public restrooms are a necessity of life. We can find them virtually everywhere. But the way people treat a public bathroom is a disgrace because they have fallen into the mentality of "someone will clean it up".

I'm also not a fan of the way most public restrooms are set up. It's a well known fact that women have more of a challenge using public facilities than men do. Yet, they don't build near enough stalls to accommodate women at a large public facility... it's like they think we are more adept at "holding it" than men are... which might be true simply because we have grown up knowing that our strip tease to take care of business simply takes WAY more time than a man's trip to the restroom will take.

There are, of course, other issues that I find objectionable when visiting a public restroom.

Nothing worse than going to wash your hands after you have completed your appointed task only to discover that there is no soap, water all over the counter and no paper towels and the hand dryer is broken.

Time to cowboy up and do the redneck paper towel routine of drying your hands on the back of your jeans or being forced to do the old 'fling and dry' routine when you are in a dress. I must confess I HAVE had to dry my hands on a dress before. No choices...

By far my biggest pet peeve is the 'buddy system' that apparently exists when choosing a stall. It's like there is a magnetic attraction to the stall that is next to one that's already in use. I am not a public bathroom friend anyway, and the idea that there are a people all around me tends to make my 'shy' in getting the job done.

I was in the locker room this morning after completing my workout. There are about 5 stalls in this room. I went into the facilities and slipped into a stall. The lady who came into the locker room right behind me took the stall right next to mine even though there were three other empty stalls besides the one she chose. Uh... this might not be so good...

I'm not one to cast aspersions on how you manage your trips to the bathroom, but the sudden carrying on in that stall next to me had me wondering if the shaking wall was about to collapse atop me. There was banging and beating upon the wall, roll upon roll of toilet paper being extracted from the little wall dispenser for heaven's knows what purpose (PLEASE don't tell me!) and, oddly enough, there was only one foot visible on the floor with the toes pointing toward the stall door. I'm not sure if she was bracing the door with the other foot (the locks here are NOT broken) or using it for some sort of leverage point for a particularly "difficult" job... the sharp banging and slamming sounds continued.

Then the other noises began. There was sniffling that I swear could have come from your average wooly mammoth, graveyard moaning and some type of shuffling or rustling paper sound that made me wonder if she was running a gift wrapping counter in her stall.

Holy Moses! What in the Sam Hill is going on in that stall???

I have to say at this point, it reminded me of too many unpleasant bathrooming adventures in my travels. Lord knows all God's chilluns gotta go pee, but is there some kind of secret code that says when people are in the stall next to mine they are compelled to make me feel so uncomfortable that I lose the urge to "go" myself? Please, people, when in a public facility unless the line is a quarter mile long, can you PLEASE not go into the stall next to me and proceed to die or to assemble a bicycle which you had carefully tucked into your gym bag? Y'all are scaring the pee right back up the spout!!

Truly not willing to wait around to see if she came out with her Christmas shopping purchases wrapped and ready to slip beneath her tree, I hastily yanked on my clothing and fled to the sinks to wash my hands --- without soap or paper towels. I hate that last minute, hands already soggy feeling when you come to realize that you are left to dry your hands on your shorts because there were no towels within miles or a hand dryer on the wall option.

I'm about ready to declare shrubbery a viable option.

Yeah, I know you are concerned about public decency and the trauma that you might endure if you walk up on me taking care of business. But I'd rather be able to DO my business than spend the next few minutes trying to find someplace to "go" before I wet myself.

Y'all need to learn some bathroom manners!

Please do so before my next trip to the ladies room, would ya?

Love hate relationship with Cooking shows

2011-09-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

Cooking shows are my favorite programs to watch during the weekday if I even have the TV on. Most of the time I listen to the radio or nothing at all but the sound of my own wheezing. On the weekend, they sometimes show them again as filler and to prevent the expense of buying all new programming for the hours of broadcast time that have to be filled with something other than watching paint dry and grass grow.

So, I'm sitting here tonight watching this one cooking program where this dude is making Argentinian barbecue. He rapid fire delivers the ingredients list and the sequence all while dumping the little tiny glass bowls of them into the big bowl.

He is smiling his smarmy little smile into the camera.

I find that I lack BOTH the specific type of meat and the secret ingredients to make my dinner while I watch. I'd like to make the Argentinian barbecue, I really would because it sounds tasty, but he's talking too dang fast, dumping the stuff from the bowl he just mixed up with his fingers into a food processor (which I lack) and showing way too many teeth.

Plus, NOWHERE is there an ingredients list on the screen.

Here's the kicker. I go to his website. His STUPID website. There IS NO RECIPE for today since apparently today's show on our local station was a rebroadcast and I lack the show number to find out which one had the food I wanted to cook.

Grrrrr. He and his barbecue can all go to the devil. In tiny glass bowls.

Why doesn't he have a list of the food names in Alpha order so I can look it up based on the name of whatever he was cooking instead of by show number? I hope he burns his own dinner tonight. I really do.

Then there is the Italian cooking show that I watch from time to time. She uses lots of Italian words when she cooks. I catch some of them because being a Romance language based on Latin, I can understand some things. But then she launches off into the specific Italian names of stuff and she loses me in the translation.

The food looks yummy most of the time. And there are times I wish we had "smell-o-vision" that you could click a little button and sniff the food to see if you might like it.

I'd also like to be able to have the ability to reach into the TV and grab the completed meals from time to time. Can you imagine the look on their face when they turn back around to add the flat leaf Mexican parsley to garnish the top of the magnificent main course they have prepared only to realize I have just stolen it for MY supper??? Muuahahahahahahahahahahaha!

That would be AWESOME! Talk about must see TV!!

I love to learn about how to make new things. I hate the expense that you'd have to go to in order to keep the exotic ingredients on hand to make the new food that my hubby may not even try or like.

Julia Child's program was one of my favorites growing up. Momma would allow us to watch it and I guess from that humble beginning, I fell in love with the idea of cooking food to not only feed the family but once in a while to feed the soul.

I truly admire women who have culinary skills beyond whipping out the can opener.

There is something akin to a spiritual moment to sink your taste buds into a meal that was not only prepared with food and love but with actual skill in the craft and art of cooking.

Since I was young, I've wanted a true chef's kitchen, but I'd also like the luxury of the TV programs . . . you don't really think all those TV chefs clean up after themselves, did you??

They have a 'self-cleaning kitchen' that doesn't require THEIR self to clean it at all...

Some poor TV intern who is wondering why on earth they went to college for all this just to do the dishes is washing up after the show is over for minimum wage. They can't pay off their college loans for television journalism and they probably don't get to taste the food, either.

I love cooking shows. They fill me with enthusiasm for the entire process of preparing a meal for the people I love.

And I hate them.

They remind me that I have devolved into the kind of cook who is more about expedience than elegance and more about budget than beauty.

The ghost of Julia Child is not amused.

Rules to Date My Son

2011-08-23T08:17:00.000-05:00

I read a hilarious blog post about a father's concern for his daughter, who is now dating age. The general consensus was that his girls shouldn't date until they are 35.

That might be a bit extreme. But since I don't have any girls, I'll defer to his wisdom.

However, his post about the rules to date his daughter set me to thinking. If we have rules about how the young men are to comport themselves when they plan to date someone's princess, shouldn't there ALSO be a few regarding the behavior of the young women hoping to date our handsome princes whom we are sending out into the world to slay the dragon, protect the castle, defend the honor of the princess whom they hope to someday receive as the queen of their castle?

So to that end, I have made my OWN list of suggestions and ideas regarding rules, regulations and stipulations to date my son. Here is the application. "Momma's Rules for Dating" follows.

APPLICATION TO DATE MY SON

NOTE: This application will be considered incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage, and current medical report from your doctor.

I. BASIC INFORMATION

(REQUIRED FOR PROCESSING CRIMINAL BACKGROUND CHECK & CREDIT CHECK)

NAME:

DATE OF BIRTH:

HEIGHT:

WEIGHT:

IQ:

SOCIAL SECURITY #:

DRIVER LICENSE #:

NUMBER OF TICKETS/WARNINGS FOR MOVING VIOLATIONS/ACCIDENTS:

YOUNG WOMEN’S PERSONAL PROGRESS: Completed? Yes or No. If no, please explain.

YOUNG WOMANHOOD RECOGNITION MEDALLION: Yes or No. If no, please explain.

HONOR BEE: Yes or No. If no, please explain.

HOME ADDRESS, CITY/STATE/ZIP:

HONOR STUDENT? Yes or No.

CAN YOU COOK MORE THAN MICROWAVE SOUP? Yes or No. If no, please explain.

DO YOU HAVE PARENTS? Yes or No. If no, please indicate which wolf pack raised you.

IS ONE MALE AND THE OTHER FEMALE? Yes or No. (If no, DO NOT CONTINUE APPLICATION!)

NUMBER OF YEARS THEY HAVE BEEN MARRIED:

IF LESS THAN YOUR AGE, PLEASE EXPLAIN:

WHICH TEMPLE WERE THEY SEALED IN:

II. ACCESSORIES SECTION:

A. Do you own or have access to a van? Yes or No.

B. A camper? Yes or No.

C. A waterbed? Yes or No.

D. A hatchback with fold down seats? Yes or No.

E. A tattoo? Yes or No.

F. Do you have multiple earrings, a nose ring, pierced tongue, pierced cheek, pierced eyebrow, pierced boob or a belly button ring? Yes or No.

G. Have you ever ‘sexted’ anyone? Yes or No.

(NOTE: IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THE ABOVE, DISCONTINUE APPLICATION AND LEAVE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY. I SUGGEST RUNNING --- FASTER THAN I CAN UNHOLSTER MY PISTOL.)

III. ESSAY SECTION:

In 50 words or less, what does 'LATE' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does 'DON'T TOUCH MY SON' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does 'ABSTINENCE' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘SELF CONTROL’ mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘INAPPROPRIATE PHONE CALL’ mean to you?

IV: REFERENCES SECTION:

Church you attend:

Meeting Time and place:

How often you attend:

Valid reasons for missing:

When would be the best time to interview YOU?

Your Father?

Your Mother?

Your Bishop?

V. SHORT ANSWER QUESTION:

Answer by filling in the blank. Please answer freely, all answers are confidential.

A. If I were shot, the last place I would want to be shot would be:

B. If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my:

C. A Man’s responsibilities are:

D. The one thing I hope this application doesn't ask me about is:

E. What do you want to do IF you grow up?

F. When I meet a guy, the thing I always notice about him first is:

G. What is the current going rate of a hotel room?

I SWEAR OR AFFIRM THAT ALL THE INFORMATION ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH OR DISMEMBERMENT.

Applicant's signature: (that means sign your name, sugarplum).

Father's signature:

Mother's signature:

Bishop’s signature:

Thank you for your interest in dating my wonderful son. Please allow four to six years for processing as your application will be added to the stack of potential dates for my son in the order in which it was received.

To prepare yourself, start studying “Momma's Rules for Dating” which is available online in WORD and PDF formats for your convenience. There will be an examination.

Momma’s Rules for Dating

Rule One:

If you have asked HIM for the date and pull into my driveway honking your horn, you'd better be delivering him a package of cookies, because you're sure not picking anything up around here. Decent people come to the door for introductions and pleasantries.

Rule Two:

You do not touch my son in front of me. You may glance at him, briefly, so long as you do not peer at anything below his belt. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off my son's body, I will remove them with a wooden spoon.

Rule Three:

I am aware that it is considered fashionable for girls of your age to wear their blouses so loosely that they appear to be falling off their shoulders or so tightly as to restrict blood flow. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with either your bra strap showing or your blouse 2 sizes too small, and I will not object.

However, in order to ensure that your blouse does not, in fact burst open or fall off during the course of your date with my son, I will take my glue gun and fasten a granny shawl securely in place to your shoulders and collarbones.

Rule Four:

I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a 'Barrier method' of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you. Chastity is a virtue for guys and gals both.

Rule Five:

It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about homemaking, crafts, and other Relief Society topics. Please do not do this. I am not interested. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to be dropped off back to your home or apartment, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: 'early, because I need to read my scriptures and do more homework before I go to sleep.'

Rule Six:

I have no doubt you are a popular gal, with many opportunities to date other guys. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my son. Otherwise, once you have gone out with MY young man, you will continue to date no one but him until he is finished with you. If you make him cry, I will make you cry. And yes, guys DO cry when their hearts are broken and trampled just like girls do.

Rule Seven:

As he stands in your front hallway, waiting for you to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not think you are being cute. You are being stupid and discourteous. If you plan to be late everywhere he’d like to take you, then you should not be dating my son. “Putting on your makeup”, a process can take longer than painting the Golden Gate bridge, is not a reasonable excuse for making my son wonder if you are just stringing him along. Instead of having him just stand there cooling his heels, why don't you do something useful? Spackle on a little less makeup and try letting him see the ‘real you’ who can actually tell time!

Rule Eight:

The following places are not appropriate for a date with my son:

1. Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.

2. Places where there is darkness.

3. Places where there is dancing without lighting, holding hands, or happiness.

4. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce you to wear shorts, or t-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka-zipped up to your throat.

5. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided. Movies that feature chain saws are okay as long as they aren’t R rated. Disney movies are okay. Hockey games are okay. But, old folks homes are even better.

Rule Nine:

Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a heavyset, wrinkled, lined, flabby, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been. But, on issues relating to my son, I am the all-knowing, merciless goddess of your universe.

If I ask where you are going and with whom, and what time you expect to return, you have ONE chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I have a pistol, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me because I don’t miss when I shoot.

Rule Ten:

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Should you decide to pay for the date, remember that it takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car revving in my driveway for a group of Emo chicks coming over for a rave (see Rule #1).

When my hot flashes start acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to turn on the pressure hose while I watch you sit in your car impatiently and also when I wait for you to bring my son home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my son home safely and early, then return to your car. There is no need for you to stand on the porch for an hour playing tonsil hockey. Otherwise, I have a pressure hose with your name written all over it.

The stressed, tired looking face at the window is mine.

Can I Have a Cup of Money?

2011-08-19T07:59:00.000-05:00

Immune to reality I am not.

Everyone is making cutbacks and cut outs in today's economic circumstances. We are teetering towards the brink of collapse both individually and nationally.

Riots worldwide are simply the tip of the coming iceberg and the tsunami of catastrophe that will follow from the shocks and aftershocks of discovering that we don't have an endless supply of anything but love.

Sadly, I must disagree with the Beatles and their beautiful sentiment of "all you need is love". I can't remember the last time I paid the light bill with a big hug and a kiss to the folks at the utility company. Chances are had I actually tried to do that, I'd find myself being fitted for a very unattractive day-glow orange jumpsuit.

We have two in college now.

How many ways can you spell "broke"?

I'd love to have a rich uncle or a philanthropic neighbor next door. I'd tap politely at the screen door under the carport and say "I'm a little short on the necessities of life this month. Can I have a cup of money?"

'Sure thing!' they'd say, smiling. 'Been there a time or two and you helped me out!'

And just like we used to swap eggs, flour, butter and other things in a neighborhood barter system, they'd give me what I needed to tide me over and I'd do the same for them in either direct repayment, or by repayment in kind. Lawn mowing, bush pruning and power washing the driveway would be a good start.

Sadly, as the costs continue to escalate for everything from butter and eggs to books and tuition, we are left with a cosmic juggling act to put money here and there and, it seems, EVERYWHERE to pay for the minutia of life that has suddenly become gargantuan.

I can't remember the last time I went to the grocery store in which the prices in the intervening two weeks were the same. A nickel here, a dime over there and pretty soon everything you buy has sneaked up the price to the point that not only does a dollar not go very far, neither does a twenty.

So it is with college bills. Yet, unless you have some kind of special skill, training, education, product, good or service that everyone needs every day or almost every day, you will go broke trying to make it week to week and still have enough money left over at the end of the month just to live.

I truly feel for those who are in a hard-scrabble position of trying to live on minimum wage. But minimum wage is much higher now than it was when I had to live off of it. And even my best paying job paid below what the current minimum wage is!

Times change and so do expenses.

I realize money isn't the answer to everything, but it certainly answers a few of life's more important questions like "did you pay the light bill?" or "why don't we have anything to eat?".

We have come to the point in our spending in which everyone has realize they are in an "oh, crap" mode. When you have trimmed back all the luxuries decades ago and now you are looking at the necessities to determine just what needful things you can trim back, you know you are searching for the cup of money to help you out.

It never ceases to amaze me though, the expanded "rights" people think they need to have. While luxury items have crept in and become necessities to many people, I have tried very diligently to consider just what we truly need and what is just a 'nice idea'.

If someone out there happens to have a spare cup of money, I'd sure like to get a few bucks to buy some textbooks. If not, we will figure something out.

We usually do by making tough choices and with lots of prayers of faith. God provides. He always does.

Savage in waiting

2011-08-17T08:11:00.001-05:00

To most people, their dog is "just a dog". But to those of us who understand the reality of puppy personality and intelligence, there is no such thing as "just a dog"

The ear of a dog can register sounds beyond our own as humans. They can discern pitches that defy our auditory nerve cells to detect.

Gypsy demonstrates this on a daily basis during the school year.

When the school buses run, which they do frequently on our street based upon our proximity to the elementary school, she barks at them all evilly. After all, they definitely contain interlopers and would be usurpers of neighborhood turf - more specifically, HER neighborhood turf.

But she saves her most evil, high pitched, ear drum splitting bark for the bus that arrives to pick up Jared.

She can tell from two blocks away that it is coming. It just sounds different. Thanks to her good training, Gypsy will sit under the carport with me and Jared while the bus backs into the driveway. This temporary intrusion into the sanctified, fortified and amplified barking area is allowed simply because she KNOWS the driver and the nurse on the bus. When a relief driver or substitute nurse has been on the bus from time to time, she looks at them with a jaundiced eye and demands to sniff them out for any evil intent on their part.

They are, after all, taking her baby for a ride in their bus and she MUST be sure that they are worthy of his companionship.

Today, she sat stock still, barking her head off as Cathy expertly maneuvered the bus into our driveway backwards so as to allow room for the wheelchair lift to come down in a safe area for loading. As soon as the bus stopped and Gypsy heard the air brakes chuffing, she turned to me with one ear flicking as if to say "Can I get 'em NOW?"

I told her "You're free!" which is the signal to get up and prance around sniffing everyone and everything giddily. And yes, dogs DO get giddy. At least this one does.

Gypsy prances around on her very tiptoes with a cat-like elegance combined with her very dog-like hunting/herding reflexes well in place. Any stray scent is met with sharp attention. These helpers for Jared must show strict partisanship for Jared and Jared alone.

Other scents must be approved by Gypsy as being okay. Without that approval, she attempts to get onto the bus to drive for herself. The fact that she lacks both a driver's license and CDL as well as lacking the leg length to handle a bus seems to not trouble her in the least.

Her evil smile is enough to let you know that she is watching you VERY carefully.

Gypsy also knows what time it is. With alacrity and accuracy, she leaps from her cushioned bed to go bark at the bus each afternoon. Each bus that passes receives it's own pitch of barking and ferocious teeth. But when Jared's bus arrives, she's all happy barks and waggly tail. She cannot contain her excitement!

Jared laughs at all of this. She is, after all, his baby savage. She loves him as a fierce protector and friend. He loves her as his buddy, pal, chum and furry companion.

Though she is all hugs and kisses and happy barks for Jared, she can turn on an interloper with a different bark in a nanosecond. She can sniff out a stranger and ask for I.D. quicker than the Feds!

Although she can sound menacing, Gypsy really isn't. She will attempt to defend us, but will readily obey when we call her off. Though, like a woman, she grumbles out one last word to let us know any new syllable we might utter is just the start of a different argument.

My rehab is going well on my ankle and I can't wait to be cleared for some light walking. I know Gypsy will be happy to see the leash come down from the coat rack. I just hope she can contain her "Wolfgang" enthusiasm and not go so fast that she churns ME into butter...

Oh the joys of having a savage in the home!

School Daze

2011-08-15T07:37:00.000-05:00

The bus has come and whisked Jared away to school. Yes, he DID graduate, but due to his special needs, he can still attend at Tanner until he turns 21. Which is a blessing for him. I am pretty much ZERO fun around the house and cannot duplicate all that is available to him at his school.

We are on the waiting list for the only adult program in our county and have been told that whenever the call comes to have Jared enrolled that we should now take it. I hope it doesn't come until Jared finishes his 21st natal year so that he can enjoy the full day at Tanner.

He was smiling as the lift carried him up into the bus.

I think if he had his way about it all, we'd buy him a bus to drive him around in simply because they bounce over the roadways and give him a 4x4 ride experience that reminds him of his Daddy's big truck that is now long gone. If it were possible, Jared would rig it up to jump other cars, fly over railroad trestles with a big bump takeoff and a bigger bump landing and a GPS that mapped out every single pothole and bouncy road in the county.

Gypsy was anxious to see that Jared and all of the attendant school supplies were loaded up. THREE boxes of goodies to get him started. As soon as all was loaded, she decided SHE should accompany him to the school.

Not so fast little fur bag!!! You drag your carcass off that bus!!

Jared was giddy with laughter. I'm sure he was thinking how nice it would be to have Gypsy accompany him, lie at his feet at each work station and rest on the bed beside him during nap time.

What he and Gypsy either one neglected to mention was the barking she would most certainly do since to her, everyone at the school is an interloper and must be defended against at full volume.

She would enjoy that role.

I'm sure the teachers would not.

Gypsy is currently lying on the floor directly beneath the ceiling fan sulking. I have ruined her good times for the day and she can't understand why she wasn't allowed to accompany her baby to school.

As Jared begins another year, I cannot help but smile as he smiles. This is a wonderful time for him. He gets to see his old friends and make new ones as new children join his classroom. He so enjoys the time to learn to master new skills.

Sadly, that also means that once again, the house is quiet with only me and Gypsy here.

I guess I should start the laundry so there will be some noise in the house besides the sound of my own breathing.

Holy Moses and all the Twelve Apostles!

2011-08-12T14:11:00.000-05:00

Has something ever happened that just turned you into a complete paranoid within seconds?

I find myself in that position right now.

While I have a daily supply of paranoia that I save for spiders attacking me, snakes randomly appearing on television programs I had previously enjoyed and the occasional, random late night car in the driveway when no one is home but me.

But sometimes, someone says something that just gives you the heebie jeebies and makes you question yourself with extreme prejudice.

Today, that has occurred.

Most of the time, I don't give a single thought to what people do when I'm not around. I don't suffer any delusions that animation happens only when I show up. Frankly, people are more than likely more animated OUT of my presence. It's that 'wet blanket' effect that I sometimes exude.

I also am well aware that people I know actually HAVE a life that doesn't involve me and doesn't require worshipful thoughts of me when I'm nowhere around.

Frankly, that would be a little creepy anyway to think that someone is all gooey and weepy-eyed when I'm not around. That's just gross.

But now, I have been warped. As if my mind wasn't already bent enough!!

I don't care what other people do when I'm not around. At least I used to not care... now I'm not so sure.

Maybe I DO care!

Maybe I DO WORRY!

No, wait, maybe I don't.

Maybe I'm happier not giving a molecule of thought towards what other people do when I'm not around. It's more than likely a break for the other people I know for me to NOT be in their presence anyway.

And maybe I'm just fine with the idea that other people can fully enjoy the company of one another without my permission or gaze to detract them from their fun.

I think I'm fine and happy.

I was earlier...

Am I now?

See, that's the real crummy part of being paranoid. Now everything is suspect.

DANG IT!!! I wasn't this screwed up this morning during breakfast!!! WHAT HAPPENED!!

Holy Moses and all the Twelve Apostles, this is just not right!!

Why did all of this pseudo controversy have to erupt?? I think I need to lie down.

Will people speak ill of me if I do?

Do I care what whisperings might circulate if I nap?

Funny, I didn't care about that yesterday. Of course, I didn't take a nap yesterday either.

Is it possible to be paranoid of YOURSELF?

You and Tequila

2011-08-11T09:17:00.003-05:00

Sitting here. I've been reading about all kinds of things this morning from education to recipes to the state of the nation and hedgehogs. Sure, it's a varied menu of material, but boredom does that to you. While reading along, I was listening to Kenny Chesney while I did some of the reading.

'You and Tequila'

♪♫When it comes to you
Oh, the damage I could do
It's always your favorite sins
That do you in ♫♪

That particular turn of phrase caught my attention last night and again this morning. "It's always your favorite sins that do you in". Something to ponder for sure. We ALL have our weaknesses. No rational person wants their personal ills to be on display, yet when it comes to the lifestyles of other people, the carnal side of us tends to think their favorite sins are so much worse than our own.

Tabloid media and the Internet and its 24 hour presence reassures us that whatever our favorite sins, there is ALWAYS someone else much worse. They display their version of the truth in living color, or at least as near it as they can manage from a running person holding a camera trying to take a photograph of just another sinner from a distance.

Isn't that the reality? We see EVERY ONE'S sins from a distance, sometimes including our own.

Who wants to own up to who they are when they think no one is looking? Who wants to walk into the room and have a group gathered around a pile of sins and then have them all watch you carefully to see which ones you pick up and shoulder as your personal load in life?

That would be humiliating, right? To know that everyone around you knew your struggles and failings and personal suffering that is sometimes too hard to bear? The harsh light of judgment falls heavily when the sins that another suffers aren't your own.

After all, they must somehow be WORSE, right? The answer to that is 'no', not worse, just different.

We all choose to bow down to the mortal failings that are our eternal struggle in this life. It is eternity that is in the balance. If we do become, as the lyrics elsewhere in the song suggest, "Hell bent on getting high", through the application of that pet sin, then we suffer, we struggle and sometimes we fall.

How can our pain be less than the other people around us who are likewise on their knees crying out for relief from the individually crafted hell that we tend to create for ourselves through our stupid, prideful, anguished and sinful choices?

The only difference I can see is that some choose visible sins and others don't. Doesn't make one "better" than another... it's just a different kind of pain. We drown out our pain in all kinds of ways. I won't list them, frankly a list makes me feel depressed because so many of them apply to me. That stings and I'm not a fan of pain.

Often, we hear people prescribe the 'Band-aid treatment' of just ripping off the bandage and doing so quickly. Trying to break free from sin is kinda like that. You can't partially remove just a segment of the sin by peeling back a corner. That only increases the power of Satan to continue to torment you to come back in all the way. It's like keeping a different kind of booze in the house and hoping you won't turn to it when you 'need' some of your favorite drink.

I remember once talking to a man who told me that the only way to get rid of a sin completely was to throw it out and every reminder of it so that you could start with a clean slate. That included everything from physical reminders of the sin, to circumstances, people and thought patterns that renewed the desire to continue that sin.

That's a hard sell for all of us. We don't want to think our good times have to come to an end that way. We want to wean ourselves from it as if we had the control to do so. But we lack that control.

More lyrics illustrate the point magnificently:

♫♪♫ 'Cause you and Tequila make me crazy
Run like poison in my blood
One more night could kill me, baby
One is one too many, one more is never enough

Thirty days and thirty nights
Been putting up a real good fight
And there were times I thought you'd win

It's so easy to forget
The bitter taste the morning left
Swore I wouldn't go back there again ♪♫♪

Our ability to swear to something and mean it with every fiber of our beings only lasts as long as our true intention to depart from the places and reminders of sin. If you still live in Sodom and Gomorrah, is it possible to stay clean from the influence? It's a lot like the old saw about a drunk who owns a bar. The irony of attempting to stay away from the booze yourself while selling the poison to another doesn't escape me.

Sometimes relationships with people are just as toxic. There are people who spread the kind of poison that booze does. It leaves a mark in your soul as well as in your physical yearning for more even when you know that what you are doing is killing you off a little bit at a time.

We never know the point at which we reach the "one more night" that will kill us, either physically and/or spiritually. It's like a child playing with fire hoping to never get burned. So far, every person I have ever met has a scar or a story about getting burned despite whatever best intentions or rationalizations that had gone on before.

I keep reminding myself that our entire lives are counted in the journey to "become"... not just the life we are living at this mortal moment. That's a pretty good thing, considering that we all fall down from time to time in our efforts to shake off the chains that bind us fast to the very things that hurt us the most.

It's a comforting thought to know that we have time to separate ourselves from our 'favorite sins' just so long as we keep trying. And it's a scary thought to think that the moment we give up on ourselves and stop trying might be the one moment that we lose it all.

Never give up the fight. The battles are always won in the 11th hour and we are always aided by our Savior in that very moment when our strength flags and we cry out to Him for the rescue to happen. He comes in and binds up our wounds and helps us to overcome, so long as we never stop trying.

'Favorite sins' may very well make me crazy, but I know that Jesus Christ can bring both hope and sanity into my personal struggles. He's already promised victory, I just have to be willing to give away a temporary thrill for something that can last for this lifetime and all eternity.

Crack the whip or smack the knuckles

2011-08-08T12:07:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, I had this one piano teacher who employed a ruler when a wrong note sounded.

Play a "C" instead of a "B-flat" and CRACK! the knuckles got a smart rap with the ruler.

It was meant to be a firm reminder. It reminded me alright. I learned to memorize my music and avoid doing something that gave me bruised knuckles.

When training horses, people use a quirt or a whip to make a cracking noise to remind them that whatever action is being performed isn't up to standard.

I'm beginning to wonder if those same tools might not be effective in Washington, D.C.

I can't speak for everyone else because I am NOT everyone else, but around THIS house, we don't spend more than Hubby makes. We can't afford to do so. When the checkbook says 'NO', it means 'NO!!!!'. That doesn't hold true for D.C., who apparently work like Blondie from the Blondie and Dagwood cartoon where she thinks she isn't bankrupt because she still has checks.

No clue!! I realize that is supposed to be a funny 'blonde moment', but the nation isn't laughing at the "blonde D.C." anymore. We ARE broke. Michael Moore and Hollyweird can't change that by spouting off useless rhetoric. We have bankrolled programs, nations and aid that are miring us further and further into debt we cannot hope to pay off even if we take every dime on the planet.

It's time for some painful adjustments by everyone concerned, not just the "flyover part of the country". The middle class is being taxed out of existence and there are not enough "rich people" to pay the bills for even one year even if we tax them at 100%. The math just doesn't add up. Here is a WONDERFUL illustration to prove the point:

EAT THE RICH VIDEO

It's time we got some severe looking and severe acting piano teachers and "schoolmarms" who will employ that ruler or quirt to emphasize lessons that should have been learned in elementary school 'rithmatic.

Attempt some pass through pork? *SMACK* "We don't have the money for that, young man!!! Try again on those figures!"

Try to slip in a boondoggle? *WHAP* "We can't pay for that unsustainable program, young lady!! Better rework that checkbook balance!"

We could have a debt clock installed on each desk and podium in the building. Each hallway would have drop down signs showing the ever changing numbers of the debt piling up faster and faster as they in D.C. keep forgetting how to add and subtract.

Each day should begin with a prayer for guidance and the willingness of heart to not only receive the guidance but follow it in righteousness. Then the Pledge of Allegiance - no one who claims to represent our nation should be allowed to take one of the offices of this country and refuse to say the pledge as a badge of honor in their service to our country. No one. No matter how 'bright' they may claim to be, if you do not have an undying love for our nation, our freedoms, our liberty and the God who has granted us our bounteous blessings, it should disqualify you from service. And I don't care if that isn't politically correct.

I am sick of people telling everyone that God has no place in our nation. The reason we are in the mess we are in - politically, financially, and morally - is because we have told God "thanks, but no thanks, we don't need you". Then we have the national hubris to wonder why things once golden are turning quickly to crap.

When we have opened the meetings, the first thing that should happen is a roll call, just like in school. NO CREDIT FOR ATTENDANCE or PAYCHECK will be issued for those who are not there. PERIOD. You were not elected to play hookey.

Then, a sobering reminder of the nation's debt and financial obligations should be read each day along with the amount of interest that is being paid by current and future generations to guarantee that which is unsustainable and impractical.

This is the point where the severe folks with the rulers and quirts or whips come into play. Anytime someone brings forth another expensive bill, there should be some raps with the rulers.

Displays on a front screen showing Income and Expenses should ALWAYS be current just like in a check book balance where we show in real time just where the daily money is going and how much of a deposit due to tax revenue and other forms of actual income is going into the account.

No fuzzy math based upon projected income will be allowed.

Everything must be done based upon that days' forward balance and take into account every single penny which is owed to our creditors with the prime responsibility being that of paying off our indebtedness. That will mean unpleasant cuts in things that people have come to erroneously believe are "rights". Boo hoo.

In medical terms, when gangrene has set in, is it better to do some cuts and trim back the affliction and save the body or wait until the disease is so far spread that we lose the patient entirely?

We ARE at that point, people!!

It's time to realize that whatever we thought was in the checkbook simply isn't there. Time to learn to do more to take care of ourselves instead of hoping "the government" will do it for us.

Time to do more with much, much less.

And past time to learn to say "NO" and mean it even thought lots of people will be angry. Their anger is no reason to continue to spend ourselves into bankruptcy and financial bondage, yet that is what we are doing.

Crack the whip! The horses are trying to run in the wrong direction and they are destroying the entire wagon in the process... if we stop them now, repairs may yet be made to salvage both the wagon and its contents.

Otherwise, everything will go over the cliff and neither horses nor riders can be saved.

The chin hair's connected to the ...

2011-08-05T20:17:00.000-05:00

Slave to fashion and beauty I am not.

But sometimes, reality compels that certain beauty remedies must take place.

To prevent being mistaken for a "lovely" Cro Magnon woman, I will sometimes trim, tweeze and pluck out the odd vestige of the hirsute past of my ancestors. It may look good on them, but trust me when I tell you, it's not attractive on me.

As I have gotten perilously closer to the half century mark, my legs haven't needed so much shaving as has my chin, lip, cheeks and eyebrows. I fear that I look like a blond version of the museum exhibits at the Smithsonian. Ooh, ooh, aah, aah. I never have subscribed to the notion that I am descended from the characters on "The Planet of the Apes". However, I may be descended from their hair. That may be a separate DNA study altogether.

The frustrating part of all that trimming, plucking and tweezing is that I am a real baby when it comes to yanking out those hairs. You'd think after all the agony I've put my body through over the years that ripping a tiny hair out would be a walk in the park.

Sadly, I have discovered an anatomical truth that few realize: the chin hair's connected to the brain cell... directly... through some kind of ganglia that connects it to the most pain-filled receptor in the entire body.

Unlike those women on TV ads who can wax their legs and smile as they rip down to the follicles, I have to grit my teeth and bite my tongue to prevent the screaming that would most assuredly come out of my mouth otherwise.

How can truly hairy women stand all that wax and rip jazz? Perhaps in their minds, the Cro Magnon woman from which they sprung is immune to the pain.

I am reasonably certain that my Cro Magnon woman was a wuss.

If left to grow on its own recognizance, can I make the hair long enough to apply for a part time gig with the side show? Or is there another chick who has beat me to the job because her DNA was all ape? Either way, tempting as it sounds to make money from the furry coating, I truly don't want to be known as the woman who can braid her chin hairs.I'd much rather look like those smooth-skinned beauties who grace the covers of magazines. They look like they don't even OWN any follicles on their faces.

I realize that they are altered, appliqued and airbrushed to be more than they can be under laboratory conditions. I've seen proof of it. And after the digital manipulations occur, their own mothers would be hard pressed to identify the child that is theirs in real life.

But is it too much to ask that some of that digital perfection be rendered in MY direction? My sons will be just fine with facial hair... I'll donate ALL that I don't currently want or need. It's only fair that I do so. They are my sons, they are DUDES and facial hair is expected on men.

Where is the digital master of beauty who can keep me from experiencing the pain of yanking out my brain cells through each follicle? Hasn't The FDA developed some kind of Jetson-like technology that will allow me to literally 'put my face on" and look presentable under all traffic conditions?

If not, they have sure been wasting the money we give them! While they are deployed into the U.S. of A. and are out inspecting pig carcasses, surely they can spare some of their best scientists to make sure women look more like women and less like museum worthy specimens?

We study cow flatulence on government grants. Can't we spend a dime or two working on hair removal?

I think the last tweezer session has rendered my brain numb.

Maybe ice cream will help.

But now I'm worried that those same less than benevolent science types will discover that ice cream creates facial hair and animal crackers cement that hair to the deepest recess of the brain tissues cell by cell.

Is it a realistic fear? Dare I risk the damage?

Maybe if there is chocolate sauce on top...

Hey, if I'm gonna go hairy, I'm gonna go with chocolate sauce dripping down my whiskers.

And Satana laughed...

2011-08-03T12:16:00.000-05:00

When you leave the PT pool and the kindly sister of Satan says "You are gonna hurt after this session" and she is smiling... take her at her flame throwing word.

Today was the Dante's Inferno Poolside.

Doing water therapy is healing and restorative. In that way that I mean "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

We started with the exercises that I learned in the last pool session. I was proud that my diligence in home exercising was paying off. So far, so fairly painless.

THAT was about to change.

What strikes fear into the hearts of PT patients everywhere is the cute little phrase, "Today, we're gonna try a couple of NEW things!" They smile when they say it. Almost being friendly. Lulling you into a false sense of security. Making it seem like we are all chums, pals, buddies... but soft, what is that evil laughter I keep hearing?

"Come over here to the drop off."

The DROP OFF!!!???

Then the real fun begins... with an angelic smile on her face (and by that I mean Hell's Angels), she demonstrates that I will be placing the surgical leg on the edge of the cliff. Then, with the alleged good leg, I will be performing a series of leg lifts in all directions while allowing full weight bearing to take place. Yippee!

The thrashing around convinced Satana that I needed a little help. So I was given a pair of pool floats that looked a lot like foam barbells with 6 weights on each one. Positioning them under my arms and using my hands to move the upper three 'weights' per side up and down to alter my relative vertical position in the water, I began to perform all kinds of leg lifts.

Just when I thought the paramedics would have to drag me from the pool, it was time to ride the bicycle in the water. That isn't all that easy...

I had worked my way up to 6 minutes on the stationary bike in the gym yesterday. Today, I got to "ride the water bike" for about 20 minutes.

Solemnly, I testify to you that yes, indeedy, it is possible to watch your legs turn into spaghetti. Don't be jealous. I'm going to crush up a bunch of Percocet and rub it directly onto my ankle. I plan to add some marinara sauce later on.

If I Drown, Do I Still Have to Pay the Co-pay?

2011-07-28T19:50:00.012-05:00

Wednesday was the first time for PT in the pool. Water is so relaxing. . . unless Satan's sister Satana is there to make sure you hurt in places you didn't know you had.

Of course, I tease. The therapist was wonderful and kind and just doing her job. I think... It didn't make my ankle hurt any less to know that in the deep recesses and folds of my cerebellum.

The invitation was extended to 'come on into the pool'. Gingerly, I set my remaining crutch by the side of the pool . The first of the pair was across the room by the little park bench where I'd slipped off my single tennis shoe and sock peeled off the storm trooper boot, then dropped my gym shorts and shirt so that I could peel down to my swimsuit.

Slowly, I winced and hobbled to the stairs with all the grace of an elephant while trying to keep from slipping on the water splashed pool deck.Why did going down the steps seem like a good idea? Wouldn't diving in have been easier?

I think I officially set fire to my left ankle just going down the steps getting into the pool... and you didn't think stuff burned when immersed in the water. HA! Now you know.

The therapist asked me to drift over to her side by the wall so the preliminaries could begin. Instructions were tendered and I began walking across the pool with a lap constituting one repetition or REP, as the cool people say.

I was instructed to do 5 reps of the walking. Okay, this might hurt a little bit, but I'm trusting that eventually the fire in my pitifully sore joint will burn my ankle nerves completely away or the pain will subside. After about 2 1/2 laps, the pain DID subside. I was grateful! Maybe this water therapy was going to be a GOOD thing!

Then, Satan's sister laughed. I'm sure she did. Someone laughed. I heard it! I'm certain!

"Great job! Now, do 5 more laps, but this time, walk BACKWARDS!" It was said so off the cuff that it seemed benign. But what started out as benign was actually malignant... malignant, malicious and mean! Did you know that when you are walking backwards that you are pushing off on your toes, ball of the foot and ankle with roughly the approximate pounds per square inch of a Mack truck? Yeah, me neither.

But I came to that understanding pretty quickly. The fire that had been extinguished only moments before was now replaced by Vulcan's forge with my ankle being the precious metal being hammered on the anvil. Ooooo weee! I rehearsed a few exciting thoughts and words in my brain.

I walked sideways both directions doing the grapevine moves that make marching bands look precise. I only looked drunk. Good thing I was in the water, or I would have hurt myself falling down.

As the time ticked on, the walking was followed by a 'gentle Achilles stretch' like runners and walkers use to prepare for their exercise. It was gentle... every single time I stopped... then I had to go up on my toes and then raise up the toes while balancing on my heels.

A gal can work up a sweat doing those little gems! But, the evil of the day wasn't over. Nope. All good things come to those who wait. And the therapist had waited for this next little doozy.

For weeks now, I have been doing a one-legged ballet in the bathroom and shower. My right leg has suffered for the one-sided effort. However, the pain was going to be shared today in a most exciting way. Satana had lots of fine plans for me.

"Time to do some leg lifts!" I misunderstood the concept. Satana smiled. It wasn't lifting the left leg she had in mind at all. Oh no! That would be waaaaaaaay to easy. Instead, she wanted me to SUPPORT my weight - MY FULL WEIGHT, on the surgically corrected ankle and lift the right leg in straight leg raises!!

The best part is, I was NOT to hold onto the wall. NONE! I could touch it with my fingertips to steady myself if I felt like I was about to be dragged into the undertow of the therapy pool surf but that was all. (trust me, there was a surf... three other people were there churning one up to help in Satana's diabolical plans!)

As my trembling left leg was protesting the violation of its wounded and shell-shocked tendons while I struggled to maintain even a weekend drunk's balance, the thought crossed my mind "I'm having to pay $25 bucks of co-pay for each one of these visits! If I slip under the surface of the water and drown, do I still have to PAY the co-pay?"

Then I realized it would probably wind up costing more to drown. Sanitizing the pool and paying off the other horrified class members because of the yukky dead body bobbing in the water that had ruined everything was gonna be expensive.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

HOLY FLAMING COW PIES AND CAT SNOT! THAT HURTS!!

And I only had to do twenty reps... hee hee.

Finally, I made it all the way up to the big number 20 on the rep count and was granted a breather.

Did you know PT also means partial torture? Yeah, it does.

Did I mention that stairs hurt going down? Yeah, they do, but they hurt much worse when you practice lifting yourself up with your bad leg over and over and over. By the time "uncle" was called and I tapped out, the therapist told me to sit on the steps for some ROM exercises that she would perform.

The evil laughter was loud.

When I got changed and back into my street clothes to stagger towards the lobby where Beth was waiting, she asked if I wanted to wait by the door or hobble out to the truck. I confess that numb, endorphin-driven euphoria most certainly took over and spoke up for me saying I'd walk to the truck. In retrospect, I am thinking "what idiot said that???"

It's all good though. I don't have to go back to the pool until next Wednesday. With any luck, the building with catch fire and burn to the ground. HA!

I should be so lucky... because come next Wednesday, I know that the smiling face of Satana will welcome me into the warm waters of the River Styx that carries all PT patients through Purgatory and back.

At least I hope there is a return trip...

Help meeeeeeee!

Dream Catcher

2011-07-26T07:35:00.001-05:00

It's happened to all of us at one time or another. You are right in the middle of an awesome dream! It's better than anything you have ever seen at a movie theater! The colors are bright and vivid, you are in the center of the action and the surroundings are crystal clear. If only you had some way to capture this moment it would make millions of dollars and be more culturally worthy than anything to hit the marquee in decades...

then the alarm rings and the dream is gone - POOF!

All that remains is a disquieting feeling that you just experienced something amazing but you can't even lay a finger on its fringe now.

Sad, but true.

Conversely, there is another dream truth.

Any horrible life altering nightmare you have ever had will likely be replayed as late night fodder for an overactive mind. It is as if the bad stuff is a long run theater production that no one wants to really go see but everyone is compelled to attend because we owe a favor of some sort to the director and his tacky kids are in it. We dare not miss it.

Nightmares are always repeaters for me. I can think of a lot of pleasant dreams and recall snatches of detail that is lovely. But the nightmares, I can describe in a brilliance and wonder that would belie their nasty content. Years ago, there was a comic strip that talked about just such a thing.

"They'll Do It Every Time" showed a happy woman skipping through daisies in a pleasant dream only to have it snatched away leaving only a vague sensation of the momentary joy. But let the same woman have a dream of spectral terror, and it comes back night after night leaving her screaming from her bedroom begging for help.

Why does our mind play those kinds of tricks on us?

And can anything be done to change the bad to good?

There are those who claim to have special insight into the meaning of dreams. Entire websites are dedicated to "dream dictionaries" and vouch for the authenticity of their definitions.

But like the psychobabble of days past, I have to say, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar!'

Other than Daniel's Godly interpreting of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, I haven't heard of a whole lot of spot on commentary on why we dream the things we do - for good OR for ill.

I like to think that a frantic pace and worried mind lends some weight to the issue. Sometimes, whatever is troubling me shows up in my dreams in fractured format. Other times, it's like I'm role playing my way through various solutions as I sleep.

Either way, I don't always find the answer or definition to the dream.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream!

There are times the dream is so wonderful that I wish science had figured out a way to create a dream catcher to preserve and share the great stuff. Other times, I am deeply grateful that technology doesn't exist because the nightmares of their varying hues of blackness disturb me to my soul.

I remember hearing a story from when I was a child, about how when it was bedtime, pixies would come and sprinkle dream dust on us to give us good dreams. I doubted that or worried what kind of fairy I was getting because even as a little kid, I had nightmares.

What kind of perverted fairy scoops up little bags of black dust to sprinkle dreams of spooky fright onto an impressionable child who is afraid of the dark and give them images of ghost in the closets, skeletons under the bed and evil outside the windows?

I wanted the fairy that gave dreams of ponies and flowers and happiness.

Apparently, then and now, I have a fairy with a warped sense of humor. For every pleasant few nights, I am compelled to endure at least one night of heart pounding, pulse racing, sweat provoking, scream inducing, sleep depriving torture via my own dreams.

Does anyone know what bait you use to trap the dream fairy?

I'd like to catch that little waif and give her a taste of her own dusty medicine.

She's Got the Boogie Fever

2011-07-21T13:55:00.000-05:00

Boogie Fever

Nothing compels movement more than the inability to actually move.

I have been mentally revisiting the halcyon days of my youth when going to dances and strutting what little stuff I possessed was a good time.

My musical confessional must include the various groups that appeared on American Bandstand, Soul Train and the Casey Casem Top 40.

Save for the few people who had actually learned to dance in a studio, most of us learned our suave moves from watching the dancers on television and thinking that we were exact matches of what we had seen them perform.

Don't confuse us with the facts, facts aren't important when you have sweet boogie down disco moves.

I don't dance now. I'm in fear of throwing something out and that something never coming back. I've always wanted to take dance lessons, but I don't think I want to dance with any of my sisters that much (no offense gals!) and Rick has informed me that the Second Coming is a more likely prospect than getting dance lessons.

I'd go by myself, except with my height, they'd pair me up with some old lady with a better mustache than I have because there aren't enough guys in the class. I know this for a fact because when I took a dance class in college, I danced with a lot of nice girls because we outnumbered the guys 10 to 1.

Play That Funky Music

Of course, the discovery that there was just some music that even now is a sort of a time transporter was awesome! I can listen to some music and remember the sights, sounds and cologne worn by a guy I finally got to dance with to some of the finest music on the planet.

Oh, to be able to go back and pick up the body I had then, but keep the brains I have now!!

That still isn't possible, is it. Dang it? I would have thought technology could have done a better job on that account. After all, this is the generation of microwaves and online banking!

Guess it's time to take my boogie fever on out to the car for my appointment.

'She's got the boogie fever (boogie fever baby) she likes to boogie down (get on down, get on down)'

Go get your own disco shoes and handkerchief dress, 'kay?

Nothin' Beats a Great Pair of Legs

2011-07-18T22:56:00.000-05:00

I read with amused interest all the fooferaw about the Princess Kate wearing *GASP* sheer pantyhose on her whirlwind tour of the British Empire and The Colonies.

Big whoop.

Down here in the good ol' American South, it is considered downright tacky to be improperly attired when in a public setting. There are some occasions that simply demand hosiery. Formal settings and special circumstances mean that a chic, well put together woman hie herself down to the lingerie department and get some accessories for her legs.

To be clear on this concept, your average barbecue in the back yard with weird Uncle Nate and his lovely fifth wife Glorianna who has the mustache isn't a hosiery moment. Frankly, going to a barbecue is a jeans and t-shirt event for most people and in some cases, depending upon temperature, it may well be time to whip out the shorts and sunscreen.

Formality in public, however, is a different ani-mule entirely. Due to her carefully selected ensembles and attractive footwear, The Princess has sparked somewhat of a run on hosiery in the Empire (pun not intended).

Now, we see if this sense of public propriety will last.

I gotta tell you that I am not a fan of the chalky legs that I see around me a lot. It's like most women have never heard of lotion. Nothing is more unattractive than seeing the roughened, chapped legs and cracked, peeling heels of a gal who apparently doesn't know that pumice stone and a moderate soak with a fine spritz of scented oil can glam up her gams and tootsies.

I remember back a few decades ago, there used to be an entire industry built around an egg filled with a variety of hosiery products in various rainbow hues and textures. Now, the average woman is lucky to find a couple of pair in her size in her choice of "suntan" or "beige". No one is beige. And if they are, they need to seek professional help immediately! And frankly speaking, the "suntan" they are peddling looks like the crayon factory went wild on someone's legs because it just ain't natural.

Bravely, we push forward hoping to find the hosiery that will make us look "stunning" or at the very least passable in public.

I think in the passing years of hosiery madness, I have worn about every color they used to sell except for the unfortunate yellowy color that makes my legs look more Big Bird than hot momma.

And speaking of which, who in the devil thought naming panty hose Big Momma for a "big gal" was a good idea? I mean the gals on the package looked like calendar girls for the Krispy Kreme centerfold. Who wants to be reminded that even if the hose are the right size, you still look like a hippo wearing them?? Really??

Then there were the ads of the bygone days. A little brat, uh, I mean boy, is at the zoo with his harried and long-suffering mother. Said brat looks at the tired woman who has hiked the entire Zimbabwe trail with Junior about 70 times in 104 degree heat. Her curls have fallen out. Her makeup has long since run down into her collar and the ungrateful troll looks up at her and says: "Your panty hose are wrinkly just like the elephant's!" Rich comedy from a room full of MALE advertisers, I'm sure. I would have knocked that kid into the middle of next week for saying that to me after trying to be fashionably chic in a Serengeti Oven.

Of course, the whole point of doing any of this parade of hosiery sensation is to mask the true nature of our legs and feet. We want them to have some support, some color, some style. And we want the hosiery to make us more 'elegant' than 'elephant'. Sometimes, by the end of the day, we settle for any word starting with the letter "e"... try 'exhausted'.

Men don't generally have to struggle over how their hosiery fits unless they are the lead in the Joffrey Ballet Company. Even then, the women in the audience are not looking to see that his seams are straight or what color matches his tunic. They are much more concerned with just how he can manage move that way and not scream when he does the splits through the air.

Because I feel the need for full disclosure, I do hold the World Record for panty hose destruction. From package to legs to ladders in seconds, that's a lot of money wasted in a short amount of time. During the winter, I try to get dark colored tights to do the job with heavier skirts to keep warm. I am not a fan of freezing.

Sadly, some tights don't last out of the gates any longer than thinner hosiery. I am left to wonder what cursed evil is either on my fingers or on my legs? Do I have some odd hidden hair that is actually can opener sharp that whips into action to shred my hosiery?

Or do I possess a feral cat-like dew claw that is able to hide until just the right nanosecond in order to destroy whatever I am applying to my legs that isn't an athletic sock or an Argyle?

I know women with great legs. I even envy them. They have something I lack. They have legs that can turn heads for the right reasons. Maybe that is what the fooferaw is all about. People are beginning to rebel against the slapdash and looking for the polished. I sure hope so.

Or maybe they are sick of the glare and horror of chalky, flaky skin on the legs and cracked heels stuffed into fancy shoes without proper adornment.

Either way, I come back to that age worn but still true statement, "Nothing beats a great pair of legs!". Princess Kate is showing us all that adage may seem trite, but the fuss over the hosiery is proving it to be spot on, as the Britishers would say.

Time to go find your egg of hosiery. Just try not to dwell on what kind of bird laid the egg.

Field of Dreams

2011-07-09T17:21:00.000-05:00

While saying I am weird should be enough for most people to grasp, I am apparently more weird than what is considered a "normal" amount of weird.

I love to mow my yard.

But right now, that is a joy which I am not able to experience. The sad truth is that I am compelled to watch as someone else treads upon the tender green that misses me. I'm sure of it. Because I miss it.

Although my yard will not win competitions from the neighborhood beautification committee, nor will Home & Garden show up for a photo spread in their August issue, I think that it looks pretty good after mowing.

My fantasy is to get my yard putting green perfect and the bushes all prepared to be perfectly aligned for height and width. It's kind of a strange fantasy for someone who has greenery more from dandelions than Bermuda hybrid and overgrown boxwoods instead of neatly trimmed new bushes that bear flowers.

I'd also like to have an actual putting green in the back yard along with a pitcher's mound. Yeah. I'm that weird. But I defend myself after having seen Rory McIroy's yard that has an assortment of golf's greatest traps, bunkers and pits to practice around. If he can have some cool yard features, why can't I??

Sure, I'm well aware that I'm not rich from having won so much as a two dollar scratch card and can't afford those kinds of lawn extravagances. But dreams are FREEEEEEEEE!!! Blissfully free!!

I imagine myself in the back yard with grandkids to come in future years teaching them the finer points of pitching a strike just over the corner of the plate or showing them how to chip the golf ball up onto the green for a sweet tap in for par. Sure, I'm perfectly fit, able and ready. Remember, we are in a dream state here, so be nice. You can dream about whatever makes YOU happy and I promise I won't laugh about it.

Back years ago, I pondered how wonderful it would be to own a literal field of dreams for baseball play. It would be a simple affair that would hark back to the days when baseball was still a feel-good game instead of a multi-millionaire's past time. I'd like to have an indoor practice facility that would allow for year round play... a facility that would always be filled because it would offer oh so much more than just baseball.

Fantasy on that field of ever blooming dreams would also include a family friendly place to come play all kinds of games and participate in activities that didn't have a hand controller involved. Tiny Indy cars could race laps around an oval, bowling, batting cages and all kinds of skating and sports rooms would surround a central hub where for a nominal price you could get pizza by the slice or a freshly grilled burger made to order.

There would be midget hockey and figure skating. Another area would have an aquatics center. You could sing and make a recording of whatever song your karaoke heart desired. It would be a star turn that would last a lifetime!

There would be a stage for plays, concerts and pageants of all kinds, and above all, it would be a place where everyone could live a few hours in a land of peaceful coexistence with everyone else and all would be right with the world.

But alas, someone else is compelled to mow my field of dreams right now and that distorts my view. My precious fantasies disappear in a cloud of flung grass giblets and the occasional sputter of smoke from an aging carburetor. And soon, that indiscriminate mix has rendered my vision of what could be into a mishmash of nothing special.

I try to take joy in the fact that the lawn is mowed. I really do.But I miss my lawn enriched fantasy. The joy that comes from walking along just letting my mind wander on my own private field of dreams.

Storm Trooper Boot

2011-07-01T10:56:00.000-05:00

Storm Trooper boot

♫ ♪ Da da da dee dee dum dee dee dum ♫ Dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dum ♪♫
Sing along while wearing your favorite Star Wars regalia!!

I kinda wonder where my blaster went...

This phase of the recovery involves this boot which has an air pocket on each side that can be pumped up a bit to provide comfort.

It is just another part of the overall recovery. I still can't do any weight bearing on this foot/ankle. Three more weeks before I even get to start PT, but the good news is, I can now give the stinky storm trooper foot a bath and shave my leg which is not ready for primetime.

In deference to the Star Wars attire I will be wearing ad nauseum, Thomas gently says since I am a storm trooper, my Death Star is my 17-year old ancient van... Lovely. NOT. Then, he comfortingly he says "Let's just hope no one shoots anything up the tail pipe..."

HEY!! I remember that scene and it didn't work out too well for the Storm Troopers and their boots!!!

I love you, too. PIGLET!

Kindly, Thomas offers to defend me in his Tie-fighter, but then I reminded him that the Tie-fighters didn't DEFEND the Death Star at all... not one tiny shot.

I am not comforted by his evil laughter and begin to wonder if HE isn't Darth Vader after all... remember, he did use the force to choke that one dude on the Death Star who was less than cooperative to Vader's plans.

My only question now is, if Thomas is a plant for the Empire, why does he help me at all? Then I realize that he is like the characters in his video games who can't quite decide whether they are good or bad yet. The color of their light sabers is kind of unsettled... like their choices.

So is Thomas a member of the 'rebel scum' and just yanking my chain about my temporary storm trooper status - like Luke appeared while rescuing Leia - or is he a mole from the Empire seeking to use the 4th of July fireworks to blow my van to kingdom come??

Hmmm. That MIGHT be kind of fun.

Wouldn't have anything to ride around Jared in, but man alive, that would be flippin' awesome to see the van go BOOOOOOO!!!

Yeah, I know.

Control yourself.

Whatever.

But should you happen to be looking out into the the northern skies near Thatch and Clem Roads and see a van fly through the skies, I promise it was an accident.

That's what I plan to tell the insurance company and I expect you ALL to back me up.

We now resume our theme music...
♫ ♪ Da da da dee dee dum dee dee dum ♫ Dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dum ♪♫ Da dee dee da dee dee da deedle dee dee dum dee dee dum dee dee dum dee dee deeeeeeeeeee ♫♪♫

Into Each Life A Little Rain Must Fall

2011-06-28T08:32:00.000-05:00

Into each life a little rain must fall, or so the saying goes.

While there are many people who need the water for crops and livestock, I cannot help but feel a pang of sorrow in my heart for all of those people who two scant months ago watched all they had worked for blow and scatter to the whims of the tornadic winds.

How must they who have lost so very much feel as the relentless storms continue to soak whatever they might have left of the pieces of the lives that once were?

Yet the flip side of the coin is in behalf of those farmers and ranchers who put the literal food on the table for us all. When they suffer drought, we ALL suffer drought and we pay the price for foods brought from far away or in the hunger that might occur when you simply have to just say no to the prices.

The ditch in the front yard is fairly full and could offer a kayaker a pretty turbulent ride as the water races through on its downhill journey to flood the yard of the nice people down the street from us. They get flooded at almost every rainstorm.

When I was little, the summer rains seemed to be warm and inviting. Today's storms are dark, harsh and threatening. Is the difference simply age and perception, or has the natural world begun to turn away from us who care so little for one another and so very much for self alone?

I have no answers today, just lots of questions and concerns for those of my loved ones and friends scattered around through the rains.

The laundry whirls, the dryer hums and the rains pour.

Into each life...

Believer or Bigot?

2011-06-27T09:59:00.000-05:00

Over the last while, I have truly been contemplating a very serious and heartfelt question: Is it bigoted to be a believer in God and to state emphatically that there are moral rights and moral wrongs? Further, is it bigoted to say that through the beliefs and teachings to which I submit myself willingly that there are some activities that are beyond the pale and to which I should not partake?

Is it bigoted to say that sin is sin even when it afflicts the comfortable spirit of mankind striving to separate themselves from God because they are disquieted by the distance their actions create between their soul and the Holy Spirit?

I DO believe that some things are sins. I also believe deeply in the process of repentance for those sins. Be they 'great' or 'small' in our mortal and flawed comprehension, God sees no stripe of sin that is not due the cleansing process of the Atoning blood of our Sinless Savior.

Jesus Christ didn't willingly die on the cross for us to have us just say "no, thanks, Lord, but I don't NEED you", although, He KNEW that there would be some of us who would do just that. We do have agency to make moral choices and stand accountable for those decisions whether that accountability leads to reward or damnation.

Those who reject the opportunity to take our burdens and place them at the feet of the Savior and be cleansed are truly rejecting our only true foundation. Almost as if in our venal and rebellious hearts, we think that if we jam our thumb into His all seeing eye, we can remove the penalty for our selfish and prideful actions and blind Him to the reality of our sins. When we continue on doing what feels good to us personally without regard for Him who made us and for Him who has bought us with so very grave a price - His own blood - we remove our own opportunity for exaltation and a chance to return to His presence whole, clean and welcomed.

Being a believer in God and Jesus Christ, and unfortunately being well acquainted with the failings of mortality and the sins that are part of not only the learning curve, I am thankful that there ARE absolutes.

When we open ourselves up to the vain and foolish belief that 'everything' is acceptable in life and to God, we are in error and on the path to sin. That others consider this view bigoted and narrow is ALSO a form of sin. It's called PRIDE.

When people throw themselves wholeheartedly into what is a 'feel good' moment for them alone, they forget that there are other people, other needs, other wants and other desires beyond their own, and that leads to selfishness and both are a form of dishonesty before God.

The world would have us believe that those who are followers of God and Christ are delusional and backwards. They would have us believe that 'enlightened' people have no need of a god nor of the moral absolutes that my Judeo-Christian upbringing has offered to us. Though there are other religious belief systems that share elements of what I know to be true, that they lack Christ in their beliefs to me means that they are not totally in tune. And for some people, that statement makes me a bigot because I believe that Christ IS the Way, the Truth and the Life.

But the world is wrong.

Believing in God doesn't make me backward, unenlightened or ignorant. Nor does that belief make me a bigot. It is a privilege to believe in God and to serve Him. I feel honored to enter His holy house at every opportunity and to feel immersed in His healing Spirit and in the Balm of Gilead that binds up the wounds of life that have been inflicted from without and from within.

I KNOW that God lives because I have felt His presence moving and working in and through my life. I feel that presence as a vital, living force that acts as an anchor to my soul. That doesn't make me delusional. It makes me thankful and makes me feel grounded.

I truly feel sorry for people who elect to use their moral agency to distance themselves from God as if they don't need Him at all.

The understanding of our need doesn't make us less... through God we can be oh so infinitely more.

I'm not a bigot.

I AM a believer.

And for that, I am truly thankful.

Grab bars and butt width

2011-06-25T10:09:00.000-05:00

The continuing adventure of bathroom safety while partially incapacitated keeps our family occupied in more ways than one.

Since crutches are helpful only to a point, there are some things that are, of necessity, required to ensure both safety and the ability to remain upright in areas that are prone to being damp or downright soggy. Turning the crutches into a teepee shape to push up from various surfaces such as the bed or a chair works pretty soundly most of the time, other times, grab bars would be a big plus since flooring surfaces vary and slickness of same becomes an issue.

Nothing like trying to keep upright while on one foot (barely) and trying to keep the ever sliding crutches from getting away from you or from jamming your armpits into your ears.

Trust me, it's funny... or not.

So, to ensure that another hospital trip isn't in my immediate future, grab bars have been installed in the master bathroom and will be installed in Jared's bathroom both in the barrier-free shower stall and in the commode area for easy grasp and purchase of a secure footing through sound hand holds. That's the idea anyway.

So while the two eldest menfolks of the household were apparently having cart races in Lowe's while looking at all the "man candy" in the various aisles of the store (I say this because Rick called me and was out of breath - the man only gets that way when looking at hardware and tools...), they were discussing the relative merits of various types of appliances and grips that could aid me in my pitiful and semi tragical circumstances.

Thomas called me to ask about the photo sent to me... I can only imagine who received that photo since it NEVER came to my cell phone. It was of a toilet surround that had hand holds for lowering and elevating one to the throne.

Yeah... whomever got that picture is gonna be offended or curious as to why they are being sent the photo. Is this some kind of hint that they are "old" or is it a veiled threat of what damage is heading their way? I snicker because that's the kind of evil mind I have.

But, and that is a big BUTT... the phone call to me was asking not so gently just how wide my butt is and would it fit.

I didn't know whether to laugh or be offended.

It isn't part of a normal woman's life to share her "numbers" in that way to begin with and no one wants to consider measuring the width of their buttocks as a measure of just how worthy any particular household help would be. That just ain't cool.

I insisted they just get the wall mounted grab bars.

I do have my pride.

Plus, I don't even want to know the dreaded 'butt width' number. I'm afraid I'd have a heart attack and die. Which would leave them with kinda of an odd "Weekend With Bernie" moment... do they take me along or leave me at home with another squirt of Fe-breeze for good measure? EIther way, the air freshener will be a requirement, but perhaps they don't feel like answering questions about why I am still wearing the same clothes for an entire month or have the same strange expression on my face and what is that god-awful smell that is a mixture of Fe-breeze, moth balls and that cheap cologne I bought on impulse from the sale rack at the dollar store?

Fortunately, I'll be dead and won't be able to help them stammer their way through that particular mess. And when I'm dead they can measure me for butt width all the want to. I imagine it would shrink over time as I dessicated into a shriveled raisin. At least I could eventually be buried in a smaller dress size.

But I digress...

Back to the bathroom grab bars.

Aren't we all glad that I have pretty awesome 'guns' and can heave a bull elephant out the bathroom window with them? Truth is, I may look a little flabby in the bod, but beneath the flab is some serious muscle. Don't be jealous. You only get this kind of muscle the hard way. Lifting Jared, lifting me, lifting elephants...

I do actually lift weights. It's the only way I keep up. It's also the only way I have a bust line. But again, I digress...

The grab bars are being installed today, I am assured.

The only thing that concerns me is the fact that they are, at my tender age, required at all. Aren't grab bars and toilet lifts for the elderly and disabled? And I hate the fact that either description might apply. I want to see myself as that young gal who enjoyed the freedom to go and do without the constraints of crutches, casts, wheelchairs and grab bars.

That kind of sucks lemons...

I console myself with the thought that perhaps this experience is helping me to better understand the plight of those for whom this condition isn't temporary and is bringing me a heightened sensitivity to the needs of those who struggle every day for the rest of their mortal lives just to get out of bed.

Truly, it is a cautionary tale.

But I am relying on the promise of the Word of Wisdom and praying that one day not too far down the road of life that I can "run and not be weary, and walk and not faint". I only hope I am deserving of that blessing. Plus, it would really be a good thing because, oddly enough, people DO depend upon me. Strange, but true.

Oh well... better sign off on this since it is nearly time to take a hike into the bathroom and I dare not wait until I HAVE to go... otherwise there may be a greater than 90% chance of dampness and mopping in a most unpleasant fashion.

God bless grab bars... they certainly do come in handy.

Naps wanted

2011-06-22T08:48:00.000-05:00

Nightime is alleged to be sleep time. The television is filled with advertising for products that are guaranteed to give us a good night's rest that promise to be non-habit forming and non-addictive.

Naps will fill this role pretty well for me right now.

Tossing and turning and rolling around trying to find a position of relative comfort for sleeping is an exercise in nocturnal futility. Even my sweet baby dog Gypsy has baggy eyes. As my constant companion, she feels honor bound to stay by my side throughout this process and as a result, her normal 20+ hour a day sleep routine is being interrupted because I'm not sleeping.

She looks up at me in the twilight glow of the bathroom bulb through the crack in the door as if to say, "Can't we just make three turns and curl up for the entire night? Must you disturb my rest?"

Trust me, little girl, I would sleep if I could sleep. Sadly, sleep is a catch as catch can proposition right now.

Casts are not fun and they are not for the faint of heart. I'd love to sedate and cast up a few people who think this is just a hilarious moment. Then we'd all see how funny it was for them to be a prisoner of circumstance, even when that circumstance is supposed to result in an improvement down the road.

Patience is a virtue. I've heard that all my life.

But I'm not too good at the skill and virtue of patience. My time-to-time microwave mentality makes that a tough sell. I WANT to be patient. I just am not.

I had my surgery just over 2+ weeks ago and have entered the third week of the endurance phase of the recovery process. I'm trying to tell myself that I am doing well. Yesterday, I felt a little stir crazy, but in the haze of all of this, I'm becoming uncertain if stir crazy and regular crazy are not getting muddled in the middle.

Is there a difference? Probably a fine line between the two, but I've jumped the fence and gone loco, I'm certain.

Trying to be careful to not put any pressure at all on one leg and foot is harder than it looks. Trying to keep from slipping while doing this is also harder than it looks. And if I happen to slip, it might look comical, but it doesn't feel to funny when I hit the ground.

There are some benighted souls who think it's hilarious to make fun of all of this.

Because I try to be compassionate, I hope they NEVER have to deal with anything like unto this. It's not a barrel of monkeys and no one has a good time having to accomodate their lives around a person who is personally and socially inconvenienced by it all.

Sadly, the tiresome and wearing effects of being so incapacitated make me feel like I need a nap all the time. It also makes me feel so very tender toward Jared, who never gets a break from his disability issues. How draining it must be for him to always have the 24 hour presence of his incapacity bearing down upon him!

No wonder he takes naps whenever and wherever he can!

Time to kick back in the office chair and prop up the ol' leggy bones and see if I can catch a few winks before Jared's bath aide comes to help him get sorted out this morning.

Nighty-night... even if it is broad daylight.

♫ Can you feel the love tonight? ♫

2011-06-18T22:45:00.000-05:00

I think I am destined to die in one of the bathrooms in my home. That seems to be the locale for most of the personal tragedies I have to endure. The most recent adventure in plumbing seems to revolve around the installation of a grab bar and the relocation of the toilet paper holder for said grab bar.

With a cast on the foot keeping my toes in a ballerina position while my Achilles tendon heals up after this most recent surgical intervention, I can't put weight on the left foot at all. None. Nada. Zip.

Not to be graphic, but when was the last time (or the first time) that you attempted to lower and subsequently lift yourself from the porcelain throne on one leg? Most people don't have a whole lot of practice doing that particular manuever.

I'm here to tell you that it is an exercise in brute strength to keep that left leg aloft enough to keep the casted foot from making touchdown while attempting to raise up from the toilet seat and try to dress yourself while keeping in a relatively vertical postion as the muscles on the right leg begin to shake like there is no tomorrow.

Crutches are a help, but only to a point because if you angle them the wrong way, you can't reach your pants to pull them up from around your ankles or knees or wherever you have placed them. The cold, hard truth is, they don't stay at the knees, because the trembling makes them slide down your legs so you risk hitting your head on the wall in front of you as you bend down to pull them back up and keep from falling into the tiny space between the wall and the toilet.

And wouldn't that be an embarrassing photo in the local paper? "Rescue from toiletside entrapment" doesn't have the ring of success that winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes does. And being identified as 'that lady who got trapped in her bathroom' doesn't inspire confidence in others.

So, the brilliant and loving husband of mine installed a grab bar in my master bathroom by the toilet to help me and any others so afflicted with the realities of life gain that precious ability to rise from the toilet and pull up their pants.

It's a little thing that means so much...

During all of this installation and relocation of various things in the home, the original porcelain TP holder was removed from the wall. The new two piece wooden structures with their little spring loaded plastic roll holder were in place and looked so inviting. That is, until the assassin roll holder snapped from the wall and scared the pee out of me as I was struggling to grasp the newly installed grab bar when I lost my balance. Good thing I was in the bathroom already. The sharp metalic ping from the holder smacking into said new grab bar was enough to send Thomas from his room into mine to see if I was okay.

When I assured him that I was indeed fine and told him the problem, he was relieved... and filled with glee. Sure, yuck it up! Hilarity, hilarity. But it wasn't you that it happened to, kiddo! Thankfully, though my arms are sore from the impromptu gymnsatic moves I pulled to get steadied in my stance and my shoulders are a daily reminder that I need to drop roughly another gazillion pounds for my troubles, they haven't left me hanging in the limbo of toiletside ignomy quite yet.

It is my hope that one day, I can get out of all of the various crutches, scooters, wheelchairs and braces and be able to 'walk and not be weary and run and not faint' once again.

Until that time, I just have to sing to myself as I remember that sometimes, being laid up has consequences that are just downright funny to people who aren't going through them and make a mental note never to grab onto a toilet paper holder in the hopes it might keep me from hitting the floor...

Paint the Town Red

2011-06-17T11:39:00.001-05:00

Okay, so it isn't the ENTIRE town... just the portion of town that surrounds my ankle and foot... but it's RED!

This particular cast stays on for a couple of weeks as healing continues, then we will determine what color comes next.

The swelling comes and goes as as the process of trying to heal and find a position to put my leg in that doesn't hurt varies from moment to moment. I'm also trying to learn to navigate with the knee scooter without tumbling into a wall or other object while I'm in a drugged stupor.

I need the pain killers, but they do strange things to my sleep cycle, my dreams and my wake time comprehension. They make me loopy ... loopier... loopiest... and alter my perceptions of how things are coming along.

I'm getting a little throbbing in my ankle, so I guess it's time to head back to the ice filled fun, fun world of putting my ankle up on pillows.

It Slices, It Dices

2011-06-09T21:30:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling very much like the participant in a product hawking infomercial now. There has been some slicing and dicing on the old ankle and we are now home watching the seasons change on my toes. Normally, you have to wait for fall to see these kinds of colors, but for the lucky few, they can see it on my left foot.

Roughly two hours into the morning Tuesday and I have a reconstructed ankle suitable for lying abed and sucking down percocet every six hours like clockwork. Of course, I don't really know much of what went on in recovery or what national security secrets were leaked while I was under the influence of sedation.

I could very well have given away my recipe for homemade turkey gravy! I do hope not... that is a carefully guarded secret but if I find the staff at the surgical center having particularly festive Thanksgiving this November, I know...

No surgical procedure is a 'yippee skippy' event and they all come with risk but I have been in pain for so long, I'm truly looking forward to finding out what's on the other side of this ride.

Ron Popeil has nothing on Doc Martens. He can hawk the stuff, but nobody filets an ankle like the doc.

My only question is what do you serve with it? Filet of ankle isn't too popular, but it IS gaining in notariety around our house.

I think my medicine is making me loopy... er...

Graduation 2011

2011-05-28T09:26:00.001-05:00

Jared waits for his Graduation Cermonies to begin

Milestones are interesting things.

Often, we take for granted those little moments that just flow through our days as regular as sunrise and clockwork. It's as if the expected always happens.

But the understanding that God has often got other plans for us and those we love brings a jarring sense of reality to our milestone moments. We don't always get what we want when we wanted it or even how we expected it to occur. Detours and derailments can make or break us and in that process we are learning... not so much about circumstance as self.

Jared Shane Merrill is an unfailingly cheerful soul who takes whatever comes to him in a grace and dignity that most of us will never be able to muster under even the best of circumstances.

He has endured so many painful things in his life, it would be completely understandable if he were to be a whiner. But Jared doesn't whine. It simply isn't in his nature.

We had the blessing and honor of seeing Jared grow to be a man and to receive the rewards of the work that he has achieved in his academic career. That his path was different than what we expected 18+ years ago as we held a tiny infant in our arms doesn't seem to matter now.

He has done something that prayerful nights, tearful days and pacing the floor waiting for news of his progress has brought us all to - Jared has graduated.

All to frequently, the focus seems to be on what DIDN'T happen instead of a sharpened gaze directed upon what DID. Jared has been blessed by God to be an actor in a great refining moment, he has taught us to slow down and be thankful for the ride instead of viewing our life as merely the vehicle to get to "what's next".

I cannot be unthankful to have the brakes applied to my own life by the entrance of Jared into my chaos. Though he doesn't travel at the speed I'd like to go, the very fact that he cheerfully reminds me that what I thought was important to do really isn't has been a blessing beyond comprehension.

Jared smiles through life at things that would make "normal people" wither.

I put 'normal' in the quotes because Jared has taught me that normal isn't a real construct. To group people into that kind of iconic mode is not fair. It also isn't true.

We aren't 'normal', not one of us.

To say that is to deny the varying speeds of our individual progress and hamper our God-given glory by making us all the same. And we are NOT the same and were never intended to be the same.

I truly believe that God spoke with each and every one of us as we discussed our journey through life. He tenderly explained the confidences He has in us and then unfolded a plan as individual as He hoped we would be willing to become. Everyone received a journey and a plan that was different. Everyone also received a map of intersections that we would come to where our lives and the lives of those who would become our family of blood and family of the heart would join our journey together for a period of time.

God loves us enough that He wanted us to know that we are not just a 'group' seeking to be admitted back into his presence like a general admission cattle call to a carnival. He wants us to do like Jared is doing. Taking each day as it comes, willing to be somewhat like Job in an unwavering acceptance of all that he receives, both pleasant and unpleasant, with a steady trust that God truly knows the best for each of us in our individual circumstances.

My son has graduated.

God's son has graduated.

Next year, Jared begins a new phase of learning and we will be learning right along with him.

Maybe one day, I can graduate, too. Only I hope my 'diploma' will say that I have learned to roll with the punches and play the cards that life has dealt with the same level of uncomplaining grace as my son.

Who says parents know everything?

Sometimes, it is the lessons we receive at the hands of our children that are the most far reaching after all.

The Mother Church of Country Music

2011-05-14T10:34:00.000-05:00

Beth and me on stage at The RYMAN AUDITORIUM!

The Ryman Auditorium – or as we call it down here “The Mother Church of Country Music” and ancestral home to the Grand Ol’ Opry.

What was once begun as a hellfire and damnation church to preach against the evils of a society in decay has grown to become an icon of the music that defines a region, a people and a way of life.

Though the right reverend and traveling evangelist Sam Jones had hoped the tabernacle built in 1892 would serve as a Nashville point of salvation, it became something greater in the hearts of those who were served and saved by not only the gospel but the music of the country in which it was born and raised. Intended to be the Union Gospel Tabernacle built for Sam Jones by the newly converted riverboat Captain Thomas G. Ryman, it grew and even expanded during an 1897 Confederate Reunion to add an expansive balcony to the original theatre in the round design to accommodate the crowd that had come to honor the soldiers who fought in the “Late, Great Unpleasantness”.

Years of use and then eventual neglect created changes to the now (thankfully!) restored and stately old building. The theatre in the round is no more. Country music and WSM radio changed the face of the Ryman from a gospel shouter’s paradise and into a mother church of the music that defined a segment of the population. Country music, bluegrass, homespun comedy and an environment where kids, adults and the aged could all come and join in the fun and rich emotion that drives home the lyrics of each song crooned into the microphone of the Grand Ol’ Opry.

Growing up listening to all kinds of music, I remember many times listening to the songs coming from the radio broadcasts of WSM in Nashville. They played the current, the old and the favorite gospel songs that were like mother’s milk to the ears of people needing to feel like someone else shared their cares, their woes, their load and lot in life. From the hallowed and almost reverent stage of the Ryman, those broadcasts shared with the eager ears emotion for emotion.

Gaining not only a reputation for the music of the people, but also for the voraciously sought worldwide acts and productions that brought culture to the masses, the Ryman was quick to be compared to the boards of the famed theaters in Damnyankee country and was even tagged as being “the Carnegie Hall of the South”.

Lines to attend the productions and live radio shows surrounded the block as hunger for more than the day to day filled the souls of people who were enriched by the music and the emotion of the Ryman. It was indeed a version of life’s blood to all those who entered the hallowed halls and sat reverentially on the worn pews that created the audience portion of the theatre and balcony.

Even now, you can feel that presence of being in a Tabernacle, one that has the acoustics second only to that OTHER famed Tabernacle in Salt Lake City, Utah. Both have stories that only the past can tell and both have futures that are, even now, unfolding before our very eyes and ears.

Visiting the Ryman was not what I was expecting. Frankly, I don’t know what I was expecting. Theatre, church, or both… who knows? I admit to being deeply awed, amazed and thrilled to know that where I was walking had graced the presence of “Country Royalty” past and present. I couldn’t stop smiling! Displays of the lives of the voices that I have heard on my radio filled the atmosphere with a heady presence of the living embodiement of what it is to 'be country'.

Walking from display to display to read about the people that inhabit the country world, I was singing along with Johnny Cash word for word and feeling the songs as if I had lived it.

Then, came the coup de grace!

Beth and I had the opportunity to ascend to the very stage and to the microphone stand that countless performers of Opry legend had occupied! It felt almost sacriligious. How could I possibly be counted worthy to step into the place where my musical heroes had once inhabited? It was a heady sensation. The photo op was just that… a chance to be immortalized in print as ‘being at the Ryman’.

Then, came the unexpected. Oh, joy! The photographer said "there's a couple of guitars up there, if you know how to play 'em". I picked one up and strummed a bit and picked out a quick giblet of a song. He laughed and said "Well, I guess you CAN play!"

The photographer then asked if we sang. Beth, who lied through her teeth, pointed to me and said, “I don’t, but she does”. Beth sings. I have heard her sing at lots of country concerts. I’ve also heard her scream herself hoarse at them, but I digress.

Chicken-hearted I am not, so I belted out a few lines of what felt was appropriate. I sang “Precious Lord”. It was, after all, a Tabernacle turned icon. Overwhelmed by both the atmosphere and the reality of where I was standing, I choked up a bit and just took it all in. My Grandpa Mitchell had been the bass in the old Athens Quartet and sung for recordings and radio broadcasts from back in the day when the Opry was just a regional suggestion. I hope he saw his granddaughter on the stage at the Ryman singing a tidbit of a gospel song. I think it would have made him smile.

When I talked to Kari about it later, she was jealous. I laughed. I WANTED her to be jealous. I want to go back and slip into the recording booth there at the Ryman with my sisters and record a gospel song in harmonies to give to Daddy. A record we’ll make at the Ryman.

I like to think that will honor both the Tabernacle that is the Mother Church of Country Music, and the Grandfather known as “Singin’ Sam”, the man who’s heart was filled with country music and gospel fervor whom we never really knew.

The Ryman – part auditorium, part church, all country.

Thanks, Beth! This was a road trip I will NEVER forget. I don’t think I will ever be the same.

Honk if You Love Jesus

2011-05-13T20:48:00.000-05:00

The bumper stickers used to cover cars everywhere like butter on biscuits. "Honk if you love Jesus!"

Even as a child, I wondered about that. My folks raised me thinking that raucous public displays about God and Jesus weren't exactly kosher. Being reverent in church didn't often include honking the car horn on the Chrysler Imperial.

Nor did we honk our love for the Savior along the road.

Which brings me to another odd moment in life.

When did it become okay to begin honking your horn to urge the car ahead of you into the path of danger because you are too impatient to wait your turn when it is safe? That doesn't sound very much like an "I love Jesus" moment.

While sitting in the LEFT TURN LANE this evening heading to bring home some Chinese food Rick wanted, a dude in a jacked up truck waited precisely the giblet of a nanosecond when the light turned green to begin honking his horn.

I do not have a 'Honk if You Love Jesus!' bumper sticker, airbrush art design or magnetic sign ANYWHERE on the truck I was driving. So, I assume his honking had nothing to do with love.

And most assuredly, he didn't love me one iota.

He was URGING me forward by horn and by gesture which is know as "a Hawaiian hello", flipping someone off, "giving the bird", the middle finger salute, and other less savory names. I am quite certain that had I heeded his ill-timed and ill-advised suggestion and been rendered into a gooey pavement pizza, this gentle soul would have done nothing to ease my suffering, but rather, whipped around me to get to the tobacco shack or whatever else he was rushing to do that was more important than my life.

Drivers have grown colder by the year. Of late, the 'me first, last and always' mentality seems to have trickled down to the tricycle set. Impatience outweighs the need for safety.

That can't possibly show love for Jesus. He wasn't impatient with anyone.

I have a really hard time invisioning the Master of us all sitting in traffic and impatiently jabbing the horn in a rhythmic tattoo of audiological violence that incites others to acrimonious behavior.

There is no way He would offer someone a vulgar gesture or in any way make another driver feel as if they were unworthy of their lane on the highway.

Yet, our cars, which often bear everything from bumper stickers to tiny figurines of patron saints and plastic decals of fish to remind us that we are alleged to be Christians and thus followers of Jesus Christ, play host to our nasty fully mortal behaviors.

If we really love Jesus, can we cut a gap for the stressed lady trying to squeeze into the impossibly long line three lanes of traffic compelled to merge into a single lane while dodging barrels and construction workers?

Instead of honking our love while we drive, can we leave the maniac behind the wheel at home and practice a little Good Samaritan in our actions?

I'm certain that the horn is helpful, like a gentle toot of the horn to let someone know they are backing out into traffic or when someone is a friend of yours and you accompany it with a friendly wave that includes your entire hand and not just one finger of it?

Being honked at for not anticipating the change of lights that signals the opening of a new lane in the autobahn of Alabama just makes me feel scared. If I'm not quick enough to urge my car into motion, will they just whip out a gun and shoot me next? I'm relatively certain that would slow me down even more and probably make a big nasty mess of the moo goo gai pan.

There are lots of nice people on the road. We just don't hear about them in glowing terms because we simply take their behavior and Christ-like driving for granted.

It's the behind the wheel demons that worry me. They masquerade as a believer in the bumper stickers and decals adorning their car, but drive like a member of the Devil's own when they think they aren't making enough progress on the roadways however they choose to define that feeling.

Maybe it really is time to refine how we honk our horns. The first cars didn't even HAVE a horn. While I'm not sure that would be prudent, shouldn't there be some basic instructions about when it is safe and appropriate to honk?

Certainly, some harried driver's ed teacher has mentioned that jack-rabbit driving is just an accident waiting to happen and that the car's horn isn't to be used as a weapon? Oh, that's right, we weren't listening right then because that cutie pie in the second row was looking right at us with their baby blues or chocolate browns or whatever. We thought the car horn was a cute attention getter.

Little did we know it was a way to show impatience, aggravation, anger, malice and lack of care.

Honk if you love Jesus, indeed.

All I know is that the people who use their horns to bully other drivers into actions that are not safe should be confined to a room filled with flatulence and no air holes.

But that probably isn't very Christlike either.

Oh well.

Guess I need to find me a bumper sticker for my own car, but it needs to go on the inside to remind me, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I'm Simply a Female Female

2011-05-12T10:46:00.000-05:00

There is a song from the musical "Flower Drum Song" by Rodgers and Hammerstein called "I Enjoy Being a Girl". The lyrics describe a typically 'girly girl' who is into the fluff, frills and furbellows of being female. They are as follows:

I'm a girl, and by me that's only great!
I am proud that my silhouette is curvy,
That I walk with a sweet and girlish gait
With my hips kind of swivelly and swervy.

I adore being dressed in something frilly
When my date comes to get me at my place.
Out I go with my Joe or John or Billy,
Like a filly who is ready for the race!

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!

When men say I'm cute and funny
And my teeth aren't teeth, but pearl,
I just lap it up like honey
I enjoy being a girl!

I flip when a fellow sends me flowers,
I drool over dresses made of lace,
I talk on the telephone for hours
With a pound and a half of cream upon my face!

I'm strictly a female female
And my future I hope will be
In the home of a brave and free male
Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl... like... me.

When men say I'm sweet as candy
As around in a dance we whirl,
It goes to my head like brandy,
I enjoy being a girl!

When someone with eyes that smoulder
Says he loves ev'ry silken curl
That falls on my iv'ry shoulder,
I enjoy being a girl!

When I hear the compliment'ry whistle
That greets my bikini by the sea,
I turn and I glower and I bristle,
But I happy to know the whistle's meant for me!

I'm strictly a female female
And my future I hope will be
In the home of a brave and free male
Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl... like... me.

Sweet as pancake syrup, that song certainly describes a lot of females.

Normally, it doesn't describe me at all. The reason for that is relatively simple.

I'm an unapologetic blue jeans and t-shirt kind of gal, happy in cowboy boots or tennis shoes and a ball cap, I don't generally feel the need to primp up to face a day's worth of laundry and household chores.

But...

Once in a great while, like this morning, I wake up feeling more like a female than a handyman and put on a new blouse, a cute pair of Capris and a girly-girl attitude. Then... life shows up at the door.

Folks, I very seldom shop for myself. I hate shopping. It seems tedious and, well, girly.

But, finally having a cute outfit, I thought I could blend into the society of the female only club. Daddy had other plans.

100 pounds worth plus an assorted ten extra pounds of plans that just couldn't wait until later. Nope. NOT later. NOW! RIGHT NOW! Not after lunch, not after I had changed, not when I smelled less sexy... NOW!

I had the blessing of spreading 100 pounds of fertilizer and 10 pounds of grass seed today.

Can anyone in the class tell me what my nice outfit looks like right now?

Hands up, please, or I won't call on you!

That's right, happy campers, my nice outfit is in the washer right now in the hopes that a virtual clothing resurrection will be possible with the application of stain treatments and a boatload of detergent.

Crap. Crapitty, crap, crap!! I get it. I KNOW I'm usually up for whatever because I'm not a big sissy-fied weenie. But dang it! I'd like to have ONE DECENT OUTFIT that didn't look like a reject from the Salvation Army's back room of "we can't possibly sell this"!

Why couldn't the project have waited?

Well, in the sane part of my rational brain (tiny though it may be), I realize I am dealing with my Father, who in some ways is acting more like my child - a toddler to be exact. And it sucks lemons as big as a Buick.

Right now is the time frame of your average three year old. And there are days that is what I get to spend time with - though the diagnosis of mild dementia is relatively new, I'm beginning to see fully that the capricious behaviors of the disease have been there for a while and we all have masked it by just viewing them as an eccentricity.

I know that Daddy would be horrified to think that I was spreading fertilizer in a new outfit if only he were always in his right mind. But that is a luxury that doesn't exist anymore.

I will admit that there are times that his abrupt gear grinding shifts of behavior are sometimes funny. Like the time he went to the bank to literally cuss them out for sending him so much 'bank junk mail'. I've wanted to do that so many times and while it was mildly embarrassing to sit with him while he told the bank officer off in colorful terms, I kinda wanted to throw in my two-cents worth as well.

I get sick of those stupid junk offers for goods, services and new products in money management that no one really needs. Daddy was just sick enough of them to let them know it and to lack the polite restraint to have simply shredded them like he would have just a few years ago.

Oh, well.

I know full well this particular oddessy isn't over. There will be more moments of strange, funny and possibly scary things that happen as his ability to make decisions and manage his affairs continues to slip from his grasp.

Despite the fact that ALL of us kids really are grown up, Daddy persists in seeing us as still being too young to manage life. That might be true. Who knows? Some days, I'm not too sure.

It just boils down to the evil part of me that gets frustrated sometimes to think that right now, I am acting as the family handyman for these 'can't wait' projects that really could have waited. Particularly when I don't get the luxury of slipping into clothing I don't care a hoot about to complete them without destroying something I'd like to wear.

Of course, that just means that if the stains DON'T come out of the new blouse and capris, I will have a fashionable junk outfit for the next time someone needs to spread grass seed or wash out their cattle trailer.

Y'all just give me a call. I'll be the one in the cute top with the mudstains splashed on it and the Capris with a big smear of fertilizer on the right leg!

Things You Shouldn't Do

2011-05-10T07:52:00.000-05:00

Often, the experience comes before the wisdom in my life as I am not too keen on learning from the mistakes of others.

Sometimes, sheer stupidity is the only explanation for the messes and predicaments I find myself in... and sadly, I have no one else upon which to heap the blame. Dang it!

Lessons I have learned about things you shouldn't do... I pass this on because I care.

* Don't go out in your bathrobe on a windy day. Really. No matter how quick you think you will be in retrieving the newspaper, putting out the trash or turning on the sprinklers, you will be offering a free burlesque review to your entire neighborhood.

* Resist the temptation to open your bathroom window and sing in the shower. Sound apparently travels further when you are naked and wet. Makes for interesting conversation at the next neighborhood block party. Not all of it good.

* Avoid hugging the garbage man, no matter how thankful you are that they held up the truck route so you could lug your cans to the road. (This didn't actually happen to me... but to someone I know really well and can use this for blackmail material for all eternity! Muuuahahahahahahahahaha!)

* Refrain from singing out too boldly in an unfamiliar congregation. While you may know the hymn really well and can harmonize to beat the band, they may not be bold singers at their church and they WILL turn around to see who in the heck didn't get the memo regarding actually singing loud praises during the meeting. They might even give you the 'saved for visitors evil eye'.

* Talk to yourself in public. It just doesn't look good... or sane. Of course, now that blue tooth devices have allowed EVERYONE to look like a babbling fool with no connection to reality, that isn't such a big deal anymore. People now have no idea if you are a technologically advanced being or just a regular, garden variety blithering idiot. Either way you can get away with it for a little while unless you start screaming things like "WHY CAN'T YOU PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE" in a crowded line at Piggly Wiggly. That tends to send the nice men who bring you "special jewelry" to your checkout line.

* Talk on your cell phone in the bathroom stall of a public restroom. I'll confess, I've done this before. Think what you will, but with a handicapped child, you answer a phone call from the school ANYWHERE. I can sanitize the phone later. Unfortunately, this can backfire on you if some idiot in the next stall thinks you are talking TO THEM. Awkward! Scary consequences might happen...and you'd better hope that if you wind up making a 'date' with the person one toilet over, that they are at least good looking!

* Eat fruit in the grocery store before you purchase, take home and wash it thoroughly. Not only is that theft, but some goobery kid with a snotty nose has handled every single grape, tangerine, and bag of store brand trail mix in the ziplock bags... and now, you are consuming.... nevermind. Eeeeeeew!

* Tell everyone you know how to dance. The 'funky monkey' may have been a big hit back in the day, but it isn't a big hit now. Sure, when the music is playing and you feel it down to your disco shoes and rainbow striped toe-socks, you want to boogie. But trust me, unless you REALLY know basic ballroom, go to the punch bowl instead. It's safer and less likely to result in a broken hip when you bust a move that will bust you.

This isn't a comprehensive listing, and I'm open to suggestions on more items on what not to do. The reality of our lives is that we are mostly driven by "To Do" lists and pages of "What Not To Do".

If I had them all figured out, I probably wouldn't be blogging. I wouldn't have anything to write about...

We All Bleed Red

2011-05-07T11:20:00.000-05:00

Over the last few days of watching the aftermath of the tornadoes fall into place, I have watched raw courage unfold before my eyes. People who literally lost everything of a worldly nature haven't lost their faith, their hope or their humor.

The world continues turning despite their losses, but what has moved me as well is the response. Aid from within and without the state continues to pour into the communities known and unknown that are suffering. The news converges upon the big name cities because we know them, but now, they are trickling out to the towns and communities too small for the average viewer to take note even as they may pass by on the highway every single day in other circumstances.

Now, these strangers are our neighbors in need of our helping hands. These cities that were once just a map dot if even that are places of importance to our heart and soul as we share in the suffering by donating time, food, love and care.

We all bleed red no matter what team we root for, what high school we attended or even if we didn't attend at all. Doesn't matter what church we attend or which services we skip. It only matters that we hold out our hands to our friends whom we haven't met yet.

There are animals in need who have families that may not have survived or who, in the rush to seek personal safety, forgot Fido. They are in shelters and they are being cared for and also need love and comfort and assistance.

They, too, bleed red.

But the bond between us all be we animal or human goes deeper. We are all creations of God who cares for us all. It is His divine plan that we assist one another and make life better for those around us.

Though we share in the happy times readily, it is a blessing to see that we also readily jump in with labor, love and yes, even our own blood, to aid someone who has suffered in ways we will possibly never comprehend.

We all bleed red and we all hurt.

This storm has brought something more powerful than devastation to Alabama. It has brought truckloads, baskets and open hands of love. Hope hasn't been blown away. And through the care we offer to man and beast in this terrible time of suffering, we show our connection to that God who has made us all.

Hope you will enjoy the link. The song by Ronnie Dunn truly moved me. I hope it will move you as well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=RVSOOBQB6I0

Nature and Fury

2011-04-28T13:29:00.001-05:00

Spring in the tornado alley part of the nation sometimes is a crapshoot. Yesterday was the day we went for broke and came up snake eyes.

The National Weather Service told us in time. But they couldn't tell us the magnitude of what was going to dump down upon us. The reality of it all is never something you can truly speak of because it simply isn't known.

Nature's fury is often spoken of as an aphorism. We tend to 'poo-poo' the reality of what nature can truly create when in complete fury. God is in charge of all aspects of our lives and when the elements rage around us, upon us and through us, He still has His hands upon us.

Yesterday through last night, storms ripped through Alabama like a sharp knife through rice paper. Homes destroyed, property lost, trees turned into so much kindling... and the lives - the lives of people lost to mortality through the violence of the elements gone wild.

I don't know the reasons for these kinds of storms.

I do know that I was scared out of my wits for my innocent son while we rode out a tornado in our van.

I know that I prayed with a fervency that my daily prayers often lack. Perhaps that has something to do with the elements raging... some of us don't talk WITH Our Father in Heaven. Instead, we tend to barter, bargain and bully our way through our prayers trying desperately to tell God what to do and how to do it so we can at last be snatched up and saved into His kingdom.

But yesterday, I prayed. Lacking elecutory skill and fancy verbiage, I prayed literally begging for the life of my son ... and, yes, myself. I prayed for my family members in harm's way. I prayed for the neighbors who likewise suffered the destruction I saw all around me and for all those nameless strangers who gave their life for a storm that they could never defend against.

When we finally arrived home safely, I prayed again thanking God for getting us home safely. I sat and hugged my sweet Jared, thankful for another day with him and his gentle smiling face.

Then, I hugged my dog, Gypsy, and inhaled the stinky fur that needs a bath.

I didn't care!! I was ALIVE to smell the stink and hug my wicked dog!

Gypsy HATES storms. They scare her and make her shake all over. I matched her tremble for tremble yesterday.

The sun is shining today but the reminder of the power and violent fury of nature remains.

I don't call it "mother" nature. No mother I know could produce this kind of horror.

We speak of the forces of nature as if they are human and caring. That usually happens on sunny, beach-like days. We talk about "mother nature gone wild" when things get ugly. But the truth is something different.

The God of nature is Divine and cares beyond mortal comprehension. When His Spirit is grieved, it withdraws from all that is wicked. I believe those are the times when the elements rage. Only God can calm the elements at that time.

I hope that everyone who has suffered loss of family and property feel the comforting arms of God around them now. I know he weeps with them.

Manufactured Outrage

2011-04-19T16:10:00.000-05:00

The older I get, the more I hate "politics as usual". At the drop of a hat, and they drop the hat themselves, various political personnel gin up a tempest in a teapot over one thing or another that truly doesn't have one whit to do with the business of running the largest checkbook in the free world.

Fighting over which pork project gets fed versus which essential service gets cut creates a great deal of hostility from the people who benefit from either. Their representatives in the halls of power often participate in back door dealings that make the Cosa Nostra look like the neighbors down the street.

The manufactured outrage over what should be done versus who should pay for it is making me queasy.

Everyone blames everyone else.

Did you know that republicans, democrats, communists, Zionists, Muslims, Mormons and independents ALL receive welfare, SSI, SSI disability? There are Baptists who are receiving the largess of pork barrel spending and young moderates who are benefiting from the college grant program. Yet ever person from all stratas of life wants to hold out their hand to receive their 'fair share' into their grubby little paw while denying the same 'fair share' to another.

Our nation has been about 'fair shared' to death.

In my world, this is how it goes:

Hubby brings home the bacon, namely a paycheck from a job well done, and deposits said bacon into the bank to use to pay our bills. From this deposit, the bacon is distributed to the various people who hold the "powah" over our lives.

Truck payment, house payment, insurance, utilities, phone service and internet, credit card bill, groceries and sundry things like gasoline and medical payments pretty well eat up each paycheck.

So, when the bills are paid and there is a chance that there might be a few bucks left, the priority list of where those few bucks goes is well established. I try VERY hard to avoid overdrawing the Merrill Family Accounts. It just isn't kosher.

Contrast that to our nation.

The same folks that are filling the airwaves with their political outrage are the same folks that run the nation's checkbook into the ground. They whip out their pens and sign the taxpayers names to all sorts of boondoggles, both within and without our national borders.

We don't get to decide.

Our "representatives" do that job for us. Except once they enter the D.C. Beltway, they can't hear us anymore. The Siren Song of Policial Committee Membership sings to them in the dulcet tones of their invisible but palpable power. So intoxicating the lure, they forget the people who elected them and seek to serve only those who can push, pull and lift them to higher office. We, the people no longer matter.

We send billions of American tax dollars to foreign countries. They hate us.

We send billions of American weapons to foreign countries to "liberate" others. Those others hate us.

We send billions in food and aid to help the suffering. The suffering never see it. It's held up by their evil national leadership and used as a bargaining chip against their own people.

But our representatives blithely keep signing checks for the aid as if we can keep dipping into the empty, cracked and broken national cookie jar to pay the bills.

Do any of them learn math at the high priced hoity toity schools they attended? Doesn't seem like it. At least, it isn't the same math I learned.

Deficit mathematics dogs ALL political parties like the Hounds of Baskerville. They all believe that they are somehow anointed to be in office and that they have the personal right to spend, spend, spend. Yet if the "other" party does so, that party is akin to Satan's offspring.

Folks, I have a message for you: Y'all are all Satan's offspring the way you lie to us, manipulate the wording, massage the data and in all ways corrupt the numbers to present your perverted message at the expense of real truth. And kiddies, this isn't some exestential theory. No need to go all philosophical about "what is real truth".

IF YOU DON'T HAVE THE MONEY TO BUY THE PRODUCT DON'T BUY IT! Taking out loans from other nations just destabilizes our own!

That goes for nations just like it does us 'regular' people in the "flyover" part of America.

The problem really comes down to this. For all of the manufactured outrage in the Beltway, there is some all-fired REAL outrage in the hearts of people being screwed out of their pension, their job and their lives by the people in positions of power who no longer care enough to represent them.

It's become the grossest example of "I've got mine" that there is.

We are ALL Americans.

All of us.

Not just the politically powerful, but that little old lady in Detroit trying to dodge gang bangers to spend way too much at the store for milk, bread and eggs. It's the man in California trying to keep his 5 kids in clothes, college and cucumbers until his money runs out. And it's the gal in Iowa balancing her farm's accounts against ever mounting fuel and seed costs is an American too. That farm has been in her family for generations, but does her representative care? Nope. It's all about keeping entrenched power and position.

I don't have to manufacture outrage. It's the real deal.

Those on Capital Hill need to stop shelling out money to strangers, people who hate us, and enemies ready to nuke us into oblivion. They need to stop printing money that has only faith backing it because there isn't enough gold, silver and jewelry to back the currency's worth.

They need to start listening to us taxpayers who are sweating bullets trying to keep our homes while they enjoy their two or three on our dime.

They need to stop flying all over creation for fact-finding missions and get into a beat up 17-year old van to do their business and pray that it actually starts.

And most of all, they need to understand that "we, the people" don't really hate the government, we hate what people have become when they join the ranks of the government of our nation. They become puppets to whomever is in power at the time. They fight and squabble like babies over a toy. They act as if someone will always clean up their mess and deal with the stench of their actions because "we, the people" always have.

But I wonder just how much outrage we could manufacture if "we, the people" told them flat out: "NO MORE!" and stopped en masse paying our obesience to them as if they were demigods?

What if we all showed up at our representatives office and demanded to know why he or she wasn't really there handling the business for which they were elected?

Most of the time, the pictures on CSPAN show half empty chambers. Where in the hell are they? Because doing what we pay them for should mean their butts are in the chair we elected them to sit in and vouch for OUR needs.

I don't think any level of D.C. outrage can match the anger of the man and woman in "flyover country" who have lost their home due to the lies and machinations of the politically connected. I don't believe they can gin up the raw fear of the soldier who wonders if he or she is going to be paid while they are in harm's way and their family is going hungry while they serve. There is no way those guaranteed their paycheck can understand what it is like to hope you can scrape up enough money to just feed the kids when you have nothing left in your wallet.

It's time for some meaningful changes - it is past time for them. But the most important change we can make is to prevent ANY politician in D.C. from serving more than two terms in office. Then NO ONE gets to be so powerful that they can afford to forget the people who sent them there in the first place.

Then, we need to ensure that from the President on down that NONE of them get a paycheck AT ALL when they refuse to do the business of the nation and get us out of debt and manage our national affairs like adults instead of preening adolescents trying to score points.

Outrage? You bet! I got a bellyful right here!

Emails for the gullible

2011-04-15T20:20:00.000-05:00

Enough already with the dumb emails promising all kinds of things about not buying gasoline!!

If you don't buy gasoline this weekend, it just means you have to fill up Monday when the price may have gone up. The companies will not miss your $100 over the weekend because too many other people whipped in to fill up their cars, trucks and boats.

It doesn't "stick it to the man" or "show the big oil companies" anything. They KNOW you will just come crawling in later to feed the need for gasoline.

Unless you are TOTALLY prepared to live in a primitive fashion, then you aren't prepared to go without oil, gas and other petroleum products.

Think about it.

Bikes, wagons and walking.

EVERYWHERE.

Have an appointment in Huntsville or Birmingham? Pack a lunch or twelve and start hiking several days in advance.

Want to heat your home in the winter? Kiss that propane goodbye and learn to chop wood again.

Relatives live at a distance? Get that conestoga packed for the journey and hope a semi doesn't cut you down on I-15.

The truth is, we have become a commuter nation. We value our mobility and never developed the infrastructure of Europe for shared transportation. No real railroads and no real bus lines in our communities unless they are larger communities with metro rails either.

So we have a love affair with our automobiles going on daily.

We don't appear ready to break up with them either.

Unless we are prepared to be Amish, we don't really mind paying for gasoline for our vehicles no matter what day it is.

Enough with the dumb emails already.

You aren't going to stop buying gas and I'm not either.

Will you be my friend?

2011-04-11T08:19:00.001-05:00

I remember being a 'wittle kid' in first grade. Kinda nervous entering the classroom holding onto Momma's hand, Kari waving as she walked down the hall to second grade, I remember seeing the kind smiles of Mrs. Christopher, Mrs. Scanlon and Mr. Chisolm. They were so good to us 'new kids on the block' yet the scary part was yet to come.

School means that you are leaving the nest and beginning to fly. And you want to be identified in a flock, be that flock great or small. To be alone is to be a target for the predators that exist in every facet of life.

I took the seat marked with my name on a little carefully lettered cardboard plaque. From the time I was born, I don't think I knew what it was to be shy. But I also wanted to feel like the people around me weren't "out to get me" either.

There were a lot of kids in the room. Maybe 24 or so. We were all beginning our school adventure together.

Boys and girls and brand new clothes, pencil boxes and little bookbags filled the spaces.

But who would be friendly first? Would someone help us get to know each other? Would someone smile and break the ice?

Fortunately, first grade friendships came easily. Skipping rope on the playground, playing tag around the trees, running like the wind from base to base after a long hit in softball... they all guaranteed new and old friends played together.

Not so much anymore now that the realities of adult life have settled into place.

While it would be nice to have social introductions complete with mini-biographies to help us choose as we wade through the lives that come into contact with our own, it just doesn't happen that way.

And the older I have grown, the more I realize that having "lots" of friends just doesn't feel the same as it did when I was in elementary school.

Friendships require time. And there are days I am extremely jealous of my time. It's not that I don't feel friendly feelings, it's just that I don't like being told how I should spread those feelings out.

My sisters and brother and I have a blood bond. That's nice, but it isn't what makes us friends. We know enough about each other to love one another through the good, the bad and the blackmail. It's just how it works. Not all siblings enjoy that kind of bond. I get that. But I feel blessed to say that's how my immediate family works.

I also feel blessed beyond reason to add to that immediate family through the careful addition of friends who bring a richness to my life that is better than icing on a cake. They require time and energy to be expended in their behalf because my friends, though the number is few, are all high maintenance... just like me.

That's good though.

If a friendship is to be worth anything at all, it requires time, sacrifices, a few fights, a few cry fests, times where you laugh so much you can't breathe anymore... otherwise it's just a superficial contact.

My biggest issue is that I can care about someone in that casual and superficial way that doesn't wish them any harm but not care deeper.

Does that make me evil?

I sure hope not, because I don't want to be told who has to be my friend. I want the opportunity to develop the friendships I enjoy because of shared interests, different interests, laughter, tears and some hard times that bind us together by the heart.

It comes down to choice.

Choosing to be my friend means that work will be involved because I am not perfect. Far from it. Sadly.

Choosing to be my friend means that just as I will be expected to accept you just as you are, the same requirement will be expected from you in accepting me as is, where is. That doesn't preclude growth and improvements, it just means that if you and I love each other, we realize that any growth that might occur will take time and probably lots of patience to accomplish.

Unfortunately, there are people who 'audition' me for friendship potential. They attempt to change me and make me into what they think I ought to be in order to fit into the requirements they have for their friends.

Balky as a southern mule, I resist this molding and shaping because well-meaning as it might seem to be, it isn't by MY choice nor is it by MY design. I don't want to be FORCED to be your friend!

That isn't friendship at all!!

Friendships take TIME.

Friendships take ENERGY.

And most of all, you actually have to LOVE the person enough to desire to become 'of one heart and one mind' in the process. Sadly, I don't desire that relationship with every single person I have ever met.

I struggle in my emotions over this because I feel on the one hand like it isn't Christ-like to feel this way, but then on the other hand, I realize that I cannot fill the emotional cup of need that every single person has. It isn't possible.

I also confess that the tiny, selfish, evil part of me doesn't really want to try to do it, either.

Sometimes, people rub me the wrong way for reasons that I cannot define. To be fair, I also rub people the wrong way and frankly, I don't care most of the time because I don't think we are all supposed to be bosom buddies. That just doesn't compute.

It doesn't mean I wish other people ill will. That really isn't in my nature. Despite the direct and blunt approach I take to life in general, I do feel badly when something I have done has hurt another person, be they friend or stranger. But I cannot be held responsible for the people who carry an emotional target around in front of them just daring the world to offend them in some way so that they can play the "victim" card because I am not what they wanted me to be to them.

I want and need friends. I have them. There are circles of interconnected people in my life whom I am extremely blessed to love. They have a piece of my heart that is individual to that relationship. It is theirs for so long as they wish to have me in their lives.

But if I am reluctant to pass out pieces of my heart without developing a relationship over time, it is because I realize that there are limits because I am mortal. There are also limits because of personal circumstances.

I can't be all things to all people even in the best of times. And only my deepest and truest friends will put up with me during the worst of times. It is an epic truth worthy of Dickens.

When someone reaches out in friendship, sometimes things just gel. It defies both description and verbage. Sometimes the reaching doesn't quite make a connection. That doesn't mean either person is wrong, it just means that maybe that connection isn't the one for you.

Attraction to people who become part of our lives is a complicated process. Sometimes things just fall into place guided by a higher power. Other times, they require work and a lot of it.

I still come back to that same moment in time. Someone asks if a friendship is possible. Is it wrong and/or evil to say no?

There isn't a simple answer to this one, folks.

We can be kind to everyone and considerate of their feelings. But that doesn't necessarily equate to friendship. The bonds that we develop in our lives are extremely personal to us. No one on the outside SHOULD get to define them. That would be anachronistic and just plain wrong.

To be forced into a 'friendship' is a lie of the blackest hue. For if you don't CARE for that person, how can it be friendship? If you are not invested in them and their life, how can you know their heart?

Will you feel the emotional needs of one who is a stranger to you? I believe that to be an impossible task. We cannot fill the cup of another if our vessel is empty.

Are we truly supposed to be that kind of friends to everyone? If someone can figure that out, I'd be most appreciative. The longer I think about it, the more my head hurts and my heart aches for what I cannot be.

So we are back to the original question.

"Will you be my friend?"

To which the answer is dictated by truth.

"It depends".

Alabaster Box

2011-04-09T11:41:00.002-05:00

A special shout out to my sisters in the gospel at the "As Sistas in Zion" and their blog posting "A Different Kind of Saint". PLEASE take a look at the article that accompanies this beautiful song and video.

A Different Kind of Saint

There isn't one of us who truly knows the price that has been paid by another to put our precious offering of oil into the Alabaster box of our faith which we present at the feet of our Savior and Redeemer.

Yet, we judge.

We condemn as if we had the right to do so.

We act as if the stench of OUR OWN sins in the nostrils of our Savior is somehow less offensive than the sins of our brothers and sisters who struggle to get through each day just like we do...

We act as if we are better, different and more precious to God than our siblings in Christ whom we claim to love.

Our traditions and our circumstances are different. But we are no less loved by Our Savior who poured out His very blood drop by drop for our sins. ALL of them. Not just the ones we care to talk about.

ALL of them.

Our secret shame. Our hidden sins. Our pride, our unjust judgment of another, our unwillingness to truly serve and love all of His Children as He does. We forget that everyone struggles to know their place in God's Kingdom.

One of my absolute favorite songs comes from the aching heart of a regular every day common old sinner seeking to know just how to make it right and become what Christ sees when He touches our lives with his cleansing blood.

"This is the Christ" ( Lyrics written by President James E. Faust)

They heard His voice, a voice so mild;

It pierced them through and made their souls to quake;

They saw Him come, a man in white,

The Savior who had suffered for their sake.

They felt the wounds in hands and side,

And each could testify; This is the Christ;

This is the Christ, the holy Son of God,

Our Savior, Lord, Redeemer of mankind.

This is the Christ, the healer of our souls

Who ransomed us with love divine.

I read His words, the words He prayed

While bearing sorrow in Gethsemane;

I feel His love, the price He paid.

How many drops of blood were spilled for me?

With saints of old in joyful cry

I too can testify; This is the Christ;

This is the Christ, the holy Son of God,

Our Savior, Lord, Redeemer of mankind.

This is the Christ, the healer of our souls

Who ransomed us with purest love divine!

I need to get over myself and start being what I have been asked, begged and pleaded with to become - that Child who can act as His hands when the Savior sees and hears the unspoken prayers from the heart of one who comes unworthily to receive His grace, love and forgiveness.

If I expect to receive of those same blessings, I need to act like they are for everyone, not just for li'l old me. And not as if the rules are different for me than for all of my fellow sinners who share this planet.

CeCe Winan's lyrics are right on the money - none of us could withstand the scrutiny if we had our lives laid bare for the vultures and jackals to pick through. Yet seeking the Master, we truly risk what we have and know to receive what He has promised to us if we will "come unto Him".

Alabaster Box (Cece Winans)

The room grew still

As she made her way to Jesus

She stumbles through the tears that made her blind

She felt such pain

Some spoke in anger

Heard folks whisper

There's no place here for her kind

Still on she came

Through the shame that flushed her face

Until at last, she knelt before his feet

And though she spoke no words

Everything she said was heard

As she poured her love for the Master

From her box of alabaster

And I've come to pour

My praise on Him

Like oil from Mary's alabaster box

Don't be angry if I wash his feet with my tears

And I dry them with my hair

You weren't there the night He found me

You did not feel what I felt

When he wrapped his love all around me and

You don't know the cost of the oil

In my alabaster box

I can't forget the way life used to be

I was a prisoner to the sin that had me bound

And I spent my days

Poured my life without measure

Into a little treasure box

I'd thought I'd found

Until the day when Jesus came to me

And healed my soul

With the wonder of His touch

So now I'm giving back to Him

All the praise He's worthy of

I've been forgiven

And that's why

I love Him so much

Don't You Wish Your TV Was Hot Like Mine?

2011-04-06T20:01:00.000-05:00

Deja vu is the operative moment here.

Reminds me of the last time a TV was sacrificed to the trash pile. Though the circumstances here were a little different... this one offered up it's picture tube to the lightening and thunder that stripped it of decent viewing and replaced it with a rainbow of nausea producing, migraine inducing and flashback juicing imagery that can absolutely leave you hunting for a garbage can to barf into.

The last time, the TV simply decided we had watched it long enough.

The saga was pretty pitiful. The normally vibrant circa 1980's technology faded to shades of blue and coneheadedness that left everyone looking like a Saturday Night Live skit run amok in regular prime time programming.

The strange part was what happened next.

Carefully carrying the TV to the side of the road for pickup by 'the claw' and disposal in a garbage dump far, far away, we made sure that we didn't bust the picture tube and/or cabinet into splinters and giblets as we sat it down gingerly to await the trip to never-never land.

No sooner than I had turned to go back in the house than some people pulled up in their beat up old car and by the side of the road and said "how much this cost?"

I said, "It doesn't work!"

They said "How much this cost?"

I said, "It does NOT work!"

They said, "How much this cost?"

I said, "Fine, it's FREE!"

They loaded it up and drove away.

NO LIE!

I will never know if they found satisfaction in viewing the world through azure colored glasses or if they, too, discovered that "Smurf television" wasn't all that it was cracked up to be.

But this TV, the current rainbow view one, it will not be accepted into the welcoming arms of someone cruising past on garbage day.

Technology has changed and people don't pull over for old TV's anymore. They barely pull over for anything. Including people on bicycles... but that is another blog entirely.

People want the 'new hotness'and we don't possess it. We still have rabbit ears TV and it's free. We don't have the latest and greatest and frankly, other than my sports obsessed self, I don't think anyone misses it.

Sure, it would be nice to discuss the latest giblety bits of technological goodness adorning our wall since that's where most televisions seem to be landing these days. But that isn't a high priority.

So we replaced the rainbow TV with the portable that used to be in Rick's old office. He was not amused, but dang it, the thing works just fine and it was FREE.

Hmmm.

I'm beginning to think like the people on the road... I pulled over because it was free!!

Oh well.

The screen may be small, but we are still broadcasting the airwaves of programming worth bringing into the home. Jared is happy. I'm happy. We're good.

Should I happen to win the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, I can assure you that after a hefty check for tithing and paying off all of our bills, I will be getting a wall mounted television that sings, dances and snows on itself all while making me a grilled cheese sandwich.

Until then, the 13 inch portable will do just fine.

Don't be jealous! It's so unbecoming!

A Penny Saved...

2011-04-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

Oh, how I love to shop victoriously leaving the store having saved a boatload of money!!

It is truly a thrill!

Thomas is in need of a few shirts, so out on the great American clothes shopping trail I went.

My two favorite starting places are Goodwill and the Salvation Army. They had a fine selection in a variety of colors and none of the shirts cost me more than 4 bucks.

The best part is, they still had tags on them indicating that they would have set me back anywhere from $28.00 to $40.00 apiece had I bought them retail.

So I thank the people who are kind enough to donate, the stores that carry the merchandise priced right for my budget and the extra sale price cut for having the "right" color of discount sticker.

Oh, to save a penny!

It may not seem like a lot to some, but if everyone was more price conscious, it could start a revolution that could very well shake the retail sales industry to its core.

Finding the shirts I needed for Thomas - wonderful!

Finding them at discount prices - exciting!

Shopping victoriously and saving precious moolah - PRICELESS!

Reality TV programming

2011-04-01T19:57:00.000-05:00

I've been sitting here giving some thought to how we could clean up the airwaves and also improve reality TV.

We have a great deal of nasty, vulgar and useless people eating up more than their "15-minutes of fame" who just need to go.

With that in mind, I have an idea. Since all of us are guilty of flipping through the channels surfing for something worthwhile and stopping on moments of TV from time to time, I propose that we combine these into a new type of TV.

Offering no warning to the "contestants" selected in an attempt to clean up TV and make it more family friendly, they will be kidnapped from their shows and shoved into the "Channel Surfer" show where they must instantly learn to cope with whatever situation into which they are thrust with the click of a button.

The losers are gobbled up by lions in the Serengeti or nibbled by pythons in the Amazon rain forest or maybe even launched into space on the OUTSIDE of a rocket to the moon. And they are penalized heavily for using foul language, vulgar gestures and terminology not fit for Grandma.

The possibilities are endless in terms of how we can remove or redeem the foul persons from TV!! Those persons unable to cope are gone and TV execs immediately have to choose to do better or they could well be next! How delightful!

Imagine... one moment, we are watching a program on the circus and the hapless celebrity is tangled up on the high wire in a pile of chairs. Then - WHOOSH! The channel clicks and they find themselves receiving the football on the 5 yard line in an arena football game in Florida! Just as they are about to take a wicked hit, they are plunged into the depths of the ocean to wander through the remains of the Titanic without a diving bell!!

Muuahahahahahaha!

This could all be a delusion brought on by pain medicine. . . I'm not sure at this point.

But can you imagine someone as nasty as, oh, say Kathy Griffin blubbering along as she attempts to navigate some pretty hairy situations that are made worse everytime she either swears or plays the 'celebrity card'?

It's just too delicious to contemplate. Of course, that means I must need to put my leg up to stop the throbbing that accompanies the clicking sound I am feeling in my head which is actually my pulse and NOT the buttons on the remote control switching things up for people who aren't really here.

Too bad... it kind of fun thinking of the pampered and spoiled dealing with some reality without a celebrity lawyer to negotiate their way out of the quicksand.

Higher Education

2011-03-31T07:14:00.000-05:00

Reasonably literate and able to coherently hold up my end of most conversations that do not involve the discussion of the atomic weight of cesium, I began to look into expanding my education repertoire and perhaps take some online classes.

The reason for this moment of insanity was sparked by Beth who said bluntly "misery loves company" and since she is buried under an avalanche of homework, she wants me to likewise struggle for breath.

I think the motivation isn't so much that I would be subsumed by the sheer volume of work, but that it would offer me something to do while convalescing after my surgery this summer. At least I hope that is what her motivation is... if the plan is to kill me off by degrees through assignments and projects, then all is indeed lost. Whatever brain cell I might have retained from my college years must certainly be a dried and shriveled little waif. Plus, Beth's gonna look almighty stupid talking to a corpse.

I looked at a couple of schools online. Frankly, there isn't a school that offers what I'd really like to take, which is archaeology. They offer the "related" field of anthropology, which is related like a duck is related to a chicken.

Both tasty, both nice with potatoes and gravy, but not interchangeable.

I looked into the possibility of expanding my biology and sciences background. I even have certifications which would help add to my credits. But then the cold water bath of personal reality set in... where in heaven's name would any of that be useful other than to me, myself and I?

Call it a weakness, but if the only object is to just attend classes, they have a gazillion of those online freebies and podcasts where no credit is offered but you can just learn for the sake of learning. I know, because I've actually done some of them. Oddly enough, they were in archaeology.

It seems so logical to think that learning in and of itself is enough to justify the time, sacrifice and possible budget busting expense involved in attaining to a higher education. Lots of people do so. But at what personal cost is the education gained?

Our eldest son is working towards his first bachelors degree. The sacrifice for him in doing so is considerable. There isn't a lot of time for yanking around and partying, thankfully, he isn't bent that way to begin with, but he tries to be a diligent student in his schooling. Which is a pretty big deal as his opportunity is totally tied to his willingness to work hard and get good grades. Scholarships and grants ride on his success and will be removed if he drops below a certain GPA. That's actually a good thing... motivation usually involves money somehow either directly or indirectly through incentives and outright familial bribery.

But my question still comes back to what would I get the additional schooling in and how would I apply it in a way that would be able to bring glory to God, help my fellowman and in all things be of use?

Sticky wicket to be certain.

With the obligations of care placed upon me by choice and circumstance, would it be fair for me to take on more in a selfish grasp at the brilliance that has thus far eluded me? Would it be fair to do so when my husband, who CAN use the added credits and diploma to advance, should indeed go first? The truth comes down to a very simple equation. To whom it can be of the most benefit, the opportunity should be offered first. Everyone else can wait either for their turn or to be bypassed for a worthier candidate befitting the opportunity.

I like to learn. I try to learn at least one new thing everyday and implement it in some way so that I retain the information. Take for instance, the funeral area in Egypt that has revealed millions of mummified dogs, jackals and puppies offered as sacrifices to Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead. I pondered if this expression of substitutiary religious offering of atonement were not somehow a veiled copy of the paschal offerings the Egyptians had seen in the Hebrews who had lived among them. Were they offering what, to the Children of Israel, would be a defiled offering? Or was this a longstanding practice among them in an effort to purchase their safety into the underworld of Anubis?

These and other questions sprung to mind as I weighed the relative merits of various religious expression studied over time. Who is to say that all of these various forms and methods didn't spring from that one couple in the Garden of Eden who begat the family of man? And, although I have made my selection and believe in the One True God and follow the teachings of Jesus Christ, I can see where circumstances and beliefs of various peoples evolved over time. I respect their right to have worship and religious rites and will fight to the death for them to have their own sacred expression. We all lay claim to that privilege of worshiping how, where or what we may. Even if that worship involves dogs.

But education? Is all of our educational worth to be summed up in classrooms, books, assignments and grades? Isn't education a majority of our life's passion? We learn and apply what we have learned either as a stepping stone to something greater or as a momentary understanding which we are now free to cast aside and move beyond. Not everything is a 'keeper' in terms of what goes on in the process.

It is my deepest desire to become more than I am and to be of worth to God, to my family and friends, and to the greater world of neighbors who surround me.

I just am unsure of how to do that and still have time for the essential work that is required at my hands. Time management has never been a strong suit of mine.

In the meantime, I shall continue to glean information the best way I can through the bits, bytes, books and blessings offered to me as they come. Perhaps that will add up to an educational experience that will be of some benefit to those who share my life someday.

I truly hope so.

Here snakey, snakey, snakey...

2011-03-28T22:30:00.001-05:00

While waiting for my pain pills to kick into that comfortable and dopey (er) state of being that masks the burning pain in my left ankle, I was reading an article on line about how a zoo had (oh my goodness!) MISPLACED a snake.

No garden snake this... oh, no! They seem to have difficulty locating a poisonous COBRA.

A C - O - B - R - A. Cobra.

Isn't that one of those Egyptian snakes that is used in ritual and lore and can turn you from live to dead in a single bite?

And further, how, precisely, does a snake leave without anyone noticing?

It's not like everyone even knows how to identify poisonous snakes either.

Do they shake hands if they are 'friendly' snakes...? Oh, wait, snakes don't have hands.

Do they have warning labels from the Surgeon General? And if they do, why didn't they secure the snakes when they pasted the little labels on them in the first place?

And what methods are used to 'call' a snake? Do we need to import snake charmers? Or will they answer to a specific tone played on a Wurlitzer organ like the aliens on "Close Encounters"?

Do they have names? Pharaoh, Hasheptsut or Steve? And if they do would they come when you call or look at you disdainfully like teenagers and sulk off to be moody all alone?

I am not comforted by the fact that this snake escaped from the Yankees at the Bronx Zoo. This could very well be the first salvo in another round of guerrilla warfare held over from the "Late, Great Unpleasantness". They may well be trying to claim our more pleasant weather since they have been pounded this winter.

Hmmmm.

Maybe that is why the snake left. Maybe that cursed cobra was freezing his hood off and needed to get somewhere warm enough to thaw out his venom sacs.

Come to think of it, I don't remember reading a whole lot of papyri that discuss snow storms in the Nile delta, nor do I remember seeing any hieroglyphics that depict King Tut whacking his royal advisers with a snowball that had an ice core.

And chariot races would take on a whole new meaning with sled runners attached to the chariot. Are there any Egyptian sleigh bells in the museum in Cairo?

All I know is that the cobra's life expectancy is down to a mere sliver if it shows up here at this house. I can well imagine the nice belt and wallet it would become with one blast of my gun. After all, I have seen Riki Tiki Tavi and know how "the man" dispatches Nag and Nagaini with his gun as Riki dances his dance of snakey death. Though I lack the mongoose, I do have Gypsy and she doesn't care for snakes anymore than I do.

So while the Yankees struggle with their little snake problem. I will sit here happy in the knowledge that until snakes develop the ability to use credit cards to purchase travel vouchers to bring them here to be shot and killed, I will be safe.

Hope those damnyankees find their cobra. Otherwise, they are gonna look pretty stupid when Bubba and Earl show up with a new belt or hat band.

When Bradford Pears Attack

2011-03-26T10:46:00.005-05:00

Spring in the South is a fragrant and lovely explosion of scents accompanied by a riot of colorful blooms drawing in bees, hummingbirds and allergies. Most of the time, the South holds all records for allergy production and sales of over the counter and prescription remedies. I would dare say that the manufacturers of allergy relievers and remedies make their fortune off of the misery and suffering of those with magnolia drenched and honeysuckled accents.

Somehow, it all feels like a conspiracy the Damnyankees would be proud of creating.

Bradford pears are a popular tree in this area for making a landscape look wonderful in a short amount of time. They pop in the ground and grow quickly with pretty blossoms that are secret agents of sinus destruction.

When Bradford pears attack...

They stealthily weave their evil tendrils of scent up into the unsuspecting nostrils of the soon to be suffering Southerner who has better things to do than eat Claritin like candy and walk around with a hanky swearing to everyone "It's allergies!! I swear I'm not contagious!"

Running, biking, boating and just day to day breathing become Herculean feats of skill when the Bradford pears attack. They have nothing better to do than to crush out your oxygen supply and replace it with wads of pollen jamming our nasal passages shut and creating balloon-like heads that we can feel, but no one else can see. There is something oddly unfair about that.

Dang it, if I'm going to be compelled to suffer, I should have something more tangible than squashed snotty Kleenex as proof of my malady!! My balloon-like head should be visible to others, perhaps with a peep hole to see the level of goo present.

Then, people would be appropriately concerned instead of dragging small children away from one who is 'shunned' from polite society due to that nagging post nasal drip and hacking cough that sounds very much like a muck-filled slime encrusted lung is about to hit the floor with the next paroxysm of suffering.

Bradford pears cannot be trusted!! They are evil, EVIL I tell you! They have a vaguely friendly appearance, but beneath their bark is a bite that is worse than the hydrophobia inflicted by a rabid bat. They render you gooey, itchy and ill - but not ill enough to be "put down" due to the illness.

Of course, Bradford pears are not alone in their violent onslaught. They have partners in crime which act insidiously to bring more harm onto the tender membranes already inflamed. The pollen of trees, shrubs, flowers and, in short, all things bright and beautiful, renders us into creatures great and small in no time at all.

"Don't look, children!! It's hideous!!"

But soon, allergy season will be over. Yeah, I know, I'm laughing too. Allergy season never is over. NEVER.

This area is the punchbowl of the allergy party. If one flavored dipper of pollen won't get you, another one will. There are a host of flora to which you can be allergic and not all of them are even nearby.

When the poets wrote of an 'evil wind', I have to believe they, too, were suffering allergic reactions of the worst kind brought on by foreign pollen wafted on "friendly winds" that weren't so friendly at all.

I'm seriously considering artificial plants for my yard.

But I feel reasonably sure I'd just develop an allergy to the plastic.

Time to take another dose of Mucinex. It's gonna be a long day without oxygen...

Planning Post-Op Activities

2011-03-24T07:55:00.000-05:00

My trip to the orthopedic surgeon was not exciting at all. Not one lick.

Surgery is a matter of 'when' not 'if' at this point.

Did you know it is never convenient for me to be down?

I never realized I was irreplaceable. Now I just need to know who to contact to make my statue and obelisk.

But seriously, the issues surrounding all of this fun will require that I be totally off of my left leg for at least 8 weeks post op.

So that leaves me with a lot of 'free time' where I can't do anything much. With that in mind, I have been doing some brainstorming.

Here's what I've come up with thus far:

* Transcendental Pilates. All the benefits without any pressure on the post op healing. Just drift into that plane of being where the work is done in my mind and the results are seen on my body.

* I plan on using all of my spare time at home to prank call everyone in the phone book. Everyone. No one should consider themselves immune. I have an endless supply of stupid things to say when they pick up. And I promise to call at the most inconvenient times, too.

* Further, I plan to start calling all of the local businesses one by one and asking them to tell me what it is they actually do in my behalf and why I should spend my money with them for that thing they do.

* When that is all said and done, I plan to start mailing individual slices of Spam to random post office boxes. I'm not sure if it will be a bid to fight hunger or simply to irk someone who pulls a slimy envelope out of the mailbox.

* After I run out of Spam, I have to decide how to best deploy boiled okra pods to my advantage. I will have help on this one from my high school partner in crime. Elizabeth has an evil mind when it comes to this kind of high crimes and misdemeanors. (Does anyone know: precisely how long do they send you to jail for putting okra in the mail?)

* From previous experience being bedridden and crippled up, I know that you can only read so many magazines and watch so much TV before you are totally toast. I plan to write "articles" for the local paper and news magazines about naval gazing. I may send pictures.
They may even be of my navel.

Of course, I am open to other ideas and possibilities.

This is just basic pre-op brainstorming and I may have several days ahead of concrete planning sessions before I go under the knife, the Sawzall and the rasp.

I wonder, while they have me under, would they mind shaving off a little fat in a few select areas? We could call it "pre-formation non-aligned lipoidal bone spurs near the central axis of the body"...?

Uh, I guess not.

Liposuction and bone spur removal probably aren't connected, despite what the song says about the leg bone being connected to the fat bone or something like that.

Oh well, back to calendar items and trying to figure out how to conveniently be a nuisance to everyone I know and love.

He's a handsome dude

2011-03-16T07:39:00.000-05:00

Jared's Senior Portraits - 2011

We are getting pretty close to a special day that we have anticipated and hope would happen for a while.

Of course, there have been times through the years when we have wondered if we'd get there with our sweet baby boy.

Jared, my sweet little boy now a grown man, will be graduating in May of this year. His tuxedo pictures put an exclamation point on a dream. I'd love to send a copy of this to Dr. Breaux. He is the doctor who literally and with the help of God Almighty saved our little baby all those years ago when he initially looked the Angel of Death right in the eyes.

While I do not know all the whys and wherefore's of Jared's existence in this particular limiting circumstance for his physical body, I know that smiling countenance is filled with a radiant light from God Himself. No other explanation is possible when you look into his face which seems to be back lit from heaven itself.

I hope that others see in Jared that heavenly light and seek to know its source.

I'd love to tell them about it.

And one day, Jared will talk about it himself.

I can't wait...

While I cannot imagine what he would say, I can imagine his laughter because we hear it often. His laugh is a rich embodiement of what it must be to share a joke with God. It's a personal thing that just rolls out and warms even the chilliest of hearts.

Jared has an ability to draw people in. It's his personal gift from God. Strangers can't help but talk to him. He makes friends everywhere he goes. It is as if he is an ambassador of sorts.

He brings light into a darkened world because Jared KNOWS God and His Christ.

I have no doubt of that.

There is no other way to describe the happiness that just leaks out from every pore when he smiles.

Enjoy the picture.

But do come and get to know the dude behind the smile. Your life won't ever be the same again.

I Can Resist Anything... but Temptation

2011-03-13T11:44:00.000-05:00

Mortal beings we... life is difficult at times and the propensity of the fallible souls we are gets in the way of good choices at times.

Then, the emotional and spiritual flogging begins.

Our failings have once again eroded all possibility that God loves us, cares for us, or desires to redeem us.

Temptation. Who me? No Garden of Eden moments please.

We all want to be "THE ONES" to whom mortality and its rules simply don't apply.

I can resist anything... but temptation.

Oh, but the fact is, that is exactly why we are here. It's not about how many times we fall down. Because WE ALL FALL DOWN.

This little exercise in humility has everything to do with how many times we drag ourselves up from the dust, the mud and the embarrassment of failure and stand up, a little bruised and beaten from the experience, to try one more time to get it right.

As the charter president of the "2 x 4 Club", the onus is upon me to do some explanations.
Or as Ricky Ricardo so eloquently states "Lucy! You got some 'splainin' to do!"

Hard heads and mortal lives are a combo package. We all want to be the best in something, but often forget the best "something" we can be best at is to be OURSELVES.

The goal is perfection, but it WILL NOT BE FULLY ATTAINED IN THIS LIFE!

But all we hear is what is expected of us and how we aren't there yet. So beating up ourselves and making the trials we endure sharper by comparison, our mortal experience is walloped by the reality that we are flawed, human, ignorant and all to willing to follow the Pied Piper of Personal Pleasure until it is too late to come up with the purchase price for our bail money.

How totally mortal we are to forget that the Tempter has already been OWNED! Our beloved and wonderful Savior has his number in spades. Jesus Christ knows the games and torment planned for us to endure by Satan and he has provided a way to overcome through the Atonement.

But Satan wants us to wallow. It's easier to keep poking at the sore spots when we help him to do it by making it seem like we are somehow beyond hope and unworthy of the care of God, Our Father. We grant Satan power by forgetting that the Savior, who bears the literal marks of our purchase in His Redeeming blood, stands ready to forgive us 70 times 7 and more, so long as we are moving forward - sincerely moving and striving and aching to be made whole.

We pride ourselves on our "willpower".

But we flog ourselves on our 'won't power'. Those times where we promise "we won't" but then we do... because we are mortal, we are learning and we are selfish. It's a little exercise in self-abuse that is more damaging to our eternal soul than virtually anything else you can imagine.

Temptation is part of mortal life and NO ONE is exempt, not even Jesus Christ!

How easy it is to forget that Satan tempted Him and if the temptation had not been a true temptation to forgo all that Jesus had promised to do for us, there is no way Christ could understand us and be willing to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves. He, the Savior of the World, Redeemed us with His literal body and blood.

Christ resisted temptation, not because it was easier for him or the trial somehow cheapened and made less. He resisted the temptation because He loved someone more than He loved himself.

Christ resisted because He didn't want to let us down. He DESIRED to help us because he loves us enough to resist. He resisted because it was the price He DESIRED to pay because He wanted to save all of us who would be willing to heed his pleading and tender invitation.

"Come, follow me."

Temptation comes in more flavors than Baskin-Robbins ice cream ever dreamed of and it is uniquely personal to each struggling Child of God. What tempts me to my very foundation may be no struggle for you at all. Which is precisely WHY we need each other.
We are not to condemn one another because the sins that another chooses to battle aren't the ones we hold close and struggle with ourselves. Instead, we are to encourage and lift one another through the temptations that are part of the test of mortal life. We are to choose to help and choose to overcome through Christ.

The greatest gift we have been granted other than our very lives is the gift to CHOOSE. Our moral agency determines whom we list to obey. We can choose to heed only our passions and personal gratification. We can choose to vacillate between two masters loving neither fully, serving neither fully. And thus choosing the temptation instead of the crown, we choose the consequences of life outside the Kingdom of God.

Becoming all that God sees within our souls will never be easy and there will always be struggle in mortal life. Temptation is seldom handled conveniently nor is it something that can be brushed aside.

But the truth is that we can, with help, overcome the temptation that threatens to destroy our peace.

That help comes through the gospel of Jesus Christ and through the ministering of angels who are sent from the Father to bear us up, strengthen us, and shield us so that the fiery darts of the adversary cannot destroy us.

But we must CHOOSE.

Struggle will be a part of mortal life from first to last breath. Temptation dogs our heels and nips at our souls like a hungry and ferocious wild dog seeking only our destruction for its own ends.

Fortunately, we are not now nor are we ever alone. God is mindful and Jesus Christ has ALREADY paid our bail. The Holy Spirit can touch our heart, mind and soul to know what to do and how to do it. All we need do is be willing to resist even when it is hard to do so.

Resisting is hard, but it is the only way we grow up straight and true and worthy to be inheriters of the Kingdom of God. It's something I try to keep in mind when I pull out my own whips, red hot pokers and heavy chains with which I flog myself when I fall down.

God doesn't want to see me kick someone when they are down even when that person is fallen, helpless and suffering me.

Instead, He wants to see me show myself the kindness I'd show another suffering soul that has fallen into a mire of temptation who needs my help and His to get out of the mess.

My Aunt Jewel had this little bit of poetry by Veda Ponikvar that sums up the whole issue rather nicely.

SAINTS AND SINNERS

When some fellow yields to temptation

And breaks a conventional law,

We look for no good in his makeup,

Oh, Lord, how we look for the flaw!

No one asks, "Who did the tempting?"

Nor allows for the battles he's fought.

His name becomes food for the jackals,

The saints who have never been caught.

I'm a sinner, O Lord, and I know it.

I am weak, and I blunder and fail,

I am tossed on life's stormy ocean

Like a ship that is caught in a gale.

I am willing to trust in thy mercy,

To keep the commandments thou'st taught.

But deliver me, Lord, from the judgment

Of the saints who have never been caught.