Things I Think About When I'm Not Napping

The New Blog is Up!

2010-12-29T07:03:00.000-06:00

Even though I may not post again till New Years Day or later, I have an entry posted on my new blog.
Please come visit when you can! Happy New Year!

http://raefrazier.blogspot.com/

New Year. New Blog.

2010-11-30T11:36:00.000-06:00

Hello Everyone!

Hope you are all well and feeling the spirit of this great season.
I sure have missed you all.
But....
I couldn't stay away for long!

So...
Look for my new blog starting Jan. 3rd.
I'll post the address below,
but remember it's under construction right now.

This will be a combination of all my other blogs-
humor, photos, poetry. reflections, inspiration,
and major gripes!
I'll also have a Goodwill Wednesday
where I feature a Goodwill, resale shop or yard sale item
and show how I fixed it up or used it in my home.

I want my new blog to be a fun and relaxing place to visit
and one that inspires you to celebrate each day.

New Year. New Blog.
New things are coming.

http://raefrazier.blogspot.com/

Watch for it Jan. 3rd.

Sabbatical

2010-10-30T08:21:00.000-05:00

One nice thing about these clear, crisp mornings is the time it gives me to reflect. A cup of hot coffee, some warm slippers- and my mind drifts off to things and to places that my heart needs to nurture. There are some things that have weighed heavily on my mind lately, and the waning down of these sweet October days has ultimately caused me to want to free myself of them- once and for all. Who to better share them with, but to all of you who have chosen to come here and be a part of my everyday joy?
I have always had this huge empty room inside my soul that beat like a painful toothache. Outside the door is a sign that says, """ Who I Am". I knew that if I could fill that space with goodness, then the ache would go away and my life would be more complete.
But nothing ever fit right. My dreams and actions were either too big or too small or too weak to make a difference. One day I could envision the perfect "me"- and the next day it would seem foolish -or rash- or beyond my reach. I thought that writing was the key to my life.
After over two years of blogging, I am no closer to filling that room. I can't help but wonder - if I had put as much effort into my life as I have into my writing- maybe things would be different. And the only way I will really ever know is to reroute my energy elsewhere.
It may be hard for some of you to understand, but when that special room is empty, then you never quite feel like you fit in. Try as you might, your life never quite connects with another - and forcing the puzzle pieces together only prolongs the agony- and reaffirms the huge realization that you need to do something great and meaningful in your life.
There is always the chance that my room will forever be empty. That time will run out or I will give up... or I'll finally just ignore it and it will shrivel up and disappear. But to do that, I must stop breathing- and I do love and cherish my life so.
Maybe this is too deep. Too sentimental. Too wacko. But, that is the glory of these slow autumn days. There are no boundaries to what we can think, imagine or do.
I'm setting out among the fallen leaves like a soldier marching to battle. I am ready to face my fears and fight the obstacles and take paths that I've ignored along the way. I am going to find whatever it takes to fill that room. I am challenging myself to create a new identity, not only in my pastimes, but also in my health and spiritual being.
So, I'm going away for awhile. Letting this computer idle. Allowing my ambitions to soar above this keyboard and coffee cup to a better me.
I may be back. I will miss you all dearly. But- who knows where the days will take me?

Don't be dismayed at goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends. ~Richard Bach

Frankenstein Friday

2010-10-29T07:10:00.000-05:00

When we think of Frankenstein,
we usually think of a large monster-
menacing, awkward,and scarred with stitch marks
that cause us to reject and fear him.

And although Frankenstein is not a real person,
his story should make us pause and realize
that there are many lessons to be learned
from this man-made monster.

First of all, none of us chooses our parents
or the way that we are born.

"The creature, which he had hoped would be beautiful, is instead hideous to his eyes, with a withered, translucent, yellowish skin that barely conceals the muscular system and blood vessels. After giving the monster life, Frankenstein is repulsed by his work: "I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.” (source: Wikipedia)

Frankenstein was pretty much doomed from the get-go.
But yet, he persevered and tried to learn about the world-
finding the beauty in small children and wild flowers.

In Mary Shelly's novel, the beast says:
"My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy."

He found out that because he was different,
people were afraid of him- or mocked him,
causing him to revel in the all-too-human emotion of loneliness.

All he really wanted was to be part of a family- a group-
to learn and share in the experience of living.
His only true friendship was made with a blind man
who could not see Frankenstein's ugliness.

Perhaps we should approach people with a blind eye.
Maybe we should listen first and look later.
There is a heart within us all that yearns for the same things:
a home, nourishment, a family,
and someone to love.

The story of Frankenstein should teach us all
to be slower to judge.

Today I see the other side of Frankenstein.
I see the sad creature.
The rejected and lonesome man
who never found a home or a family to love him.

Reach out today and trust somebody new.
Bring them into your warm circle of friendship
and make them happy.

"I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. (The Monster)
**********************
Now- after that little soap box speech,
here's a little Halloween treat!

Trick-or-Treat Tidbits

Adults

Four-in-ten (41%) adults admit that they sneak sweets from their own candy bowl.
On Halloween night, the majority (52%) of those providing treats to costumed kiddies will be passing out chocolate, while three‐in‐ten will drop hard candy or lollipops into the sacks.
62% of adults will be handing out candy because "it's a personal favorite" or it's a household tradition (55%)
43% of grown-up celebrants cite costumes as one of the most indispensable parts of the holiday.
About 26% of households will include full-size candy (chocolate and non-chocolate) in their Halloween activities.
90% of parents admit to sneaking goodies from their kids' Halloween trick-or-treat bags.
Parents favorite treats to sneak from their kids’ trick-or-treat bags are snack-size chocolate bars (70 percent sneak these), candy-coated chocolate pieces (40 percent), caramels (37 percent) and gum (26 percent).
Parents least favorite goodie to take from their kids’ trick-or-treat bags is licorice (18 percent).

Kids

30% of kids report that they SORT their candy first when returning home with trick-or-treat loot, others:
- Savor it (20%)
- Share it (16%)
- Stash it (14%)
- Swap it (7%)
Kids say they prefer homes that give: anything made with chocolate (68%) followed by lollipops (9%), gummy candy (7%) and bubble gum or chewing gum (7%)
More than 93% of children go trick-or-treating each year.
Kids tell us that their favorite treats to receive when trick-or-treating are candy and gum. Eighty-four percent of kids said candy and gum are their favorites over other options like baked goods or small toys.

Have a Safe and Delicious Halloween!

This Is How We Roll. From Now On.

2010-10-28T07:16:00.000-05:00

I've just discovered some earth-shattering news
that will change the lives of women all over the world.

What is worse than finding the lid off the toothpaste,
wet towels on the floor,
and the toilet un-flushed?

We all know it's that
annoying, hideous, repulsive-
and empty cardboard tube!

Fear not.

Kimberly-Clark has just announced a breakthrough
in the design of toilet paper.

Totally tubeless!

Yes, my dear ladies, we shall be liberated!

Still in the testing phase throughout the northeast,
Scott Naturals Tube-Free boasts:
"Even the last piece of toilet paper will be usable — without glue stuck on it."

Awesome.

And-if you are "green conscious", there's more good news.
A spokesman for Kimberly Clark said this about the innovative product:

"The 17 billion toilet paper tubes produced annually in the USA account for 160 million pounds of trash, according to Kimberly-Clark estimates, and could stretch more than a million miles placed end-to-end. That's from here to the moon and back — twice. Most consumers toss, rather than recycle, used tubes, says Doug Daniels, brand manager at Kimberly-Clark. "We found a way to bring innovation to a category as mature as bath tissue," he says.

Well - I really could care less about the
empty tubes of toilet paper floating out there in space-
I just don't want them staring at me when I sit down
for a necessary natural elimination-
(if you know what I mean).

(However, tubeless does not mean
that the paper dispenser will automatically replace itself.
We must remind our men and children
that there is still a looming and huge responsibility
that comes with modern convenient facilities-
Replace the roll!)

But, I'm already trying to decide how to spend that extra time
I'll be saving by not having to remove the cardboard tube.

That's just one more thing that us ~~women slaves~~ housewives
won't have to concern ourselves with.

It adds up, people.

I figure I replace approximately 6 cardboard tubes a month
at a roughly figured rate of one minute per tube.
That is six minutes a month-
times twelve months
which equals 72 minutes-
(or an hour and 12 minutes per year)-
times the years I've been married (35)= 42 hours.
(Forgive me if the math is wrong-
arithmetic has never been one of my strong points.)

That means I've spent three and a half days of my life
removing the empty cardboard roll!

Man, I could have been napping or reading
or ~~exercising~~ watching TV!
Or something!
Anything but that darn empty cardboard tube!

Rejoice, ladies.
Our day is coming soon.

Hallelujah joy joy!

Somethin' From Nothin'

2010-10-27T05:18:00.001-05:00

THIS is what I have to work with when I begin writing a blog post:

THIS is what I am working with this week:

I sewed and sewed and sewed until my machine broke.

Then I started hand-sewing with a sore thumb
(that I trapped in the screen door).
I tacked and glued and pinned.
I stuffed and cursed -and cut every corner possible.

My creation is very rough,
but it's only a practice shot, you see.

When I'm not blogging, I'm ~~napping snacking playing~~
pursuing other channels for my creativity.

Some are total failures,
but I'm learning from them.

So, THIS is what I ended up with this week:
Meet ESTHER-

Resistance Is Futile

2010-10-26T06:47:00.000-05:00

Thursday is National Chocolate Day.

And I wouldn't be very patriotic
if I didn't do my part to celebrate.
So, I'm preparing for it.

I read once where consuming too much chocolate
in a short period of time,
can cause minor health problems.

Well, I value my health.

That's why I'm not taking any chances.

I can't afford to go into sugar shock
or develop a case of chocolitis.

I figure if I start eating small doses now,
I will be physically fit enough
to ~~scarf down~~ ~~inhale~~ nibble mass quantities
come Thursday.

I haven't had any really good chocolate since Easter.
And once those Cadbury Eggs have been sucked down,
there are no special holidays during the summer
that merit eating chocolate with wild abandon.

I suppose if you think about it,
National Chocolate Day sets the precedence
for the rest of the year.
Beginning on Halloween, life is just one big chunk of chocolate.

Or at least in my house.

Every year I do my best to buy a rich assortment
of snack size chocolate bars for my trick or treaters.
I usually tell my husband that I expect a big crowd -
so I better buy two bags.

(We NEVER get trick-or-treaters at my house.)

Yet, apparently we have ghosts-
because within a few days,
the candy bowls are completely empty.

But who you gonna call?

Then after Halloween, eating chocolate becomes
an everyday occurrence.
Commercials and magazine ads and store displays
constantly push the cocoa-infused delights upon us-
with no concern for our lack of resistance.

Chocolate pumpkin pie, chocolate-chip cookies,
hot chocolate with chocolate sprinkles,
chocolate brownie bars, chocolate fudge....
The list goes on...

All the way through Thanksgiving
and Christmas
and New Year's.

With barely a breath before Valentines Day.

Anyway-
you know how it is.
Unless you're firm and fit -(and no doubt anorexic).

But, if you're only human,
it's time to celebrate National Chocolate Day-
even if it's a bit early.

I have a very fitting sign on my kitchen wall,
which I consider my patriotic motto:

I WOULD GIVE UP CHOCOLATE
BUT I'M NO QUITTER.

And I guess -
that says it all.

Twelve Scary Things: A Repeat

2010-10-22T08:08:00.000-05:00

Another busy day, so I'm doing a re-post!
Originally from October 19th, 2009.
Have a great weekend!

*********************

I seems strange to me how people
will spend their hard earned money this time of year-
just to let a bunch of people in masks
scare the poo poo out of them.

Lines flock to the haunted houses,
the spooky corn mazes,
-the wicked woods.

And me-
Well, I find scary things around me
every day and they are free.

Here's the scoop.

Twelve Scary Things:

1. Swiping your debit card for $123.70
when you know perfectly well that you
only have $71.02 in your account.

2. Running out of coffee at 5 a.m.
on a day when you are ready to
kill anyone that looks at you wrong.

3. Stretch pants on strange fat women.

4. Stretch pants on me.

5. Hearing the car make a "ca-chunk"
sound when you are twenty miles from
the nearest town or rest stop.

6. Seeing a mouse getting ready to
run across the room when you've got
company sitting there.

7. Having your hair done by a girl
with tats, piercings and purple hair.

8. The guy who changes my oil.

9. Planning meals.

10. WalMart on Black Friday.

11. WalMart on Senior Citizen Day.

12. WalMart when you've run out of coffee
at 5 a.m. on a day are ready to kill any one
who looks at you wrong and you
bump into ladies with stretchy pants on
while you're searching for mousetraps
in aisle ten when they are actually in aisle four
and having to go back to the Tire and Lube
because some weirdo is paging you that your
service is completed and your debit card is declined.

So, see folks-
Put away your money.

Just follow me on an average day.

Don't Wait

2010-10-21T07:37:00.000-05:00

Sunday is Mother-in-law Day.

I know that mother-in-laws get the brunt of bad jokes,
good natured teasing,
and are forever the best cooks in the whole wide world.

And I will admit that I never really appreciated my mother-in-law.
Martha passed away several years ago-
and now it's too late to make up for lost love.

I suppose I quickly blame it on the fact
that I had three children to raise.
Time was stuffed full of crying and spills and fevers-
homework, ball games, new shoes and bedtime stories...

Back then, Martha was there like a sweet shadow.
Watching...helping..giving her advice.
(Although I didn't always heed it.)
She did love my children with all her heart
and they all remember special times with her.

Martha loved catfish-
and whenever we had the opportunity (or the money)
to go out to dinner with her,
I was always fascinated by the meticulous and careful way
that she picked and peeled away the bones,
leaving only a lacy carcass on her plate.

She was patient.
Soft-spoken.
Believed in God and lived her life accordingly.

Those long years ago,
she was probably the only connection I had to church,
or the Bible, or prayer.
And even though I never really said it-
her positive convictions
helped me cope with raising my family
and led me to find hope in hopeless situations.

Martha seemed to always get under my husband's skin.
But- as a mother-
I now know that is just a mother thing.
Her love was limitless, boundless, and rarely judgmental.
(At least not to our faces.)

And, of course, she was a wonderful cook-
treating us to fluffy home made biscuits,
coconut infused Pina-Colada Cake,
and crispy fried chicken.

Her home was always clean, precise, and welcoming.

We never had much one-on-one time.
We never had mother-daughter talks.
We never spent afternoons laughing and bonding.

We never got to be just Martha and Rae.

I was always "Mommy" back then-
and she was always "my husband's mother".

I miss her.
Today she would be the one to comfort me.
to give suggestions,
to assure me that I've chosen my pathways wisely.

I try to imagine if she was still in my life today...

She would love the fact that I'm reading the Bible
and going to church occasionally.

She would be proud of my children.

She would be thrilled I've survived
the ups and downs of marriage with her son.

She would love to come visit.

We would bond.

And we would have fresh, hot catfish.

We'd say a blessing over the heaping plate.
Laugh and eat and make plans-
until all that was left was a plate of bones...
and a day well-lived.

Happy Mother-In-Law Day, Martha.
I love you!

*******
Don't wait.
If you have a mother-in-law,
call her up Sunday and tell her how much you appreciate her.
*******

Shoe Chat (say that three times fast!)

2010-10-20T07:20:00.001-05:00

I suppose I must admit that I have the every day luxury
of wearing my choice of footwear.

Being an "at-home blogger"
who does pitifully less around the house
besides poke the keyboard,
drink enormous amounts of caffeine,
and keep pajama makers in business-
I think I may be qualified to say
that there is nothing better than barefoot.

However, we all know that society frowns
on barefoot people in large department stores,
at social events,
and in public group activities.

So, outside the confines of my home,
I must choose a footwear that is both
fashionable and comfortable.
And, believe me- it gets more difficult as I age.

You just don't see many elderly women
in the grocery store wearing flip flops.
They usually have on some strappy orthopedic number
in an unattractive shade of brownish-gray-
paired with a dead-flesh-colored knee-high nylon.

Sorry.
I just can't go there.
I don't care how old and decrepit I get.
I'll never resort to old lady shoes- even when I'm 110.

But, then again- good choices are limited.
I would never think of wearing gold lame' slippers,
leopard scuffs,
or calf-high boots the size and appearance of a small sheep.

I refuse shoes with tire tread soles the thickness of a novel,
knee boots with foot-breaking heels,
or anything made of rubber, plastic, organic
or synthetic polymerized materials.

I suppose Crocs might be a safe alternative-
but have you ever tried to run in them?
Not that I do much running (if I can help it),
but you never know when you may have to
take quick cover from a tornado,
a mall terrorist,
or suffer the sudden effects of a MSG-laden dinner salad.

There are times when heels seemed to be the only proper footwear.
Usually for funerals.
That's what I save mine for.
Except they cause shooting pains in all 26 bones of each foot.
The last funeral I went to, my feet hurt so badly
that I found myself envying the body.
She looked so comfortable in that big satin box-
getting to lay down and rest without shoe problems.

(Of course, that's pretty extreme...I do love breathing.)

The famous Dr. Scholls (Do we even know what this guy looks like?),
has invented a new footwear item that I wanted to share with you today.
They're called "Fast Flats".

Maybe you've seen the commercial.

A night of disco...crazy dance moves..sore feet..
Well, just whip out your little bagged slippers
and get your groove on without the foot pain !

Dr. Scholl's website introduces them this way:

"Fast Flats™ are compact and foldable shoes that fit discreetly in a purse and come with a wristlet for easy storage and portability. This spare pair is perfect for nights out, weddings, traveling through airports and other times when a long trek in heels won’t cut it. Women can even wear Fast Flats™ during their commute, and then slip in to their fashionable shoes just in time to hit the office.
Most women know what it’s like to dread taking another step in heels when their feet have had enough. In fact, a recent survey conducted by DR. SCHOLL’S^® FOR HER found that 70 percent of women admit to taking their shoes off after a night out because they were so uncomfortable. And 80 percent of women surveyed said that when their feet hurt, it affects their mood."

Duh.

They retail for about $13.

But, ladies-my suggestion is to just keep that $13
for another round of margaritas-
and just pack a sweet-looking pair of socks
in your disco bag.

Or better yet- stay home.
Just slip on your pajama pants,
go barefoot,
and leave the dancing to the Stars.

Recycled Post: Dear Daddy

2010-10-19T06:28:00.002-05:00

Since I have all kinds of ~~fun~~ ~~crazy~~ boring errands today-
(and have no time to beat my brain for new material)-
I'm sharing a post that I wrote last year.
Hopefully, I'll return tomorrow with something fresh!

Dear Daddy

Posted by Rae at 5:20 AM

Dear Dr. Frankenstein,

I am writing you this letter because my therapist said in must be done in order to bury the past. Not to sound sarcastic, but I do confess that I dig up the past occasionally, but I sure as heck don't go around digging up people! For a smart doctor, you were pretty stupid to let Igor pick out a brain, don't you think?

Anyway- I have forwarded to you the proper forms that demand your attention immediately. The psychiatrist says that I must provide a detailed synopsis of my birth and early childhood. He doesn't believe me when I tell him I was born a grown man!

Apparently my intense fear of electrical storms has caused unhealthy
stress-not only to this stolen heart inside my chest, but to my mental stability as well. I have tried on various occasions to explain that a direct bolt of lightning was responsible for my being,
but my doctor refuses to accept my outrageous chronicle of my creation. Imagine me- an eight foot man hiding in a seven foot closet when a storm begins to brew!

I'm sure you can understand why extreme shyness has manifested itself in my persona. Eighteen-thousand, one-hundred and fifty two stitches leave quite the scars. And, for crying out loud- what what with the neck bolts anyway?! Even the best turtle neck sweaters from Lands End will not cover those rusty appendages.

My bride left several years ago. She got that hideous streak in her hair dyed and started covering up her scars with some fantastic makeup. Pretty soon there were men flirting with her.I realize they found her attractive- in a sick and perverted sort of way. And I suppose they could give her things that I couldn't. (That is another bone I need to pick with you. Why did you ever exhume the body part of a man with ED?)

However, despite those setbacks, my life is improving as time goes on. I got hooked on Phonics, was awarded my GED, incurred a job washing airplane windshields, and finally got rid of those frightful lead boots. I have started running ( in my new Nike's) and am in better shape than the ten men that I am composed of.

I have no regrets of my amazing birth and no animosity toward you or your lab assistant. There have been so many breakthroughs in science in the past century- that I can't help but wonder how things would have been if I had been born fifty years later.

But- excuse me- there I go again- reflecting on the past. My doctor would not approve of my clinging to things that cannot be changed.

The best to you and yours. Please sign the papers in duplicate and return in the prepaid envelope.

I will see you Halloween night.

Sincerely,

Your son Frankenstein

***************************

My Name is Gourdon

2010-10-18T06:46:00.000-05:00

Hi.

My name is Gourdon                    

and I'm a skinny pumpkin.

Yeah, all you string beans

and cucumbers out there

have no idea the social disgrace

that comes with being thin.

I've experienced severe feelings of

inadequacy and self doubt-

and I'm totally embarrassed that I don't fit in 

among my plump and portly brothers.

You can't even imagine how it feels to be passed over 

by everyone that visits the pumpkin patch.

People want fat pumpkins- rotund and rolly-polly-

pumpkins with weight and substance and a chunky build.

And little kids make fun of me.

"Look at the skinny pumpkin!" they shout.

And they run off laughing-

picking some orange, obese cousin of mine

that they have to cart off in a wagon.

At night, when I'm all alone here in the farm patch,

I imagine all the pumpkins that got to be jack-o-lanterns.

I imagine the care and concern that families give them

as they prepare to carve and decorate them-

and welcome them into their autumn celebrations.

I imagine their smiling, toothless grins-

their eternal candle glowing like a beating heart-

their presence on the porch beckoning trick-or-treaters... 

I become a little sad when I think about

those pumpkins being warm beside a bale of straw,

cuddled next to the neighborhood dog,

part of a group display that everyone loves.

I tried my best to be like all the others.

I drank extra portions of Miracle Grow,

I popped fertilizer pellets constantly,

and I even did push-ups when the others weren't looking.

But I turned out different than the others.

An outcast.

A blunder of nature.

A pumpkin good for nothing but the compost heap.

Oh- wait a minute...

Here comes somebody.

Hush a minute...

"Wow! Look at this pumpkin!" says a voice.

"Kinda skinny, don't you think?" says another.

"Oh- let's pick it. It will make the sweetest pie!" they agree.

So, I guess that's it folks.

I may not have been picked for a jack-o-lantern-

but I'm going to make someone very happy.

And that's what life is really all about, isn't it?

P.S.
If you like cool pumpkin carvings, check this out: http://thechive.com/2010/10/12/insane-carved-pumpkins-by-ray-villafan-19-photos/

Talkin' 'Bout the Car Wash

2010-10-15T08:42:00.000-05:00

Peer pressure is a strange thing.

Sometimes you just don't think
that you can possibly be swayed by it-
until your two best friends in high school
talk you into going to the dark parking lot
during a freshman football game-
(where the team lost pitifully)-
and share some cherry sloe gin
from a foam cup.

(Uh..not that I would know about that or anything.
I'm just sayin'...)

Or- like the fact that you've
gone through half of your adult life
not realizing you need Spanx
until your friend starts wearing them
and looks ten pounds lighter and gorgeous.

Then the pressure is on.

Believe it or not,
all that drivel is leading up to a blog post
about washing my car.

My sister Linda and her husband talked about
how they were going to wash and wax and shine
their vehicles over the weekend
and get them ready for winter.

"People do that?" I thought.
I hadn't even touched my car in ~~weeks~~ ~~months~~ years.
It still had dust on it from the tornado of 2001.

So, I caved to the peer pressure.
If Linda was doing it-
then it must be done.
My car was going to get washed!
No matter how many quarters I had to pump into
that freakin' crazy coin-eating box at Mister Soapy's.

First of all, I turned my house upside down
looking for spare change.
And defiled my purse.
I found a few sticky quarters in the cup holder,
a few dollars under the couch cushions,
and 50 cents in the bottom of the dryer.

I don't understand the pre-wash thing.
It's like washing your dishes before
putting them in the dishwasher.
It's just one step I think you can safely skip.
And I always do.

So, I always go straight to the soap button.
And, even though I'm a bit stout-
the pressure always sets me back
out of my flip flops for a minute.

Then, I realize that I'm going to have to
fish out some more quarters to use the foam brush-
because Mister Soapy's soap just isn't cutting
the layers of environmental grime on my white car.

I hate those foam brush things.
By the time I get all my quarters in the slot,
that gurgling thing is back in the corner
spewing out mountains of pink suds
the size of Mt. Helen!

And then-
by the time I wrestle the giant hose
and the slippery handle-
it simply starts leaking a little pink spit
that barely cuts the bug guts.

Speaking of bug guts-
why don't they make glue out of bugs?
It sticks so well and is almost impossible to remove-
(short of a jack hammer or a chain saw-
and that can certainly wreak havoc on the factory finish).

Here I am. Ten minutes later.
My jeans soaked up to the knee caps,
my hair spiked with pink foam residue
and my car doesn't even look clean.

And what's this stuff about a spotless rinse?
Don't they know I'm gonna hit
every mud hole, dust pile,
and tar pit on the way out of here?

Anyway-
it's time to clean the inside.

How does one accumulate so much
within the confines of such a small space?

I had books and mail and Sonic cups.
Dairy Queen napkins, water bottles,
duct tape, and deposit slips.
I had pennies and used tissues
and ant-infested french fries.

But- no worries.
The vacuums they have at Mister Soapy
are strong enough to clean the wax from your ears,
the lint from your belly button-
and even liposuction those problem areas
from your outer thighs.
(Not that I would know about that or anything.
I'm just sayin').

I accidentally sucked up a baby bottle
with one of those once.
Good thing the baby wasn't holding it at the time.

So, I finish at Mister Soapy's-
and when I get home-
I see a huge dirty spot on the passenger door
that was never even touched
by the skin-cutting water pressure.

Oh well,
I'll get it next year.

Just Call Me Old Fashioned

2010-10-14T07:58:00.000-05:00

I overheard a couple of young girls
talking in the checkout line
at Shop and Save yesterday.

They were discussing where they were
going to get their Halloween costumes.

I just wanted to turn around and say-
"How about your closet?"

But- for one- that only shows my age.
And, two-I just don't think they'd get it.

All the Halloween costumes I ever had
came mostly from my closet-
except for maybe a dime store mask
or a cheap dollar prop.

And back then, closets were no way
as full of odd, colorful, and scary things
as they are today.

We worked with what we had.
Sweatshirts and jeans and robes and pillows
and belts and lipstick and gloves.
Yeah- that's about it.

We usually went out trick-or-treating
dressed like hobos or clowns-
old ladies or fat men-
and maybe a monster once in awhile.

Never in my entire young Halloween life
did I ever run across a sexy witch
or a naughty nurse.

They didn't make them back then.

Life (and kids) were different back in the sixties-
when showing cleavage (or your "behind")
was the sure sign of a skanky floozy.

What's with the sultry cheerleaders
and cutie cops and vixen pirates?
Now days you can be a sexy sailor
or a bimbo bumble bee
or a barely-clad Disney character.

Who started this trend?

I think I liked it better when the scariest thing
walking around the neighborhood on Halloween night
was a vampire or a sheeted ghost.

Now we've got to worry about our own children
bumping into all kinds of weirdness on All Hallows Eve.

Tootsie Rolls, Butterflies, Traffic cops, and Referees
never looked like this!

And neither did Cowboys, Tarzan, or Barbarians!

I think I like the old way better.
It brings back memories of those cool autumn nights-
running around the neighborhood collecting candy.
Candy!
That's the only time we got candy!
We had to make sure our paper sack
was falling-out-of-the-top full-
to last till Christmas-candy time.

These are the kind of costumes I remember:

Yes, things change.
Life goes on.
However, I think fashions and trends go terribly crazy sometimes.

But-hey-that's just me.

But- really-
have you ever heard of a sexy skunk????!!!!

Morning Thoughts

2010-10-13T08:28:00.000-05:00

Sometimes-
in these clear, beautiful mornings-
mornings that hint of faint perfume
and night-chilled air...
Mornings when the sky opens up
like melted sherbet
and the day touches your skin
like love's electricity...
Sometimes-
these days are the saddest.

Perhaps it is because we are small.

Because no matter how hard we try-
we cannot embrace it all.
And our sadness comes from knowing
the day can only be remembered-
but never saved...
We are soon painfully aware
that pieces of moments drip from our grasp
as the sun slides slowly across the sky
and falls behind the trees again.

Sometimes,
I think these wide, autumn days
are the saddest days.
Days when we remember hands we held,
and laughter we shared,
and familiar footsteps
that once trod beside our own.
We breathe in the fear of our own mortality.
We mourn things and people and places
that whiz by like a train that never returns.

Sometimes,
in these early hours of sunrise-
I think of my mother...
and try to imagine her sharing my walk
and smiling over black coffee
and enjoying yesterdays donuts.

What would she have me save?

The time with timid birds
and whistles of wind in the pine trees?
Or the incessant flow of ordinary things
and monotonous responsibility
that pulls me off course-
like a ship headed for some futile beach?

Sometimes-
the most beautiful days are the saddest-
because they seep into our souls
like liquid photographs-
like the clear, sweet syrup of reality.
And somehow-
even when we are feeling the sun on our faces
and we smell the earthy odor of fruitless fields
and we touch the petals of fading flowers-
we know somewhere deep inside
that this will not last.

We are helpless in our attempts
to make the wonders of the world stand still.

I do not know the way to a long life,
but I do know the way to a good life.
Although we cannot save it-
we can relish it
and revel in it
and take notice of its miracles.

And it starts by watching the sunrise
and listening to the birds sing
and inhaling each dancing drop of heavenly air.

Thank you, God.
For this beautiful day...

My Weekend in Pictures/Home and Away

2010-10-12T09:15:00.001-05:00

A bouquet of mushrooms.... (Click pics to enlarge)

The cabin gate...

Big tree- Or little cabin?

The last blooms....

Make a wish ...

Just hangin' around...

Mellow yellow...

My scarecrow Samuel gets a face lift....

Summer fishing and minnow memories....

Autumn berries...

A view from the pond bank...

Mums the word...

Scarlet sumac...

Lone cone....

"and I took the road less traveled..."

Tall timber...

Just follow it....

Preparing for winter...

Don't ask....

30 Simple Things

2010-10-11T08:37:00.000-05:00

I ran a bath this morning at 5:30 a.m.
and I thought to myself how absolutely
wonderful a bath can be.

A tub full of warm water
is such a simple thing!

And it made me realize that
the world is so full of simple things.
We are usually too busy thinking
about the complicated things-
that we sometimes take simplicity for granted.

I love these simple things:

1. The fragrance and convenience of liquid hand soap

2. Pull tab soup cans

3. My sister paying me with her special tuna salad
whenever I highlight her hair

4. A new magazine

5. Clean sheets and pillow cases

6. The sound of walking through autumn leaves

7. Downy fresh towels

8. New underwear and socks

9. Popcorn and a good DVD

10. Sweet music

11. Birds playing in rain puddles

12. Morning coffee

13. A soft robe

14. An unexpected kiss

15. Greeting cards

16. A positive bank balance

17. Making plans

18. A phone call from my sisters

19. A comment on my blog

20. Crab rangoon

21. Freshly vacuumed carpet

22. Hot chocolate with marshmallows

23. New porch decor

24. A lilac/tangerine/baby blue/sunrise

25. Good health

26. Seashells

27. Holding my husband's hand

28. A new tablecloth

29. Laughter

30. A full moon

May your day be rich with simple things...
And consider these quotes about embracing simplicity:

To poke a wood fire is more solid enjoyment than almost anything else in the world. ~Charles Dudley Warner

Everything we possess that is not necessary for life or happiness becomes a burden, and scarcely a day passes that we do not add to it. ~Robert Brault

The  best things in life are nearest:  Breath in your nostrils, light in  your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right  just before you.  Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain,  common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are  the sweetest things in life.  ~Robert Louis Stevenson

We don't need to increase our goods nearly as much as we need to scale down our wants. Not wanting something is as good as possessing it. ~Donald Horban

Each day, awakening, are we asked to paint the sky blue? Need we coax the sun to rise or flowers to bloom? Need we teach birds to sing, or children to laugh, or lovers to kiss? No, though we think the world imperfect, it surrounds us each day with its perfections. We are asked only to appreciate them, and to show appreciation by living in peaceful harmony amidst them. The Creator does not ask that we create a perfect world; He asks that we celebrate it. ~Robert Brault

A Repeat of Comfort Food

2010-10-08T07:31:00.000-05:00

I originally posted this on October 2, 2008. But I'm hungry this morning-so it seemed so appropriate!
You all have a great weekend!
********

There are a few things in life that I have learned
by just working in the kitchen.

1. When you add "Tomato" and "Sauce"-
you get a great combination to pour over pasta.

2. Add "Coconut" and "Shrimp" and you get
a fantastic seafood appetizer.

3. Put together "Honey" and "Butter
and you've whipped up a delicious spread
for a sweet dinner roll.
But add the word "Food" to the word "Comfort"
and you know what you get?

Obesity.

It's true.
This time of year, all you see advertised
is "Comfort Food".
It's on every check-out aisle tabloid at the grocery,
every cooking channel on TV-
every buffet table in town -
and every Baptist church potluck for miles around.

I am fighting back.
I started by canceling my magazine subscriptions.

I mean, how does a weak woman like me
even try to resist the cover page
when it is slathered with Double Chocolate
Carmel Turtle Cheesecake?
Or Deep Dish Cheesy Chicken Pot Pie?
Or even Crunchy Creamy Cole Slaw with Bacon?

I quit watching the Food Channel, too.
At the risk of sounding like a broken record,
I once again point my finger at those
"food pushers" that delight in
watching us "full-figured" women
trip over ourselves as we try to get to
the macaroni and cheese!

I am so sick and tired of Rachel Ray
flaunting her perky little body-
hopping from the sink to the fridge to the stove-
(in a mere 30 minutes)-
using words like "yummy" and "goodie"-
smiling with her greasy "E-V-O-O" smile-
and trying to feed us "COMFORT FOOD"
like it won't hurt a bit!

I vomit each time I watch Sandra Lee
put her little apron on her 14 inch waste
and juggle her size 40 boobs
while she makes some incredibly delicious
meatloaf and lemon cake
that she labels as "COMFORT FOOD" -
all the while trying to convince us
that she actually eats the stuff.
And although Paula Dean is a more realistic size,
her bubbly personality and sugary energy
is nauseating.
It just makes me want to eat an extra serving of
Rocky Road Fudge
and drink a half liter of rum.
I mean, who can be that happy
when they are contributing
good, old fattening "COMFORT FOOD" to society?

But, I do hear there are women out there that can handle it.
Women who can break off a slice of pound cake
the size and thickness of a butterfly wing
and confess they are "stuffed".
Women who can eat a miniature chunk of
German Chocolate cake and
not even think about it again until it's moldy!

There are those female freak-a-zoids
who serve Beefy Winter Stew
in bowls the size of a cupcake-
(with ONE cracker, even!)
Or fix a single home-made deep dish pizza
to serve a family of five!

Blame it on the weather, hormones, or
the stars alignment in the heavens-
but comfort food is pure evil.
There is no doubt about it.

But no changing it, either.

"Comfort" is all things to all people.

"Food" is all things to all people.

And "COMFORT FOOD" is all the things I want, people!

October Observances

2010-10-07T09:01:00.000-05:00

I just discovered that October is "Sausage Month".
And "Go Hog Wild- Eat Country Ham Month".

But, it's also "Vegetarian Month".

It's "Popcorn Poppin' Month"-
but it also includes "No Salt Week".

In October there's a "Fire Prevention Week"-
But also "National Bake and Decorate Month".

And who's the idiot that put "World Smile Day"
the same month as "National Grouch Day"?

Probably the same person that scheduled
"National Sarcastic Awareness Month"
along with "Mother-In-Law Day".

And a "Cut Out Dissection Month"that includes a "Frankenstein Friday".

October salutes "Positive Attitude Month"
right beside "World Menopause Day".
And "Peace, Friendship and Good Will Week"
next to "Cranky Co-Workers Day".

"National Face Your Fears Day"
occurs the same month as "Mammography Day".

They've also matched "National Dental Hygiene Month"

with "National Caramel Apple Day".

And "Domestic Violence Awareness Month"
with "National Kick Butt Day".

"World Mental Health Day"
is separated only four days from
"Mad Hatter Day".

"Tackling Hunger Month" shares "National Chili Month".

"Worldwide Howl At The Moon Night" is celebrated this month,
as well as "Emotional Intelligence ".

What were they possibly thinking???

But, no matter how you spend October-
or what you choose to celebrate-
do it with style and a smile!

By the way- it's only
78 days till Christmas...

Party Poop

2010-10-06T07:58:00.000-05:00

About this time every year,
I'm usually in the process of sending out
Halloween invitations.

But after five fun years of hosting
a costume party,
I realized that I just couldn't manage
to get one together this year-
due to not being home as often. :(

The first year I decided to have a party,
I made crude construction paper coffins
and added a poem inside.

The second year, I made this:

The 3rd year I made a Gothic spider-infested invite.
And decorated my back bathroom accordingly:

And the forth year was a postcard.

Last year, I decided on a video invitation:
(The following may be offensive to some,
but if you like a good scare-
turn up the volume!)

I guess you can tell how much I love Halloween!
With any luck, I can resume the tradition next year.

Hope you are having fun planning your scary festivities!

Hip Hop for Christy

2010-10-05T06:56:00.000-05:00

I have friends.

Yes, I really do.

You may not believe it
by the number of comments that I get,
but other than my sisters-
and a few other special people -
I do have lots of bloggy friends.

Christy is one of them.

Her blog is named is Box O' Whine
(How appropriate...)
Click on the Box O' Whine link above
and read her latest post.
Now.

Yes- right now!
or the rest of my ranting here
won't make much sense.

Done?
Good.
Now read on:
********
So- Christy-My bloggy friend-
This is for you!

(Now remember to read it in "hip-hop rap"!)

Rap Song by Rae

Titled: Cuz It's My Car

Ahhhh..
Yea..
Ugh-huh.
Let's do this..

Got a wicked car-
it's lean and green
Better than bling
itz an awesome thing.

And now ...
they wanna ride my wheels-
get in on the thrills-
be makin me deals...
Cuz I got the car.
Cuz I got the car.

I be burnin rubber-
smokin the town

and gettin down-

Camaro's the crown...
I'm right with this, man..,
so on with the plan..

I shine it real fit...
like ice, baby, smoke it...
this ain't no joke s**t...

Apple green-
Sleek and mean
Booty like a star-
Ridin fast and far-
Wheels
and thrills
and makin' me deals...
Cuz I got the car...
Cuz I got the car...

We be celebratin...
Educatin...
Down with hatin'...
Tired of waitin'
Ain't no debatin'

It's party time-
I'm gonna shine
Cuz it's my car...
Cuz it's my car!

************

Man.
I sometimes think that

I've just got too much time on my hands....

Just proves the lengths I'll go to for my friends.

If You Just Smile

2010-10-01T08:28:00.000-05:00

If we were asked to name a familiar artist,
all of us would recognize Van Gogh's Sunflowers,

da Vinci's Mona Lisa,

and possibly Warhol's famous
Campbell's Tomato Soup print.

But, does the name Harvey Bell sound familiar?

It should.

He is the artist that created this:

Harvey Bell was a commercial artist
who introduced this popular icon in 1963.

Although it soon became over-commercialized,
Bell fought to bring the original meaning
back to his Smiley Face.
So he declared the first Friday in October
as World Smile Day.

Bell thought we should all devote
at least one day a year
to smiles and kind acts throughout the world.

I can't wait to tell that lady at the bank.

I don't think that old sourpuss has smiled
since she lost her first baby tooth.

Or the rude dude that packs my groceries
like he's practicing Punch Out
on my Wonder Bread.

Sometimes I wonder why it's so
consistently difficult for some people to smile.
Sure, there may be sadness in their lives,
but we've all faced those heartaches.

I've lost my parents
and in-laws
and fifteen favorite pets-
but it didn't break my "smiler".

There are days when my feet hurt,
my back is breaking,
my reflection is horrifying,
and my bank account is overdrawn.
But, I still manage to smile.

I have always believed that a positive expression
can do wonders for the heart.

One important lesson I've learned in life
is that you are in charge of your happiness.
You can choose to be happy-
(no matter the circumstances) -
Or you can waste the moments of your short life
being grumpy and resentful
and frown forever.

You have to make your life a positive circle.

I admit that I'm very bias
when it comes to
who I let in my circle
and who I keep out.
Too much drama and conflict
and permanent pity
drains your life.

I like smiles.
It says to me that the person
is thankful for life-
for every day joys-
for seeing the best of situations
and being able to filter out the adverse and evil.

It's not always easy.

Putting on shoes every morning,
washing dirty dishes,
paying the electric bill,
cleaning the fridge,
wiping down the toilet.
and facing the old bitty at the bank
is not easy either.

But facing those situations with a smile
sure can make the drudgery
a bit more pleasant.

Smiles are contagious.
There are days when tears have been
balancing on the brim of my eyes-
just waiting to roll down like
the burst of a mighty dam.

But then,
people around me smiled.

Laughed.
Maybe giggled a little.
And my tears curled back inside
and never fell.

Bell had a great idea
and created a simple picture to convey it.

The motto of World Smile Day is:
"Do an act of kindness. Help one person smile."

Well, I hope I've done my part.

Walking Tall

2010-09-29T08:09:00.000-05:00

I read this morning where a team of Australian women
just ran a hundred meter race in record time
and won 10,000 Australian dollars.

But- there's a catch.
The women all ran in 3-inch stilettos!

First of all, just let me say
that I have never owned a pair of stilettos.

Other than the fact that they might
make you appear taller,
have shapelier legs,
and drive your husband crazy-
they are basically worthless.

Except for maybe:

1. hammering a nail into the wall

2. prying the lid off a manhole

3. squishing a spider

4. impaling a mouse

5. playing galloping horsey

6. reaching the top shelf

7. looking ridiculously like an obese giraffe

8. a jousting tournament

9. home defense

10. home demolition

11. whack-a-mole

12. deflating balloons

13. a doorstop

14.Halloween costume

15. to freak out your mother-in-law

16. a meat tenderizer

17. a yard aerator

18. a hand plow

19. a play dough tool

20. to drink champagne from

21. to stand out in a group picture

22. to brag about on Facebook

23. as a planter

24.as a modern sculpture

25. a toilet paper holder

26. a flower press

27. as book ends

28. to pop bubble wrap

29. knocking out teeth

30. cracking walnuts

Wow! On second thought-
I just might get myself
a pair of stilettos!
They are 30 tools in one!

Who knew?

Two fer Tuesday

2010-09-28T08:08:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning to
my husband singing "Takin' It Easy"-
(presumably the early '70's hit by the Eagles.)

I smiled.

And it wasn't for the fact that
he sounded anything like lead vocal Glenn Frey.

It was because he was in a good mood-
and the lyrics seeped into my weary morning bones
like a dose of positive medicine.

Take It easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels
drive you crazy
Lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy

I realized that I've been
spinning my wheels lately-.
not taking advantage of down time.
I'm thinking too far ahead to the holidays-
and next year-
and a time when I will have (hopefully)
achieved all my elusive goals.

Oh, I'm well aware
that there's a danger in only
living for the moment,
but my husband's rough vocals
made me pause for a moment
and take a good look at things around me.

The sun was just coming up...
There were a few purple clouds floating
in the soft glow...
The air was cool,
like a bonfire/football game night...
and I breathed deeply to absorb it all.

September is almost gone.
Where did the days go?
How did summer pass so quickly?

So,my friends-
I just want you to face today
with a smile.
Open your lungs -
and your eyes -
and your heart-
and let your soul sing.

And remember this:

We may lose and we may win
but we will never be here again...

***************************************

Happy Birthday, Jackson boy!

My little grandson, Jackson turns 7 today!

He is handsome:

Intelligent:

Funny:

Loaded with energy:

And enjoys life to the fullest:

Jackson, you are the light of my life.
My wonder of wonders,
my favorite hugger,
my budding artist,
and the most loved little man of my heart!

Happy Birthday!
Nana loves you!!!

Trashy Wheels

2010-09-27T09:27:00.000-05:00


		My daughters came over last night and somehow we got on the subject of messy cars. You know- when your vehicle is lazily littered with McDonald's cups or Dairy Queen napkins or last weeks junk mail. Personally, I am very good at keeping a tidy car, but apparently it did not rub off on my children. We had a good laugh when I remembered the time I cleaned out my youngest daughter's car for her because she was driving it to the spring dance. Then- my oldest daughter chimed in, "I still have the email you sent me with the list of stuff you took out of there!" It was dated February 12, 1999. And we had fun reading it again. Note: Disclosure statement- The following list is in no way reflective of the home environment, family social graces, or the rearing of my children. It does not convey an accurate picture of normal circumstances or the everyday condition of vehicles licensed to myself or those residents of my household. > 4 - pencils > 1 - face powder compact > 4 - ink pens > 1 - variety pac eye shadow > 2 - hair clips > 1 - lipstick > 5 - ponytail holders > 1 - makeup brush > 4 - hairbrushes > 1 - assortment of change > 1 - hair pick > 1 - backpack > 2 - combs > 1 - pr. shoes > 2 - eyebrow pencils > 1 - laundry basket full papers > 3 - fingernail polish > 2 - bottles perfume > 1 - glitter body lotion > 1 - lip gloss > 1 - sweater > 1 - Little Debbie bar > 1 - partial bag chips > 1 - skirt > 1 - 1998 prom invitation > 2 - soda cans > 1 - greeting card > 1 - empty pack gum > 1 - cake plate > 1 - lot assorted papers > 1 - Rubbermaid water bottle > 1 - misc. candy wrappers,circus video ticket > stubs, bobby pins, and ice scrapers > 1 - decongestant inhaler > 1 - VCR tape > 2 - pr. gloves > 1 - shirt > 2 - key chains w/ no keys > 1 - bag fruit candy > 1 - scented body lotion > 1 - tanning lotion > 2 - footballs > 1 - bracelet > 1 - regular camera > 1 - disposable camera > 1 - instant camera > 3 - pr sunglasses (2 broken) > 1 - empty bottle hairspray > 1 - roll on deodorant > 1 - hand brace > 1 - tennis ball > 2 - photographs > 1 - box matches > 1 - cig. lighter > 1 - hat > 1 - tank top > 2 - pr. jeans Can you imagine?

I Crumbled

2010-09-25T08:12:00.000-05:00

Some things ought to be illegal.

...Or at least socially unacceptable.

When individuals prey on
the weaknesses of others,
I think it's time for retribution.

I'm just not sure what the prison sentence is
for wiping out a troop of Girl Scouts.
Yes, I said Girl Scouts!

Those cute little pre-adolescents
with their horde of badges
that ambushed me at the gas station.

Isn't it enough that the price of gasoline
practically wipes out my bank account?
And then to have these female children taunt me
with their boxes of delectable cookies-
well, I crumbled.
(No pun intended).

Luckily, my husband was with me.

Now he can't blame me if we both
gain ten pounds of Thin Mints
or an extra belly-roll full of Samoas.

That little scout was ready to twist that
twenty dollar bill from my grasp
before I even got a chance to take a good look
at the giant display of colorful cookie boxes.

I actually had to step back
and tell her I was still in the choosing process-
that when you get sideswiped unexpectedly-
it can be emotionally crippling.

I had an angel on one shoulder
and a devil on the other.

The devil hissed, "Oh, wouldn't those be great
with a cup of coffee tonight?"

And the angel whispered,"Absolutely no sweets
should be brought into your household. You know
how you are."

The devil provoked me further.
"A couple of boxes won't hurt. Do thirty minutes
of aerobics and it will all be good.

Then the angel spoke.
"Remember those jeans in your closet
that you've promised to fit into by spring?
Cookies won't make that happen."

I was ready to grab that scout
and her goofy-smiling troop leader
by their jolly green sashes
and ask them why they were so content
on this unspeakable torture.

Then all of a sudden I heard my husband say,
"We'll take five boxes."

What!?
Huh?
Five boxes of cookies that know my name?
My very heart?
The weakness of my dessert-loving appetite?
Five boxes of cookies that will
cling to my thighs like giant koala bears
and fluff up my cheeks like an overdose
of Botox?

I was almost ready to beat my husband
over the head with a box of shortbread-
until the angel said,
"All right. It is for a good cause. Just get it over with.
And...make sure you get some of those peanut butter ones, okay?"

So, on the way home
we thoughtlessly consumed a whole sleeve
of coconut-chocolate-encrusted confections
that had no business anywhere near our lips.

"It's all your fault," I said to my husband
as I wiped a bit of melted chocolate
from my chin.

"My fault? I had to do something quick!" he snapped.
"You were drooling all over that poor girl's handbook
and your eyes actually started spinning when she brought out
the Lemon Chalet Creams!"

So, you see-
those scouts not only ruined my budget and my diet,
but also came dangerously close
to ruining a perfectly harmonious relationship.

I actually have a cup of hot coffee right now....
...the cookies are there on the counter...
...we did spend twenty whole dollars...
...I'm out of breakfast cereal...
Oh- screw it!

Cuz like I always say-
Every cookie needs a belly!"

Punctuation Station

2010-09-24T08:29:00.000-05:00

Today is Punctuation Day.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's raining here.................

Typical fall day. (In Illinois).

But, it brings on the inevitable: sleep pants all day.

Would you like some coffee?

" It's the best part of waking up."

I think I'll have a bagel {cream cheese and cinnamon added}.

I rarely go back to bed on days like this; I'm afraid I'll miss something.

Like - crappy mud puddles in the driveway, leaves falling off the trees,
the garbage man, or Oprah.

Think I'll chill/nap/relax/meditate most of the day.

And- hey- if you're some fancy English professor
(or language aficionado), and I've misused these punctuations,
I have just one thing to say:

@$%$(&*^&^()*)_*)($@!!#%%&*)++_(*#!!@!!!!!!!!!

Happy Anniversary, Husband!

2010-09-23T07:50:00.000-05:00

September 24, 1975

Thirty-five years...

I'll never forget when we first met...

You were gentle. Unselfish. Handsome in a way I can't describe- 
and I loved you in a way that can't be undone.

There were wide, full days of sunshine. Of laughter and kisses. And care-free afternoons of  dreaming out loud and loving without boundaries. There was softness and sweetness and an excitement in the air that surrounded us in peace. 

Yes, there were tears. There were days of excruciating heartache- of quiet fears- of uncertainty and anger. There were trials and misunderstandings and tests of our faith. There were nights with no kisses, days with no music, times when we doubted ourselves and disliked each other.  

But we refused to stay there- in that pool of pity. We always stood up and found a way out. Held hands. Embraced. Apologized. Learned. Grew. Survived.

Your hair has grayed. (Mine changes monthly). Our bodies are spongy and thicker and our eyesight blurry. But your face on your pillow is the best thing I see in the morning and my favorite thing at night. We still dance. We still share. We still continue the vows we made those long years back.

Thank you for finding me. For letting yourself be found. Thank God we stayed together- when leaving was easier. 
For trying- when giving up seemed right. 
For changing- even when it hurt.

Thank you. For making me laugh. Dream. Feel alive.

Thirty-five years...Here's to many more.

  

I love you.

He's Here

2010-09-22T07:15:00.000-05:00

Today I'm posting a poem from my other blog "Like Leaves the Color of Fire".
Enjoy this first day of autumn!
****************************************************************

Here comes Autumn.

He is standing just over the hillside waiting for me.

His hair is a nest of leaves-
the color of lemons
and pumpkins
and pomegranates...

He wears a flannel shirt-
a new straw hat.
And his cheeks are stained
a sweet Jonathan apple red...

His eyes are the color of midnight
and turquoise
and robin egg blue.

His perfume is sassafras
and cinnamon
and cider...

And he brings gifts of wine,
woolens-
and wonder.

He smiles at me
and hurries across the hillside.

We'll play and sing and dream-
Until Winter-
-(like a bully)-
comes and chases him away...

I Spy

2010-09-21T08:39:00.000-05:00

I'm an observer.

I suppose that's a good trait
in any aspiring writer,
but too bad I notice little things
that don't really amount
to a sensational blog post.

For example:
Did you know that
you can tell a lot about someone
by the magazines that they
keep in their bathrooms?

I suppose we're getting a little personal here,
but reading material always seems to help
the natural elimination process go a bit smoother.
Don't you agree?

I like to keep a nice variety in my bathroom.
Mostly it's Country Living,
Better Homes and Gardens,
and Real Simple.

But in order to be fair,
I also have a nice stack of
Bowhunting, Cabela's,
and Acoustic Guitar.

Currently, I've added some
Halloween magazines,
costume pamplets,
and an old Fright Catalog.

I've noticed that my sister likes

People, Woman's Day,

and LTD.

I've been in bathrooms

that sport full length novels,

daily newspapers,

TV Guides

and crossword puzzles.

I've been staying at my son's house a lot lately.

Every time I sit down to do my business-

there is nothing but Entrepreneur ,

Runner's World, and Men's Health

in his bathroom library.

I picked up Runner's World

and studied the cover.

The World's Most Dangerous Gym

Interesting, I thought.

Come to find out, it's a gym in Afghanistan

near active combat.

I was sorta thinking that any gym

with ellipticals, tread mills,

and stationary bikes

would be pretty dangerous.

For me.

The Men's Health wasn't much better.

Those good-looking young guys

are clueless to what happens once you marry,

have kids, drink beer, eat pizza and wings,

and stop working out.

Their cuteness is temporary, I'm sure.

Runner's World?

Who cares how many styles if Nike's they make?

Or how sports bras are designed -

or that running on the Great Wall Of China

was a dream come true?

Needless to say,

I brought along my

own magazines this week.

My dear mother-in-law

always had a book on the back of the toilet.

It was a little orange, pocket-sized Bible.

I suppose she hoped that anyone

who spent a great deal of time in there

might emerge a better Christian.

Couldn't hurt.

Even waiting room magazines

are reflections of the people who own them.

Doctors offices have Yacht World,

Investment Portfolio Monthly,

and Golf.

Auto Repair shops make available:

Consumer Reports , Car and Driver,

and Grease Monkey.

My local SpeedLube only sets out

Motor Trend, Gun World,

and Highlights for Kids.

These places have no clue

that the majority of people

in their waiting rooms are women.

Women who need to pass the boring

spaces of empty time away

with a picture of great new furniture,

the scoop on latest fashions,

a new recipe for dinner,

or a bittersweet story of romance.

I prepare my bathroom magazines for company-

just as I would prepare a nice meal.

If I know you are visiting and like cartoons-

I'll make sure there's a copy of Dilbert or The Far Side.

If you're into cooking- I'll give you Food Network.

I'll even supply a Fishing Guide or a Cosmo

if that's what my friends require.

But nothing-

and I mean NOTHING-

is worse than not a shred of reading material at all

except for the liquid soap container

and the Kleenex box.

Your magazines say a lot about you.

Really.

I oughta know.

Because I'm an observer

and that's what I do.

We Are Family

2010-09-20T10:29:00.000-05:00

Okay- so I'm getting old.
And forgetful.

It seems that my sisters and I
have been having our Sister Weekends
for 16 years, not 15.
And my sister Barb has been gone 6 years,
not 5.

But, I had a great weekend
with the girls
and a much needed getaway.

We went to yard sales
and I got a few Christmas items
for my holiday party.

We stopped and ate lunch at
a little Amish Deli
and sat on the picnic tables
and ate sandwiches,
pickled eggs,
and a pumpkin roll.

Some nice ladies took our picture,
but I look like I
swallowed that pumpkin roll
all by myself.

But here's a few of the store front:

Then, later we went to
the Cave Winery:

Some of us had wine.
All of us had cheese and crackers.

Even the owners dog:

We decided to buy some balloons
and write messages on them
to our sister Barb-
and let them loose here:

My little sister Tina
pressed too hard with the Sharpie
and busted her balloon.
So I told her she could tie
onto mine.

Here are Linda's and Jewel's balloons:

Here's mine and Tina's:

But, I think Barb got a real good laugh
out of that, so we were happy.

Then we ate lunch on Saturday
at an old soda shop:

The food was good,
but the company was better.

I love you guys...
Thanks for making me laugh
and feel young
and wonder if we all have
a crazy gene somewhere!

Seated: Jewel
LtoR:
Linda, Tina, and Pumpkin Roll.

Please Enjoy this music while you read todays post....15 Years

2010-09-17T06:10:00.002-05:00

15 Years

2010-09-17T06:08:00.000-05:00

I'm getting ready to spend the weekend
with my sisters!

It's our official Sister Weekend-
and also our 15th anniversary
of sharing special time together.

(I have 4 brothers and 4 sisters! )

It all started when my sister Barb turned 50.
We decided that life was short
because we were all getting older.
Time was passing faster than we realized.

So, we created Sister Weekend.
It became our chance to be simply sisters-
(and not just wives and moms and grandmas).
It was our time to reconnect-
rediscover-
rejoice in our family ties.

We usually get a motel room
and go to yard sales
and flea markets-
and have a nice dinner somewhere-
before sliding into pajamas
and having our slumber party.

Fifteen years later,
Barb is no longer with us.
This Sunday marks five years ago
that she passed away from colon cancer.

But, she is always here with us-
laughing at our stupid antics-
leading us to the best garage sale treasures-
crying with us as we remember times gone by.

And, our mom is there, too-
enjoying the love and memories
that we share on our special weekend.

I will try to post pictures,
but we rarely get any good ones.
We aren't model material, to say the least.
We are more like BEFORE pictures
in a makeover contest.

But, Barb would want us to
be free spirited and confident.
She would want us to be ourselves,
nomatter what size or age.
And she would want us to snap pictures-
because some day-
that may be all we have left
of one another.

So, if you happen to see
four rockin' chicks
at the next yard sale-
look for the two angels following them.

We're gonna have a good, good time...

Play-Doh Day

2010-09-16T08:51:00.001-05:00

Other than new Crayons,
Xerox ink,
and locker rooms-
the favorite smells of my grade school years
also include the fragrance of Play-Doh.

There was something almost intoxicating
about those colorful lumps of pliable clay-
an innate childish itch that made you want
to squeeze and roll and forge
a familiar form from the nuggets
of soft dough.

Maybe it was just me.

Maybe it was just a welcome change
from making real mud pies in the back yard-
of digging up damp earth
and thinning it into a soupy slur-
just perfect for a pie topped
with corn kernels
or tiny pinecones.

Maybe that first feel of Play-Doh
gripped in my five-year old palms
brought about this everlasting desire
to create and design
crude works of art.

Perhaps that Play-Doh-
in its bright primary colors-
triggered my need for a world of
vibrant shades
and brillant embellishments.

And, how are we as parents
to know the things that burrow
memories and character into our children?

Will those messy markers
we scream at our children
to pick up from the floor-
be the beginnings of a great artist?

Or the storybooks that line the nursery
be the start of a budding author...

Tea sets and pots and pans
could result in a gourmet cook...
an old sewing machine activate
the makings of a fashion designer...
and maybe a toy guitar-
the germination of
a musical genius...

Well, that love of modeling clay
never made me successful-
or led me to an artistic career,
but it is a pleasant memory sewn into my heart
that flutters like a butterfly
whenever I smell Play-Doh.

September 18th is National Play-Doh Day.

Relive your childhood.
Pick up a can-
and share it with someone you love.

http://www.failedsuccess.com/index.php?/weblog/comments/playdoh_history

Just Zip It!

2010-09-15T07:58:00.000-05:00

The other day when my daughter and I
were out and about,
we decided to stop at a large yard sale
that was just setting up.

Most of the stuff was junk.
And by that I mean
the kind of junk that
doesn't interest me.

Like Japanese swords
and porcelain unicorns
and gaudy silver belt buckles...

But I came away with a $1 purchase.
A 1961 Montgomery Wards catalog.

No use beating around the bush.

I'll just come out and say it.

I was five years old when
people were finding this catalog-
(all fresh and off the presses)-
in their mailboxes.

But I am positive that was the same catalog
that was spread open to cover the
little laps of Linda and I
while we entered a world of make believe...

We would sit together on the couch,
our bare feet sticking out ahead of us,
and smooth the pages down gently
as we imagined that we could pick
anything in there that we wanted.

Sometimes we would even take a pen
and circle our choices,
perhaps hoping that some fairy god mother
might see it and grant our wishes.

It was always exciting to fold the page over
and discover the wedding gowns.
They were beautiful.
And expensive.
And so elegant.

We usually skipped over the
girdles and braziers and garters-
not only because they were years ahead of us-
but because it was downright embarrassing
to see those ladies modeling their underwear
with shameless smiles on their faces.

Yesterday I told Linda about my
yard sale catalog,
and I know she fondly remembered back
to our afternoons on the couch.
She echoed my sentiments exactly
when she said "Too bad it wasn't
a Christmas catalog..."

Oh, my gosh!
By the time we finished with
Christmas catalogs back then,
they were marked up,
dogeared,
torn, bent,
and kissed!

I was telling Linda about the style
of dresses back in 1961 -
and added that there were no
women sporting bluejeans across the pages.

Most of the pants back then
were pedal pushers-
(old fashioned name for capris)-
and they were fashionably known
as ladies slacks.

They were slim and form fitting
and contained only a small side zipper
and a button.
Of course, most women had tiny waists
and slender butts back then.

Linda said-(and I agree)-
that the invention of stretch pants
was the downfall of all womankind!

If we had to continue pulling
that side zipper up every morning,
we might have kept
some semblance of a diet
in our daily routines.

But with stretch pants,
our waist lines and buttocks
and love handles just kept expanding,
and the elastic just kept conforming
to our fast food and buffets
and midnight snacks.

Those stretch pants were like a quiet enemy.

Sometimes a person wouldn't even notice
that they had put on ten or fifteen pounds.
Or a gallon of cellulite.

Or grown the waistline of a silver back gorilla.

But, I bet your Snickers bar
that we would have noticed
if we had been wearing slacks every day!

My sisters and I are having our Sister Weekend
in a few days.
(Yay!!!!)

My best buds-
Linda, Jewel, and Tina-
will undoubtedly spread that old catalog
across our laps
and dream again....

Of the women
we might have been!

Leaving Footprints

2010-09-14T09:46:00.001-05:00

I'm still here.
And I want to thank you all
for your kind comments yesterday.

I rarely have bad days.
I try to stay positive and humorous,
but sometimes it's just too hard
to suck it all in...
To pretend that life is a big circus
and the clowns are really funny-
when you really just feel like
the marching elephants are
suffocating you and you wanna
smack Bozo upside his freakin' head.

(Sorry.
I don't cuss, but that's pretty darn close.)

But today is good,
A breath of sweet air.
A cool September day
all spread out before me
like a new canvas...

I've given some more thought
to this blogging business.
But, it's really not a business, is it?
It's just a glorified diary.
I let myself get too caught up in it.
My expectations are too high.
I need to just sit back and realize
that I'm not being graded.
This isn't a test.

My blog is a set of footprints
that I'm leaving in the sand.
Sometimes I see other footprints
following me-
other days, I'm all alone on this
literary beach.

But it's okay.
How could I not write?
It saves me from drowning
when the waves get too big.

Besides, the best season is yet to come...

If I quit blogging,
who would share with me
how perfect the trees are in their yellow skirts-
how puffs of inky clouds dance above the empty fields-
how the harvest moon smiles like a man in love...?
Who would know how soft and warm my home is-
how tattered my favorite sweater?
How glorious the pumpkin bread smells
right from the oven?
If I failed to write,
who would share the first snowfall,
the glitter of festive pine trees,
the taste of cold eggnog
and the euphoria of a great shopping adventure?

Who would share the pumpkins
and caramel apples
and the feeling of being wrapped up
in a flannel shirt that smells like hazelnuts?

Who would help taste the roast turkey
and sugar cookies
and cheap wine drank from
mason jars?

Who would help me make resolutions,
encourage me to improve,
or follow me into an unknown new year?

I cannot stop.
I just can't.

But, I warn you-
if you hang out here much-
be prepared for pity parties
and stupid circus clowns-
as well as days that are
just too amazing to describe.

I see the beach now.
All grand and glorious
with a new sunrise-
and it makes me smile.

I'm leaving my footprints.

In life,
sometimes that's all you really need.

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To

2010-09-13T12:08:00.000-05:00

I'm having a pity party today.

Come on in and join me, if you like.
It's raining inside my world-
and I look like crap-
and -who cares, really?

First off, I'm typing on
someone else's computer
because my faithful laptop
took a big flying monkey leap
off on some tangent that won't
load Windows properly.

Next, I slept on a stack of four pillows
last night in an attempt to rid myself
of the sour gastric bile that
was churning up into my throat
from the delicious gumbo
my daughter sent over.

Plus, I totally ruined my diet this weekend
with hefty portions of pepperoni pizza,
thick bread-y slabs of Jimmy John's subs,
and giant slices of carrot cake,
studded with crunchy walnuts
and lathered in several inches of
cream cheese frosting.

And then-
you know that whole world seems unfair
because I'm not going to have
a Halloween party this year.

I've had one for the past five years
and it is a wonderful outlet for my
creative energy.
I guess I'll just stew in all this unused
hostess juice and stagnate like
a moldy zombie.

Finally, I am thinking about quitting my blog.

What?

Well, I told you it was a pity party!
We are feeling sorry for ourselves here!
Positive, secure, winning, successful people
might as well get the heck out
because we are slobbering losers here today
that are wallowing in self-pity
and self-deprevation.

I am considering closing down till
the first of the year.
Maybe by then, I'll be inspired again
and start all over with something new and fun-
(and a blog that will actually get people to leave comments).

Well, just spilled my coffee
and the dog wants out
and I have a slight hint of B.O.
from postponing my morning shower
for this disgraceful party of mine.

Okay, that's it.

You can go home now.

A Peek into Mila's Daydreams

2010-09-10T11:55:00.001-05:00

Blogger has a feature that they call
Blogs of Note.
They promote a few blogs each week
that they feel merit special attention.

I've found several in their monthly archives
that I've enjoyed reading and
even bookmarked as a favorite.

But yesterday I ran across a Blog of Note
that absolutely astounded me
and made me smile.

Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing
to have this record of your growing child?
And a loving tribute as they reach adulthood?

I just wanted to share it with you.
Take a look...
(Please scroll down and look at each picture).

And have a great weekend!

http://milasdaydreams.blogspot.com/

It's Not Too Late

2010-09-10T09:13:00.001-05:00

I think it's time to take our country back.

Back from corrupt politicians,
special interest groups gone awry,
and criminals that exploit the legal system.

It's time to take more money home in our paychecks,
pump more gasoline for our dollar,
and feed our families with American produce.

It's time to crush sexual abuse in this nation,
such as pedophiles and rapists and child porn.
Just slap those beasts in prison and lock them up for good.
(Without flat screen TV's, steak dinners, room service
cell phones and special privileges.)

It's time to seal the borders and keep out
illegal aliens-
be it Mexican, Russian, Muslim, or any other foreigner
that takes advantage of our democracy with a free ride-
or that poses a danger to the security of our
homes and our families.

It's time to make the government answer for
its reckless spending,
outrageous lies,
and oppressive laws that bind our freedoms.

It's time to sanctify marriage again.
To unite men and women in holy matrimony
and bring substance to wedding vows once more.

It's time to re-establish the family unit again.
To share dinners at the table,
to have parents that discipline their children,
and to have children that respect and admire their parents.

It's time to stop the greed
and the grudges
and the selfishness.
It's time to put an end to materialism,
fascism, tyranny, fraud,
and growing socialism.

It's time to bring back pride in our flag,
prayer to our schools,
hope to our children,
and love to our neighbors.

It's time to renew feminine women
and masculine men-
and considerate children that have
chores and responsibilities
and that fear punishment.

It's time to make English our one and only language.
And democracy our one and only government.

It's time to feel safe in our homes again,
comfortable in our neighborhoods,
and secure in our religion.

It's time to stop all the Hollywood garbage.
It's time to disregard the drugged-up, dysfunctional stars
(such as Tiger Woods and Lindsay Lohan
and Chris Brown)-
and look up to respectable new heroes.

It's time to pray,
to overcome,
to rise up
and to be heard.

It's time to take back our individuality,
our children,
our future
and our country.

It's time to say no
to terrorists,
traitors,
murderers
and embezzlers.

It's time to lift our heads,
follow our hearts
and find our way through this filth-
to conquer our fallacious leaders,
revere good men,
and bring our country back to the
American people.

In memory of those who gave their lives
September 11, 2001.

Labor Day At The Cabin

2010-09-09T07:58:00.001-05:00

(Click photos to enlarge)

The leaves are starting to turn...

Mushrooms are popping out of the damp soil...

Persimmons are ripening in the sun...

I picked some flowers for the porch...

More mushrooms...They look like little umbrellas, don't they?

My pear tree looks like a "duck tree"...

Walking sticks lean against the tree, ready for a impromptu hike...

We could go here....

Or here...

Or even here...

Can you see the smiley faces in the wood pile?

The yard is freshly mowed...

Cool morning air drifts in the back door...

All tucked away and waiting for autumn....

Cocoon

2010-09-08T05:22:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I just want to
stay in my chair.
Not even dare
to disturb the mold my body has made-
or to uncover myself
and face the day
with another superficial smile.

Sometimes I just want to root here.
Bury my toes so deep in the cushions
that nothing can extract me
or subdue me.
To hide in the softness of warm pillows
and familiar smells
and close my eyes to what is real.

Sometimes I just want to stay in my chair.
Listen to the music in my brain
that makes me remember days of delight
and years of youth.
Grasp fragments of lost dreams
and hold them captive
in the pocket of my jeans.

Sometimes I just want to stay in my chair.
Stare.
Breathe carefully.
Think wisely.
Grow.

But I don't.

I fold my blanket aside
and slide my feet to the floor,
straighten the pillows
and fluff the cushions-
and walk into the day
without a suit of armor.

Stop. Look. Listen. Help.

2010-09-07T08:55:00.000-05:00

People come into our lives everyday.
Whether it is a new friend,
a distant aquaintance,
or just a smile from a stranger
at the grocery store.

But, in some way
we touch.
Connect.
Our souls blend
and our hearts open.

Even if it is for only a moment...

Bob came into my life one winter.
And it will never be the same again.

Knowing him changed me
in a way I could never have imagined.

He began dating my daughter
and she talked of how sweet he was-
that Bob was one of the nicest
and most considerate guys
she had ever met.

It wasn't long before I discovered
that Bob came with lots of baggage.
He was divorced, a father, and
had some social anxiety issues to deal with.

It scared me.
I wanted my daughter to be happy,
but my husband and I couldn't quite accept
that Bob was the right man for her.

Yet, their relationship lasted
a year and a half,
so we eventually accepted Bob
into our lives.

His smile was contagious.
He loved music
and his dog Mystic
and his new twin nephews.

And I know he loved my daughter.

So, for a little while,
our lives touched his-
blending like family
and pulling him into
our circle of warmth and love.

Then one hot June day,
Bob drove his truck south
to a scenic park with towering bluffs-
and hung himself.

I still cry.
I still ask why.
I will never, ever understand.

This is Suicide Prevention Week
and even though it is something
that we think will never touch us,
you may be wrong.

I was.

We must all be aware of the warning signals:
Suicide Warning Signs:

Appearing depressed or sad most of the time.
(Untreated depression is the number one cause for suicide.)
Talking or writing about death or suicide.
Withdrawing from family and friends.
Feeling hopeless.
Feeling helpless.
Feeling strong anger or rage.
Feeling trapped -- like there is no way out of a situation.
Experiencing dramatic mood changes.
Abusing drugs or alcohol.
Exhibiting a change in personality.
Acting impulsively.
Losing interest in most activities.
Experiencing a change in sleeping habits.
Experiencing a change in eating habits.
Losing interest in most activities.
Performing poorly at work or in school.
Giving away prized possessions.
Writing a will.
Feeling excessive guilt or shame.
Acting recklessly.

It should be noted that some people who die by suicide do not show any suicide warning signs.
But about 75 percent of those who die by suicide do exhibit some suicide warning signs, so we need to be aware of what the suicide warning signs are and try to spot them in people. If we do see someone exhibiting suicide warning signs, we need to do everything that we can to help them.

Bob taught me many things.

To be less judgmental,
slower to speak,
quicker to love,
and more in tune to the suffering of others.

I treasure every waking day.

And pray for those family members
that miss Bob in their lives.

Sometimes I can still see Bob
standing in my kitchen
making a bologna sandwich
and laughing with my daughter.

And I will always regret not being able to stop him,
save him, change his mind....

Perhaps it's not too late for you.

If you know someone who is displaying
the characteristics of suicide,
please stop what you are doing
and get them help today.

Save a life.

Lessons Learned

2010-09-02T08:07:00.000-05:00

My husband has taught me many things
during our long years of marriage.

I can clear the soapy, slimy clogs of hair
from the P-trap under the bathroom sink
with the twist of a wrench and a good bucket.

I can apply drywall mud smoother
than a baby's bottom,
hook up co-ax cable to the satellite,
check the oil in the car,
and come within two cents of the
weekly grocery budget.

Apparently, my lessons to him
were not as well received.

He still doesn't do laundry,
cooking, garbage, packing,
planning, parties, or vacuuming.

He still leaves hair in the sink,
underwear on the floor,
and crumbs on the computer keyboard.

But there is one thing that I taught him
that he has never forgotten:

How to use a debit card.

Believe me, it is one thing that
I continue to regret
ever doing.

Oh, sure- if you are one of those people
who have millions of dollars
sitting around in your checking account-
then a debit here and a debit there
probably won't hurt a thing.

But when you are like me
and have to scrimp-
or toss names in a hat on payday-
then a wild man with a debit card
is just asking for trouble.

Our old method worked just fine.

I would make sure he had
two blank checks in his wallet
anytime he would go to work,
or stop for gas,
or run to pick up an item at the lumberyard.

He would write the check number
on the receipt,
present it to me when he got home,
and all was good.

Then one day when I was with him
at the gas station,
he complained that it was raining.

He whined like a man-baby
that he was going to get wet (and melt?)
if he had to go in and pay.

What that really meant was-
"I'll pump- if you'll run like an idiot
through this thunderstorm to give
the nice lady in the window a check."

"Ugh..use your debit card," I said,
without thinking of the grim
consequences that this might cause.

"Really? Can I do that?" he said in surprise
and total ignorance.

I felt sorry for the guy.
All this time he had been writing checks
and running through rain
and pulling out ID's.

So, I gave him a lesson on the use of a debit card.

And also informed him of the ease of ATM's,
online shopping,
and internet bill pay.

Bad call.

Now he uses that debit card
like a third hand.

He subscribes to magazines,
buys fancy tools,
eats McDonald's,
and lurks on craigslist.

He thinks that debit card
is a lottery card.

Oh, I've had a lot of pain and heartache
since that day at the gas station...

Collecting receipts is like pulling teeth,
hiding the checkbook balance is impossible,
and telling him not to spend over $25
because we've only got 30,
falls on deaf ears.

But, you know-
I've not had to run through the rain lately
to pay for gasoline with a paper check,
so I suppose it's been a bit better for me, too.

Now-
if only I could teach him
how to use the mixer, the microwave,
the dishwasher,
and the toilet brush...

,

Evanescent September

2010-09-01T06:36:00.001-05:00

September comes.
Like a thin, blue raft
on an orange sea.
Drifting silently...

It comes to rest upon my doorstep.
Fresh.
New.
Soft with smells of spice and earth
and rich with songs of autumn.

I lay beside him awhile.
Listen to his steady breathing.
The ins and outs as he inhales and exhales
and smiles with unknown promises.

I love him already.
And he loves me.

And birds never sounded sweeter...

The sky was never quite
this strange,
(but beautiful),
iridescent blue.

My body has never ached
and trembled this way-
at the thought of a new season.

As September anchors himself
to the beach of my heart,
I swim out to him,
embrace him-
feel completely -
the brief joy he brings me.

I indulge in his warm gifts...
his cool night kisses...
the mellow colors of copper and cantaloupe
and lemon meringue.

We will fuse into one
and run the fallow fields...
bathe in crimson leaves...
and swallow the last of summer
in huge, bittersweet gulps.

Then, when September must go,
I will board his raft and
drift off into a cold, hard sea...

Until I once again find green shores
and sunlit days
as warm
as honey.

Chicken Boy Day

2010-08-31T08:09:00.000-05:00

You all know that tomorrow is
the first day of September.

But I bet you don't know
that it's also Chicken Boy Day.
So named in celebration
of his birthday.

Chicken Boy is a roadside icon,
erected in the 1960's atop
a fried chicken restaurant in Los Angeles.

A twenty-two foot boy
with the head of a chicken
and holding a bucket of deep fried bird-
this fiberglass statue was a famous landmark
on Route 66 for many years.

When the restaurant was closed in 1984,
Ellen Bloom and her friends
decided that Chicken Boy was worth saving
and made arrangements to have him moved
to her house.

Poor boy!
He laid there for twenty three years.

Ellen kept him all that time.
She knew that there would be a special place
for him someday.

She even began publishing a catalog
which she describes as:
"the Chicken Boy Catalog for a Perfect World--a catalog of gift items including Chicken Boy logo merchandise and things Chicken Boy would be proud to have in his home or give as a lovely hostess gift."

Her gallant efforts helped save and preserve Chicken Boy.
And in the autumn of 2007,
she finally found him a new home.
Chicken Boy now stands proudly once again
atop the rooftop of Future Studio Design & Gallery
on Historic Route 66.

This little story just goes to prove
that even when you think your glory days are over...
even if you've been abandoned for years
and feel forgotten-
there is hope.

Someone will find you
and love you.
And you'll live happily ever after...

Happy Birthday, Chicken Boy!

Fashion Foolish

2010-08-27T08:51:00.000-05:00

The only thing I hate worse
than scrubbing a messy toilet
or cleaning chili that exploded
in the microwave-
is trying on clothes.

It's a job.
It hurts.
It's like a big chunk of truth
that hits you in the face
and scars you for life.

At least when you get my age-
and my size.
Which is over 50-

and somewhere
between a garden gnome
and the Michelin Man.

It doesn't help that dressing room mirrors
show every single flaw.
Right down to the toe hairs
and middle age zits.

I mean, you really have to love yourself
to stare into one of those mirrors
for more than a three second flash.

But usually that is all it takes for me to decide
if I look like a clown,
a baby,
a goth vampire
or a hundred year old pregnant homeless woman.

Wouldn't it be great if we could
instantly design our own clothing?
To have the perfect fit and style and color
at the click of a button?...

...Instead of spending hours and hours
shuffling and stressing
over racks of segregated sizes
and outlandish fashions-
only to find a pair of fuzzy socks
on the 99 cent table.

Where are the middle-age appropriate styles?
I'm too young for purple elastic stretch pants,
but too old for butt-crack hip huggers.

Too young for bedazzled tunics,
but too old for tie dyed tanks.

To young for seersucker dusting gowns,
but too old for see-through teddies.

To young for orthopedic footwear,
but too old for three inch stilettos.

What's a woman to do?

I refuse to wear Winnie the Pooh
on my sweatshirts,
a skull and crossbones on my hoodie,
and a giant rip in the knees of my jeans.

I will not resort to polyester pant suits,
Just My Size jogging pants,
or leather leggings.

I just want to be fashionable
without being foolish.

Until the day comes that I can
look at myself in the dressing room mirror
for more than a second...
till I can feel confident and stylish
with my choice of wardrobe...
till I can walk and breath in new clothes
without pain and suffering
and critical eyes...

I guess I'll go clean the microwave.

Just Say "No"

2010-08-26T09:00:00.000-05:00

If one of your kids ever asks for a hedgehog,
say "No".

Trust me on this.

I was being a good mom once upon a time
and said "yes".

And you know how you look back
on on the ~~stupid~~ ~~insane~~ unwise things you've done
and shudder a little?

Well, saying yes to a pet hedgehog
was one of those times I consider
an embarrassment -
and a blemish on my otherwise
~~nearly perfect~~ satisfactory record of motherhood.

Oh, the little critters are cute...

But so are baby bears
and panther kittens.

Hedgehogs are surprisingly soft
and curl up into a sweet little ball-
you just want to smooch their little toes.

They seem so innocent and harmless.
What damage could they possibly do?

First of all, the little Rubbermaid tote
we kept "Pokey" in was apparently too shallow-
or Pokey was just a great Houdini-fied hedgehog.

No matter how we tried,
we could not keep him contained.

And like any small varmit
~~on the run~~ set free-
he left a trail of poop behind.
A bit larger than a mouse turd,
but luckily smaller than dog doo-doo.

Usually this fecal trail
was the way we discovered his hiding places.
"Fugitive Pokey" loved to curl up
in the corner of my daughters closet.

So, to keep the peace-
I would round him up-
wipe up the evidence-
and place him in his plastic tote
where he fed on worms and ball-bugs
until his next great escape.

Finally, I put my foot down.
I made the intelligent and mature decision
to be a "bad" mom.

The hedgehog had to go.
Immediately.
No whining.
No deals.
No changing my mind.

The hardest part was finding him.

But when we did,
my son gave him away to a good home
where they thought he was so cute and so sweet-
...and they were so dumb.

Not long after we ~~kicked out~~ ~~dumped~~ sacrificed Pokey,
I was cleaning out my daughters closet.

Hanging in the very back
was her senior prom dress.

A three-hundred dollar prom dress.

Seriously.
(Yeah, it was another of those spells
of mother-induced insanity).

It was absolutely gorgeous.
Red- with hand-sewn sequins
that went down one side along a slit up the leg area.
It was fitted at the waist with a heart-shaped neckline
and the lower part was a layered crepe-like material.

I pulled it out and laid it across the bed-
being all nostalgic and everything.

"Ut-Oh," I whispered.

The entire bottom of the dress
had been shredded.
Like a thousand tiny pin pricks.

Pokey Scissorhands had apparently
liked the dress as well as I did.
So much- that he had nested in it
like a sleepy baby
every time that he secured his freedom.

The hardest part was telling my daughter
that her prom dress was now
a Halloween zombie costume.

Good thing Pokey was already gone
or his little prickly neck
would have been choked to death.

So, I'm here today to say this:
Learn from my mistakes.
Heed my warning.
No hedgehogs.

No varmits.

Just stick with puppies
and goldfish.

Your life will be better for it.

Camp Revival

2010-08-25T08:32:00.000-05:00

It's been three or four years
since I've been camping.

I remember a few years back
when that was the thing
we wished and waited for-
excited for a three day weekend
or great weather
so that we could pack our gear
and head to the woods.

My sister Linda and her husband Wayne
were usually our camping buddies-
always prepared to make memories
around the campfire
and to share quiet nights
on the moonlit river.

Yet, it didn't take long
before the drudgery of packing
and planning and piling up the gear
became labor extensive
and well....boring.

The ice always melted,
the potato chips got stale,
and we became sick of
hot dogs on a stick.

Our tents smelled like wet socks,
our sleeping bags were hot and uncomfortable,
and our air mattresses occasionally
begged for mercy
and sprang a leak.

But today I may have discovered hope.

New outdoor products
may be enough to shake
Linda and I from our camping lull.

Infusing these gadgets into
our nature-loving weekends
just might bring back the spark
of camping out.

What could be more fun
than this shark sleeping bag?

Except maybe a good pillow...

And this next one would really be warm and cozy
on a cold night.

But- I don't think I'd wear it during
hunting season.
(Or mating season, either.)

This design would be nice for
those late night trips to the makeshift bathroom.

But, I'd sure hate to have to run real fast
in that garb!

Hot dogs and chips?
That's a thing of the past with Candwiches!

And generic looking tents?
Not with a new tent tee-pee!

But, I have a sneaky suspicion
that there might be a load limit on that one...

Now, check out this example of
ultimate new camping gear:

These bags are called Sexy Hotness.
Yeah- I don't see it either...
But further research brought new light to the name:

" Centrally located middle zippers allow for access to the erogenous zones. The middle zipper allows for easy walking and airing out your nether regions. With the built-in padded slippers, you never have to get out of your sleeping bag for those pesky middle-of-the-night bathroom breaks."

Okaaaaaayyyyy.... Hmmmmmmm....

On second thought,
maybe camping is not such a great idea.
I think I'd rather be all cozy in my own home
in one of these:

That's what I'm talking about!

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2010-08-24T09:11:00.001-05:00

This free digital slideshow created with Smilebox

Monsters and Maxwell House

2010-08-24T07:17:00.010-05:00

I'm one of those people
who can't start functioning correctly
the first thing in the morning-
without a cup of Joe.

Luckily, for me (and the bathroom scale)-
I drink it black.
No sugar.
No creamer.
Just hot and fresh
and in my favorite good-luck mug.

Whenever I think of peace and comfort,
I see a cup of coffee.
Right there with the brilliant sunrise,
or the first snowfall,
or days when I am sad.

When I was in high school,
my mother let me have my own
percolator in my bedroom.
(Yeah, she was cool like that.)

It was white with blue flowers
and sat on my ancient hi-fi cabinet-
right next to the 8-track tape player
that my oldest brother John
fabricated for my listening pleasure.

What more could a girl want?
Led Zeppelin and The James Gang
along with a cup of Maxwell House...
Sitting on a soft bed,
writing poetry and dreaming of cute boys,
fashionable shoes, and Friday nights...

I realize that it sounds as though I was a spoiled brat.

But, no.

I shared that room with my little sister, Tina.

(And another thing...
everyone else on the face of the entire earth
had cassette players by then.)

Tina talked in her sleep.
Like...
nightmare talking.

She would grab the blanket and sit up in bed-
with her eyes as big around as a quarter pounder-
and stare toward the closet door
with a frightening whimper...

And, of course, who was I to doubt
that something very real and monster-like
lurked among the wire hangers and shoe boxes?

Being there, you would have thought
that Zombies were about to attack-
or maybe some of those scary Puppet-Master dolls.

It was nights like those that made me glad
that I had a little caffeine in me.

I was able stay awake and guard the bed-
ready to throw a copy of "Love Story"
or a leather sandal
toward any supernatural freak
that emerged from the depths of the closet.

Tina was always back asleep in minutes,
snoring like a baby-
while I had goose bumps the size of dimes
and the hair stood on the back of my neck
like a porcupine on steroids.

So, when morning came,
I kicked Tina out,
perked my coffee,
and enjoyed a world without fear.

Through the years,
I've tried Starbucks and iced cappuccino
and lattes.
I sometimes splurge on expensive creamers
and flavored syrups
and sweet International Delights.

But, I always come back to
coffee in black.

And I secretly wish Tina
many sleepless nights...

Encouraging Imagination

2010-08-23T07:15:00.000-05:00

I may not have recognized it back then,
but today I realize how much my mom
encouraged our self-expression.

And unlike modern mothers,
there wasn't a push-
or a pull-
or any bias on her part.

She merely smiled and approved
of most every creative venture
that my siblings and I fabricated.

Be it fancy mud pies
or elaborate club houses,
Mom would never turn her nose up
or lecture us about the mess we made-
or criticize the end result of our crude artistry.

***

In fifth grade I watched a guest speaker
fill a blank canvas full of plump fruits
and dripping candles-
painting shadows and light so realistically
that you felt you could pluck them
from their frame.

I immediately decided that
I wanted to be an artist.

Somehow- I have no idea how-
my parents managed to get me
a set of oil paints.

I was in heaven.

I couldn't wait to recreate
those purple clusters of grapes-
and the fuzzy pink peach-
and hot wax in clumps around a candlestick.

I remember how perfectly ugly it turned out...
An 18x24 painting that my mom promptly
displayed above the living room sofa!
For a long, long time....

***

Another time I recall the bathroom mirror getting broken
and the pieces were set outside on the back step.

I decided they looked like puzzle pieces,
so I began gluing them to black poster board
to make a mirrored tree.

Mom loved it.

After hanging in Mom's house for years and years,
I now have it stored in my garage-
Still displayed in the broken yard sale frame
she found for it.

***

Linda and I were young HGTV enthusiasts back then-
before there was such a show.
We occasionally cooked up brilliant ways
to decorate our room-
each time getting a nod of approval from Mom-
and a skeptical cringe from Dad.

One time we cut out hundred of "paper dolls"
from the Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs-
and glued them all over the walls and ceiling
with home made flour paste.

Another time, we painted red and white stripes
(freehand, of course) on all four walls.
The original plan consisted of a navy blue ceiling
with glow-in-the-dark stars,
but Dad was pretty firm about keeping the ceilings white.

Later, it was neon shades of blue and apple green-
but never again quite as far-out
as paper dolls dancing on the plaster.

***

We never got in trouble for the times
we waded in a muddy ditch up to our knees,
brought home smelly clams from the creek,
or bent the good encyclopedias to make
houses for our Barbies.

Mom stored all my poems in the Bible.
And read every story I wrote.

She allowed me to spray paint
and glue and glitter
to my hearts content.

***

Even today, when I'm trying to choose
between the Exotic Eggplant paint
or the Soft Cream for my walls,
I imagine my Mom simply smiling
in a way that says "Follow Your Heart".

Thank you, Mom.
For letting me be a free spirit.
For letting me experiment and dream-
and be who I was meant to be.

Home Base

2010-08-20T06:00:00.000-05:00

Although it is only August,
I see the season wind down.

There is a special blueness of the sky-
a perfume in the pine trees-
a bittersweet knowledge that what has been-
will soon no longer be.

It is this time of year
when I draw closer to my home.

I decorate it daily-
if just in my mind.

I find peace in the textures
and keepsakes
that surround me.

I like my bare feet on the carpet.

My blinds open wide to view the deer.

And my glasses wait on a nearby table,
ready for a fresh magazine
to arrive in the mail.

I like listening to music while I dust.
Sometimes it's a soft love song
and I waltz slowly at my task.

Other times,
I crank up the rock and roll
and swing wildly with the vacuum cleaner.

I make my bed.
Press all the wrinkles from the sheets
till they are tight and smooth-
fluff the head dimples from the pillows
and toss on a colorful comforter.

I ignore the thoughts of an early nap.

The house smells like hazelnut coffee.
And last nights casserole.
And the spiced apple candle that
burns to a nub on my desk.

I love my home because it is familiar.

It meshes with my bone
like a graft of memories.
It surrounds me with goodness
and safety
and a place for my dreams.

When it is absolutely quiet here,
I find my own voice.
I know myself.

And everything seems right.

Thank You

2010-08-19T08:01:00.002-05:00

Today I am celebrating myself.

And 10,000 hits on my blog.

For those of you who are not writers,
it may be difficult to understand
how uplifting and liberating that is.

And it is not the fact that people came here
to read what I had to say that is so amazing,
but- it is the fact that I said something.

-that I sat here almost everyday
and cranked out my heart-
and let it bleed-
without worrying if it spilled out
onto other peoples lives.

I realize that my readers
may not have always liked what I wrote.
How many of us buy a new paperback,
only to abandon it on the nightstand forever?
There are no guarantees-
no prizes-
for having rearranged words into daily stories.

I started this blog as a type of computerized journal.
A place where I could store my thoughts
for safekeeping.
How many spiral notebooks
and one-year diaries of mine
have been lost through the years!

My mother began to write her thoughts on paper
during the final years of her life.
Those six or eight pages are the most precious thing
she could have left me.
They were her.
They were pieces of her heart.

And every time I read them,
her heart beats again.

That is what I hope to accomplish.

My children and my loved ones
will never remember
all the things I said.
But they will always have
the things that I wrote.

Someday-
when I am gone from this earth-
I hope they delight in reading my blog.
I hope they laugh and cry
and realize that I was not just
a wife and a mother and grandmother-
but that I was a person
who enjoyed life.

My husband rarely reads my blog.
He's peeked at half a dozen-
(maybe).
Sometimes it hurts my feelings
that he doesn't seem to care
what I write.
But, I've come to realize
he cares more about the things I say out loud.

And that's okay.

To me, writing is like blowing my nose
during a nasty cold.
I just gotta get it all out-
and if I don't,
I just get sicker.

Writing helps me breathe.

I once worked at the local newspaper.
I moved up from being a secretary
in the classified ads-
to being a reporter with two weekly columns.

Never once did anyone there
ever tell me that I was doing a good job-
or that they enjoyed my writing-
or that I made them laugh-
or that what I said mattered.

I think that broke my spirit for awhile.

I think I needed reassuring-
support-
a sounding board for my thoughts.
So, I left there.

I quit writing for almost three years.
No journals.
Or diaries.
Maybe an occasional poem
or a jotting of ideas.

But it was like being a prisoner in my own skin.
I swelled with heartache and with joy-
and I began to realize that the only relief valve
was my through my fingertips on the keyboard
or around a pencil.

So-
it does matter that you come here.
That you comment.
That you inspire and encourage me
on this literary journey-
my written legacy.
To help me leave my alphabetic footprints.

I am flattered and grateful.

Thank you.
For helping me face the music every single day.

And to always feel like singing.

Let's Get Real, Shall We?

2010-08-17T09:56:00.000-05:00

No doubt most of you
have noticed the annoying flashing ads
on the margin of your favorite web sites.

I rarely click on them.

They usually want volumes
of personal information
like your blood type,
nickname,
and PIN numbers on all bank accounts.

But a few weeks ago, I couldn't resist.
I clicked.

I mean- who wouldn't want to know
the trick of having a tiny belly?

I like tricks.
They save time and energy.
They are like super shortcuts
or magic pills.
They make me smile.

So, of course I was curious.

Well, the secret is a tiny berry called Acai.
In pill form, it encorages weight loss
and helps burn calories.

Sounds like my kind of trick.

However, in most cases,
this miracle berry must be used in conjunction
with Colon Cleanse-
a natural herb formula
that eliminates waste from your body.

I thought about this for barely a minute.
Let's get real here, shall we?

It makes you poop.

It takes that delicious pepperoni pizza
and fudge brownie
and flushes them from your system
like they didn't even happen.

The makers of Advanced Colon claim that:
"An average American will eat 4-6 meals/day and have a typical bowel-movement (bm) once a day. This leaves anywhere from 5-8 meals of food sitting in your system at any given time."

To me- that means these colon cleansing agents
are going to make me want to crap my pants
all day long.
How many working people out there have
the time and the opportunity to
run to the toilet 5-8 additional times a day?

Can you imagine the extra expense of toilet paper?
The water bill after continuous flushing?
The consequences of not getting there on time?

Advanced Colon also informs us that:
" It's NOT uncommon for people to carry as much as thirty pounds of toxic waste in their colon. In fact, some bowels, when autopsied, weighed up to 40 pounds with a diameter of 12" (30cms) with only a narrow passage through which feces could be eliminated."

Sick stuff here, people....

Yet- I couldn't help but continue reading.
One ~~guinea pig~~ woman claims to have
lost nine pounds in one week.
And within three weeks she had lost 23 pounds!
She also states that she went down THREE dress sizes
within that time.

Well, I just can't help but think
that Poopy Polly is a liar.

It takes me eighteen months to lose 23 pounds
and at least 100 pounds to drop three dress sizes!
This is no trick- it's a scam!

Eating blueberries all the live-long day,
supplemented with huge portions of Ex-Lax
can pretty much achieve similar results.

Still....
the thought of having a tiny belly again
seems somehow worth the extra budgeting
for Super Soft Charmin.

Or Depends.

School Daze, School Daze

2010-08-16T17:45:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I almost envy the kids
that are going back to school.

Sometimes I go down the craft isle at Wal-Mart,
just to smell the Elmer's glue
and the Crayola Crayons
and the woody aroma of fresh pencils.

Sometimes I fantasize about owning
a giant 5-Star college-ruled notebook again-
a colorful array of file folders,
and black fine-tipped ball point pens
that glide across the page
as gracefully as an Olympic skater.

Sometimes I miss the feel of text books
in the crook of my arm-
the strict regimen of schedules
and dealines
and assignments.

Sometimes I think about school desks
and the stiff, upright chairs-
their graffiti measled surfaces
and their cheap Formica tops.

I sometimes dream about my locker-
the ca-chunk as it opened
and the smack as it slammed
and the smell of polished hallways
and disinfected restrooms
and potatoes and peas cooking
in the cafeteria.

I can still hear the squeak of swing sets
and the thump of basketballs
and the whir of a merry-go-round gone wild.

I sometimes miss the anticipation of Christmas break,
the fear of semester exams,
and the kindness of a good teacher.

I miss new school clothes
and new socks
and new shoes that gave me blisters.

I sometimes miss the hum
of the film projector,
slobbering on my desk during
an impromptu nap,
and raising my hand because
I was certain I knew the answer.

I miss doodling in the margins,
highlighting notes in dogeared books,
and listening to the band practice
outside near the football field.

I miss the giggles and the gossip,
the friends and the festivities,
the satisfaction of good grades
and a job well done.

I sometimes miss solar systems
and patchwork globes
and formaldehyde in Biology lab.

I miss art canvas
and potter's wheels
and tempera paints
with bundles of brushes.

I miss yearbook day
and pep assemblies
and field trips.

I miss being young-
innocent-
full of hope for my future,
and never doubtful of my abilities.

Sometimes I miss school days.

But now I simply watch the yellow bus
kick up dust on the country road-
and pretend it is stopping
at my house next.

Trend Alert ! Trend Alert !

2010-08-13T06:44:00.001-05:00

Today I received a very important e-mail.
It was a "trend alert".

I guess someone at American Eagle
must have confused me with
the Olson twins
because I was mistakenly alerted to the fact
that Skinny Leggings are the new fall look.

Hey-I'll just put it out there-
Not many ladies-
even little ones-
look good in Skinny Leggings.

And to all you thin, anorexic beautiful women
who don't believe me-
go ~~suck a hummingbird egg~~
~~sip your healthy Vegan shake~~
read another blog.

No-no.
I'm not jealous!
Absolutely not!

Whatever gave you that idea?
I just believe that thin women shouldn't
flaunt their skinniness
just as fat women shouldn't flaunt
their bigness.

I got to wondering if
that e-mail was just a scam
to ridicule me.
Some sophisticated designer's
idea of a bad joke.

I can see them all peering into
their tell-all fashion globes
and laughing their bleach-blond heads off.

I've got news for them.

There was once upon a time
that I could have worn skinny leggings.
And looked good in them.

Back B.K. (Before Kids).

Back B.M.M.A.G.T.M.B.
(Before Mars Made A Giant Three Musketeers Bar).

Long, ~~long~~ ago, when I had the giraffe legs
and perky bosom
and a waist so small you could
cinch it with a bread tie-
fashion trends were different.

It was the time of elephant bell-bottoms,
poufy peasant blouses,
thick leg warmers
and cable knit vests.

You could have hidden
a killer whale under that garb
and no one would have been the wiser.

But now that I've ~~menopaused~~ ~~gotten fat~~ blossomed
into a mature woman,
the fashionistas decide
that Skinny Leggings are the new trend.

Hmmmmmm....

Life sucks sometimes, don't you think?

Be It Ever So Humble

2010-08-12T05:00:00.002-05:00

BEFORE

The year was 1981.

I just had my second child.

And when I say "just"-
I mean Becca was only two days old.

It was then that my husband
bought our very first house.

See it?
Yes- it is true.
The picture above is really the actual thing.

I don't know if I was suffering from
post-postpartum retardation-
or what-
but I was excited as heck.

For some reason,
I wasn't scared, embarrassed,
or even horrified by my new house.

I couldn't wait to start tearing off the wallpaper,
ripping out the floors,
and putting gobs of sweat and tears
into the old farm house.

I have always known that
when my husband
sets his mind on something-
he follows through.
And I knew he wouldn't let
me and the kids move into
some crappy, run down fire hazard.

I just felt lucky to have something
we could call our very own.
We had rented for five years
and it was time to make a move.

Face it- we didn't have much.
We bought some carpet from a classified ad,
found a claw foot tub at a yard sale,
made kitchen cabinets out of barn wood,
and I strung up curtains with old twine.

The place didn't have a bathroom,
so my husband made one out of the porch.
It was the coolest room ever.
(Back then.)

I papered it in green fern wallpaper
(which was very groovy at the time),
and we bought 60 old mirrors from
a hotel that was being demolished in town
and glued them to one entire wall.
With my claw foot tub
and some used curtains,
it became my favorite room.

We have fixed up seven places
since we were married
and I now have a nice home
of which I am proud-
(but still very humble).

I think it all comes down to this:
It doesn't matter where you live.
As long as it is clean
and full of love
and feels like home.

It was wonderful back then
to be able to stand back
and be proud of what we had accomplished.

There truly is no place like home.
AFTER

(Our first house and my first daughter Erin. She is 30 years old now.)

Killer Tomatoes

2010-08-11T06:00:00.005-05:00

My house smells like tomatoes.

And not that great lasagna-pizza
kind of tomato smell.

It's more like a...
stewed-tomato-musty-old-lady smell
that has seeped into my nostrils
to the point of nausea.

Cooked tomatoes kinda smell
like feet that have sweat too long
in wet canvas tennis shoes.

Or sorta like old newspapers
stashed in the basement
next to the leaky pipes.

Yeah- that kinda tomatoey smell.

Maybe it's just me.

Not me that smells funny,
but me that imagines the funny smell.

I've been canning tomatoes
since 9:30 and it's almost 1:00.
Time sure flies when you
are bored out of your gourd
and your entire kitchen
looks like somebody
put a zombie in the microwave
and blew him up.

Plus, it's kinda hard to type
while you have tomato seeds
sticking to your hands and wrists
like some type of freaky garden bling.

I'm new at this.

God forgive me
if I end up canning quarts and quarts
of flavorsome botulism for my loved ones.

But my husband says
the days of throwing tomatoes
over the fence is over.

It's funny how he seems okay
with the twenty pound zucchinis being wasted.
Or the foot long okra.
Or those obese little cucumbers
that grew round instead of long.

Don't get me wrong.
I love tomatoes.
And I believe in preserving food
for the winter ahead.

But I sure wish tomatoes
smelled liked baked apples
or cinnamon donuts
or even Christmas trees.

The old-lady-house-dress-tomato-smell
is just not something Glade
would bottle up
for a refreshing fragrance spritz.

Well, gotta go tend my harvest now.
Then open all the doors and windows
to let the house air out.

I just hope some old-musty-tomato-smelling man
doesn't walk by and mistake it for an invitation.

S'mores for Cindy

2010-08-10T09:13:00.000-05:00

Today is S'mores Day
and I'm dedicating this post
to my future daughter-in-law, Cindy.
That girl sure does love her some S'mores!

And who can blame her?
It's the ultimate sandwich.
Crunchy, gooey, chocolaty and sweet.

All you need is graham crackers,
Hershey bars.
marshmallows,
a long stick,
and a blazing fire.

Not to mention- plenty of napkins.

S'mores were first introduced
in the Girl Scout Handbook of 1927.
A popular campsite treat,
some say the name came from
children requesting "some more"
after indulging in the melted treat.

I'm not one to play with my food,
but I just had to do some research
on the rest of the S'more's ingredients.

Graham crackers.
Weird story.

Sylvester Graham (1794-1851)
was a health lecturer that believed that:
" intense physical desire, no matter how expressed and regardless of whether you were married or not, was guaranteed to have dire physiological consequences. "
He thought men should
remain virgins until age 30
and then should
make love only once a month.

Graham prescribed a special vegetarian diet
to control lust.
This regimen included "Graham bread,"
made from whole wheat flour.
Graham crackers, which Graham invented in 1829,
were a product of his research.

Today graham crackers
are mostly made with refined white flour
and added sweeteners.
So, I wouldn't count on them
helping with any chastity vows
you may have made.

Before the mid 1800's,
marshmallows were made
using the sap of the Marsh-Mallow plant.
Doctors once extracted medicinal juices
from the Marsh-Mallow plant's roots.
This was cooked with egg whites and sugar,
then whipped into a hardened candy
used to soothe children's sore throats.

Today marshmallows are mostly
modified corn starch
and hold no healing properties whatsoever.

Now, we all know about Hershey bars.
Introduced in 1900 by
Milton S, Hershey,
this 210 calorie,
13 fat gram treat
has consistently sent my weight
soaring wildly for thirty years.

An odd history of ingredients,
but just put them together today
and you have a quick dessert that
will make you lick your lips and fingers
and cry out for "S'more!"

Today I raise my marshmallow stick
and toast to Cindy-
May your day be as sweet as a S'more!

At The End Of The Day

2010-08-09T09:49:00.008-05:00

I know I complain a lot.
I'm cynical.
Kinda grouchy sometimes.
Twist events just a tad
in order to make for a good blog.

But, in reality,
I'm actually a very positive person.

That's why today I'm not going to
gripe about how horribly hot it's been.

Or how I've worked my fingers to the bone
stacking firewood.

Or how every insect on the planet
has had a taste of my blood.

(I'm just lucky there aren't vampires in Missouri.
Or else I'd be a walking,
shape-shifting bat zombie
with a hillbilly coffin.)

I'm not going to tell you
how hard the mattress is at the cabin.
Or that my stupid pillow
is just a glorified maxi-pad.
Or that I've fallen in love with
Benadryl,
Calamine Lotion,
Deep Woods Off
and fly swatters.

I'm not here today to mention
how crunchy my laundry has been
because we have to line dry it.
Or that- to make matters worse-
some insect laid eggs on every single
piece of clothing while in dried
in the scorching summer sun.

I won't tell you
how I miss the computer
and the internet
and a coffee pot that doesn't leak.

It's been a trying two months.

But it has been worth every sting
and scratch
and sleepless itchy night.

My husband and I have spent the
evenings at the cabin
playing Scrabble
and Mancala
and reading books.

We never read.
We never play board games together.

At least not in our real world.

But, at the cabin,
we connect differently.
We enjoy the silence.
We appreciate nature.
We smile more.

And one special thing
that makes my heart warm-
we have Popsicle breaks.

After an afternoon of sweating
and hard labor,
we sit in the shade on our lawn chairs
and share a double Popsicle.
We don't even talk.
We just stare out into the woods
and the big, blue sky
and rest our minds.

I look over at my husband-
with wood chips in his sweaty hair,
paint splatters on his torn tee shirt,
graying, unshaven whiskers
and blistered hands-
eating a melting Popsicle-
and I suddenly see
the most handsome man in the world.

So, at the end of the day
I really can't complain.

I am blessed beyond measure.

Bring It On!

2010-07-27T06:35:00.004-05:00

It took me all these years
to figure out that I'm a winter person.

Don't get me wrong-
I actually love summer.
But, let's face the facts here.
Summer was designed for
only two kinds of people:
The young
and the thin.

For those of you that don't know me-
I am truly not elephant size.
I just need to lose 10 20 30 pounds (or so)
to be considered healthy on
that stupid AMA chart.

Summer is meant for halter tops,
bikinis, mini dresses and short shorts.
It's meant for long, lean legs,
flat bellies,
and slender arms.
It is ideal for the graceful-
the sophisticated-
the elegant
and the five year old.
Summer people thrive on
iced tea,
edamame,
sweet berry wine
and mascara.

I just don't fit in anymore.

Yes, I finally realize
that I am meant to be a winter girl.

Because winter is designed
for two kinds of people:
The big and the immobile.

I was meant for sweatshirts,
sloppy, long-sleeved tees
and bulky sweaters.
I was built for long pants,
fuzzy socks,
high neck blouses
and mittens.
I am best suited for
cups of hot coffee,
big chocolate chip cookies,
giant bowls of cheesy chili,
and daytime naps.

Sand volleyball?
Roller blading?
Swimming? Jogging? Dancing?
Nahhh...Not for me.

Try checkers, old movies,
reading fat novels,
drawing,
thinking,
dreaming.

If you think I'd be partial
to snow skiing,
or ice skating,
you'd be wrong.
Yet, once in awhile-
I get a wild hair
and build a snowman
or make a snow angel.

I just don't understand
why it took me all these years
to realize the truth.

I suppose I battled it bravely.
Each summer I fought to
get into that little suit,
bare my spider-veined legs,
and pull my boobs up
to the correct level.
I tried to like edamame,
volleyball,
and greasy suntan lotion.
I tried to pretend I wasn't sweating,
starving, hurting, or hopeless.

But I give up.
I am officially a winter person.

Bring it on!

Celebrating Two Years

2010-07-25T09:35:00.006-05:00

In celebration of my second year of blogging,
I decided it was time for a little freshness.

My old blog title came from the column
that I used to write for the city newspaper.
I always felt it was a bit old-fashioned-
stuffy maybe-
and those crazy newspaper days
are behind me now.

Plus, it seems when you Google
"Porch" or "Pondering",
you get a lot of people that
ponder on their porches.

So, I opted for my blog subtitle
as my new heading.
Please make a note on your bookmarks.

I am still on a mini-vacation of sorts.
When my husband goes back to work,
I'll return here every morning
with something new to say.
I appreciate all those friends who have
continued to follow and comment
even through this lull.
Thank you.

Two years.....
How time flies
when you're having fun.

Thanks for joining me,
supporting me,
and being my best friends.

I'm peeping in from time to time
when I have internet access,
even though I may not always have time to comment.
I promise I will be back to visit you all soon.

For now, let's go have some cake
and celebrate!!

Getting Old

2010-07-24T08:59:00.011-05:00

Sometimes I hate the oldness of me.

Where once my face was smooth
like doll plastic
and the color of a ripe peach,
I now see leathered creases
along the sagging jawline
and branches of wrinkles
around my eyes.

My hair that was once long
and shiny
and vibrant,
now hangs in short tufts
of bleached blond
that remain untamed.

My body has wilted.
Sags like a old tent.
Padded with too-soft skin
that falls in folds
and flaps
and furrows.

My kids look at me differently.

It's as if they suddenly see
how time has swept over me.
They notice the withered hands,
the corrugated belly,
the tired feet that sometimes moan.

Can't they see
that my heart is still young?
That my soul laughs...
That in my mind, I run through fields of flowers
with starlight glistening in my hair...
That my skin is tan and taut
and never tired...
That I am young and pretty
and forever fascinating...

Time has only changed the outside.

Yet,sometimes
I just hate
the oldness of me...

Dear Summer

2010-07-24T07:43:00.003-05:00

(Pretend there's a nice picture here...)

Dear Summer,

We’ve known each other a long time, but we’ve always had one of those on and off relationships. You always show up at your convenience and leave right when I was beginning to get used to you. How many times have you suddenly disappeared and left me in the cold?

Oh, those early days were magical…We were children on an endless playground. We laughed and danced among the flowers. We would swing and run and lay out in the grass with huge abandon. We wished on stars and stayed out late…and those gentle days seemed to last forever.

I admit, you were hot. That’s what attracted me to you in the first place. Your arms around my shoulders and caressing my face was the ultimate in true love. You were fresh and clean and smelled wildly of chlorine and grass and barbecues.

Then you started making me lazy. I wore less clothing. I avoided my chores. I dropped everything just to be with you.

Soon you began to smother me- burdened me with gardening and mowing and outdoor chores. I had to wash the car, trim the trees, weed the flowers, and wash the windows. The work never stopped. We rarely played anymore.You started bringing your pesky friends to every outdoor event. You became obnoxious and boring.

Summer, there is part of me that loves you more than any I have known. But there is also a part of me that yearns for change. I dream of romantic dinners in front of the fireplace. Woolen sweaters and snow falling beyond the window. Wine and yellow leaves and the smell of cinnamon. I dream of days just staying in bed under the covers-of no commitments to yard work or garage cleaning or the stickiness of your touch.

I want a cool breeze through my hair. I want my cheeks to sting, my hands to numb, my body to snuggle and bundle up with a new season.

Without trying to be cruel, I must say I am growing tired of you. I know, I know- it will be like all the other times we’ve broken up. I’ll be wanting you back in a few months. I’ll be wishing I could feel you again. I’ll be cold and abandoned and blue.

But, please- let me go. Just for awhile. Let me loose from your humidity and staleness and burdensome heat. Let me enjoy the sunshine and the rain and dancing again. I want to sing and grow and be free.

We can meet again soon. It’s not like you don’t know where I live. I’m sure six or seven months apart will only cause me to love you more.

But I have to be sure.

Thanks for the flowers. The fresh vegetables. The picnics. The moonlit strolls. The fireflies and song birds and days of clear blue skies.

I will never forget our moments together.

But please, un-smother me. Let me go. Tell me farewell soon. I just can’t stand it any longer.

Love Forever,

Rae

It's Hot, Hot, Hot!

2010-07-15T07:09:00.005-05:00

Can you look back to the past
and remember what you were doing
on the hottest and the coldest days of the year?

Although I am not a meteorologist-
or an historian,
I remember those days very well.

Why?

Because those are the days that
my loving husband decided to tackle
extensive outdoor chores.

Now, I'm not talking about
watering the garden
or shoveling snow from the sidewalk.
I'm talking hours of intense labor
while battling the elements.

Take yesterday, for example.

I was minding my own business.
Trying to blog...
having a cup of coffee...
sitting in the cool house in my pj's...
comfy in my favorite chair...

"Get dressed," my husband said,
sitting down to tie his shoes.

Now, most women would see this as
an invitation to breakfast at Cracker Barrel,
a trip to local yard sales,
a sweet little road trip,
or the opportunity for an early matinee.

But, being married to this man
for coming up on 35 years,
I knew better than to be excited
or surprised.

"What?" I asked, curling my face
into an unattractive snarl.

"We are cleaning the garage today," he said.

"Ugh..the big garage? The barn?" I questioned.

This old garage/barn is big enough
to house a herd of horses,
a combine,
and a fleet of four wheelers.
(Well, almost.)
But what do we have in it?
Junk!

And I wilted at the thought
of fighting my way through
shovels and screwdrivers
and lawnmowers and electrical cords
and pipes and posts and boards
and wasps and webs and
things that never, ever get thrown away
because someday he might use them.

Besides that,
the heat index was going to be 105.

Do the math, ladies.
If it feels like 105 degrees outside
and you happen to have a hot flash-
you're looking an approximate
body temperature of at least 145.

A person could melt.

But not a man.
Not my husband,
Not a super macho
I-can-never-sit-down-and-relax kind of guy.

So, began my Wednesday.
Armed with gloves and attitude,
I helped my husband
on the hottest day
of the freakin' year.

"It's hot," I complained.

"Oh, just think of it as an opportunity
to work on your tan," said Superman.

Call me strange.
But I tend not to think of
the bronze glow of my skin
when I'm
dying of heat stroke!!!

Yeah ,I'm just funny like that.

Anyway.....

Eight hours,
two bug bites,
one broken nail,
and sixteen bottles of water later-
we were finished!

I admit, it did look good.
Kinda made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

No- wait.
False alarm.
It was just another hot flash.

My feet were throbbing,
my back was aching,
and I was as sweaty as a drowned rat-
(and just about as pretty).

It made me think about the winter
that we were building our house.
Tyvek insulation sheets
had to be stapled up before
the siding went on.

Coldest day of the year.
Below zero.
Here we are all bundled up
in the blizzard-like wind.
I have on two pair of socks
and two pair of gloves.
I look like a Weeble.
I feel like a pig-mummy.
I am so cold, I actually start crying.

I am a Popsicle.

I suppose I'm used to it by now-
those working conditions
fit for neither man nor beast.

Yesterday evening after my shower,
supper,
and sweet air conditioning ,
I plopped into my favorite chair
and reflected on the day.

I figure I might have a good six months
before the coldest day of the year.

Wonder what I'll be doing that day?

Summers of Snow Cones and Swimming

2010-07-14T06:59:00.007-05:00

Years ago-
(omg! Has it really been over forty?!)
temporary relief from the summer heat
could only mean two things:

Snow cones
and Jean's pond.

Luckily, we were within walking distance to both-
so Linda and I made it part of our sunny-day ritual
to visit the two places on a regular basis.

Although money was tight,
Mom always managed to
round up a dime for each of us
so that we could have a snow cone at
Lena Wall's little red and white booth.

Lena would slide a giant block of ice
into an ancient metal crusher.
It looked a lot like our water pump at home.
It would chug-chug-chug,
and roll its wheels,
and spin its belts-
and finally cough out the finest crushed ice
ever found on this earth.

But the real deliciousness came
when she soaked our paper cones
full of flavored syrup
and passed them to us through the window
with a smile.

Choosing a flavor was always difficult.
Personally, I loved Pink Coconut,
Nectar, Spearmint, and Lemon-Lime.
My brothers always got Blue Eagle,
Black Cherry or Strawberry.

For an extra nickle, you could get Rainbow-
which was a combination of your four favorite flavors.
But, that rarely happened for us.
We learned to be satisfied and thankful
for the ten cent version.

And, boy, were they good!

Sometimes I think Lena gave us extra syrup
because she liked us-
or perhaps felt sorry for the vagabond-looking family
that peeped into her window on hot summer days-
The six of us holding hands-
and eyes wide with anticipation-
ready to feel the frostiness of a snow cone
on our parched lips.

I can imagine how we all looked-
walking down the sidewalk with (usually) bare feet-
our lips stained in shades of primary colors
and our bellies happy with cold treats.

On other days, Linda and I would go swimming.

Which is such a joke-
because neither of us can swim.
Basically, we waded in the water till it was up to our necks-
and then our guardian angels took over from there.

One of our best friends, Jean,
had a big muddy pond out behind her house-
complete with a little cabin
and lots of inner tubes.

We would wade through muck and muddy slime
and families of tiny tadpoles-
to immerse ourselves in the coolness of brown water.
(Did we not learn about snakes in Science class?!)

While other girls at the country club or rec club pool
were sipping chlorine
with each crystal clear breast stroke-
Linda and I were gulping huge breaths
of chocolate-milk-colored water
as we flopped off our inner tubes
or plunged into a murky drop-off.

Oh, don't pity us.
We had a blast!
And, to top it off, we managed to survive
every single summer at Jean's pond.

It seems like a lifetime ago...

Maybe that's because it was!

Snow cones
and Jean's pond...

How could a childhood summer
get any better than that?

Porch Couches

2010-07-13T07:27:00.007-05:00

Lately I've been spending time
in southeast Missouri.
It's the land of natural springs and huge forests,
old history and clear rivers-
rafting and camping
and good home cooking.

And, I must add-
it is also the land of Porch Couches.

You can rarely go a mile or two
without seeing a porch
adorned with a very special sofa.

Sometimes it isn't a couch at all,
but a ragged recliner
which was so well loved
that the owners refused to part with it.

Or perhaps it just never quite made it
to the curb on trash day.

The thing is,
I hardly ever see anyone sitting
on their Porch Couch.
Usually it's a hound dog
or a roosting chicken
or the transmission from a pickup truck.

I think if I had a Porch Couch,
I would at least utilize it-
and maybe make it more attractive.
Cover up the holes
and push the stuffing back in
and refuse to let the cat give
birth to kittens on it.

My Porch Couch
would be long and wide
and just right for napping.
It would be soft-
and fat with fluffy pillows
and draped with a sweet old quilt
that smelled of lilacs.

It would be the perfect place for reading-
or having a cup of coffee and a donut.
A place for neighborly chats
and unbridled laughter
and for feeling the wind on my face.

Those people with Porch Couches
probably don't realize that they have
started a new fashion trend in England.

Concrete porch furniture
that looks like this!

It starts with a week long process
of casting a mold from an original leather sofa.
Though the cushions in the photo look very soft and pliable,
they are hard as a rock.
It is entirely concrete.

There is even a concrete coin
cast between the cushions!

So, folks- with one of these Porch Couches,
the family coon dog-
sloppy nachos,
spilled beer
and muddy overalls
couldn't ruin your special outdoor place
of relaxation.

And although I am a firm believer in
Porch Pondering,
I think some people just take it too far...

The Fan

2010-07-12T07:32:00.005-05:00

I lived most of my childhood without air conditioning.

On these humid days of mid-summer,
my sister Linda and I would play outside-
our long hair sticking to our foreheads and necks
in wet, sweaty tangles.

Of course, we were used it-
the dirt beads forming like muddy jewelry
in the creases of our skin
and our bare feet always dry and dusty.

Our friend Gwen was the only person we knew
who had an air conditioned house.
It was fun to play there.
We stayed clean and cool
and her mother served us Dr. Pepper over ice.

It was only at night when we tried to sleep
that we finally noticed the uncomfortable heat-
like a blanket that smothered our sweetest dreams-
like a hot fog that settled in the folds of our sheets
and our damp pillow cases.

The only thing that saved us was "The Fan".
A big, gray window fan that stuck out over the bed
like a metal cage-
it's blades like iron petals that whirred loudly in the night,
humming us into peaceful slumber.

This old fan had a timer.
A dial that Dad always allowed us to twist
to the "1 hour" position as we prepared for bed.
I think Linda and I always hurried to sleep-
knowing that if we were awake after an hour,
it would be muggy and silent in our room again.

There was nothing worse than waking up after midnight
and hearing only the crickets chirping outside the fan...
eventually feeling strands of damp hair strangling our faces.

We usually woke each other up-
trying to convince one another to flip the dial
to another half hour or so-
with the prayer that Dad was deep asleep
and would never know.

Sometimes we got by with it.

(Sometimes even Mom was in on it-
whispering a warning to us from the doorway
that we better not push our luck
and "hurry on to sleep".

Ahhh...another hour of coolness
breathing into our stale, summer room...

But-sometimes-
after we twisted the timer and curled
up beside each other,
the tiny red dot of Dad's Camel cigarette
would appear in the hallway-
floating as if by magic into our room.

And behind it came Dad-
his familiar tobacco and Old spice scent
reaching over our bed with a grunt
to turn the timer to "OFF"
and stop "The Fan".

Then-
so as not to go totally insane
from the brain-penetrating heat
and the dead silence that breeds imaginary monsters,
we laid there and talked.
Giggled, made up stories,
and sang church hymns and show tunes
in our quietest little girl voices.

There were those hot summer nights
when we thought we could never fall asleep again
without the hypnotizing spin of "The Fan".

But, somehow we did-
finally closed our sweaty eyelids
and dreamt of snowmen
and new Barbies
and Dr. Pepper on ice.

Things I've Learned

2010-07-08T07:11:00.008-05:00

I've been away from my regular routine
for over a month now.

The daily monotony of
get out of bed,
make coffee,
write,
read,
and eat-
has been replaced with the odd
pleasure of unscheduled moments.

I believe that everyone needs time away-
that small step back-
that gasp of fresh air-
that soft shedding of their familiar cocoon.

In a simple month I have learned:

1. That I don't miss the daily news-
prime time TV, or nightly talk shows.

2. That even in 98 degree weather,
you can put on a roof and paint a house.

3. That fresh cold water is the best drink ever.

4. That wet paint brushes will keep useful
for weeks if wrapped in zip-loc bags.

5. That I can use a table saw.

6. That red wasps will seek revenge
if you disturb their nests.

7. That there is a special beauty in
blue-tailed lizards, dung beetles,
pear trees and wild mint.

8. That air-conditioning was the invention
of a genius.

9. That I look like an old Hungarian woman
when I wear a bandanna.

10. That a bologna sandwich tastes
absolutely delicious after a hard day of work.

11. That silence is a special kind of music.

12. That my husband and I share the same dreams.

13. That time is short,
days fly by,
and years pass unknowingly.

14. That clearing your mind
is medicine for the heart.

15. That seed ticks, bees and spiders
adore the flavor of my skin.

16. That God is present in the pine trees,
the flow of the river, the song of a whippoorwill
and the glow of the moon.

17. That I miss my sisters more than I thought I would.

18. That I want to practice my artwork again.

19. That even though he yells because I
measured wrong, fetched the incorrect tool,
or mashed his finger accidentally-
my husband still loves me.

20. That I was forgetting the purpose of my blog
was to write what I felt from the heart- not to be part of
a popularity contest, a competition or a daily struggle.

I'm not back in my old, comfortable desk chair yet.
I'm still learning to enjoy these cool summer mornings
and parched sunsets.
My husbands laugh.
The hum of bees and the stir of clouds.

And the steady, unpredictable beat of time
that renews my appreciation for life.

**************************************
This is a July 4th picture at the cabin
of my children-
their children,
their mates
and their pets.
I love these people!!!

Summer Peaks

2010-06-30T07:12:00.003-05:00

I have been so busy
that I have ignored time's passing.

But last night the farmer cut the hay
in the field behind our house-
and time rushed over me
like a heavy shadow.

All of a sudden I saw
him cutting away the summer-
chopping it off before I could enjoy it-
rolling it up in a neat display of lost days-
ready to be stored away in only memory.

I breathed deep-
hoping I could smell summer-
hold it in my lungs
and let it penetrate my soul...
Let it dance in my heart
a while longer...
Let it live in me
like a beacon of sunlight...

And I beg to please let summer
give me another chance to embrace it.

The grass curls crispy beneath my feet-
Sunsets melt into pastel watercolors.
The garden grows weary.

My days fly
like a kite that has no string-
like a butterfly
I cannot capture.
Like a song whose tune
fades with every moment.

Forgive me.

A New Look

2010-06-29T10:32:00.001-05:00

Trying out a new look!
The comment bar is at the top under the blog post title.
Please visit and leave a comment!
And check one of the reaction boxes, too.
Thanks for coming by!

Our Independence Day Theater

2010-06-29T06:01:00.004-05:00

About this time of year,
my brothers would mount up the riding lawnmowers,
rev up the weed eaters
and push their spinning blades
through the overgrown thicket
behind my parent's house.

What began as stickers and stubbles-
bushes and brambles
and unruly vines gone wild-
soon transformed
into a well groomed outdoor theater.

And the featured show
was the Forth of July fireworks.

The celebration was less than a mile away-
across the field and over the runway
at the little local airport.

It was a family gathering.
Bigger than Labor Day
and almost as exciting as Christmas.

Our large family would begin
their migration slowly-
a few couples lugging lawn chairs and suntan lotion
through the sagging barbed wire
onto the freshly landscaped arena.

Others followed-
with bug spray,
blankets,
babies-
and bubbling excitement.

A trail of popcorn
or impatient sparklers
always led the way for friends
and strangers who had been invited
to share the family festivities.

Like spectators in an opera house,
we gathered in our seats-
anxious for the sky to grow dark
and the show to begin.

The first pop of a firecracker
sent giddy waves of giggles
from the little kids-
and smiles of anticipation
from grownups.

Ooohs and Ahhhs began immediately-
as giant flowers of light
burst in the summer sky
with trails of glitter and gleam.

Explosions of blue and red and green
created stars in the heavens
as we all tilted our heads back
and opened our mouths
to voice our evident approval.

The show was never long enough.

When the last pop finally faded,
we felt cheated-
swore they were shorter than last year,
and then gathered our gear for
a dark walk back to the house.

Then we visited over leftover hot dogs
and potato salad,
never really saying it-
but knowing that we were a lucky family.
That God had blessed us with wonderful parents
and special siblings
and memories that would last forever.

Mom and Dad are gone now.
Strangers live in the house
where I grew up.
Vines twist over the fence
and honeysuckle chokes out the view
of our old Independence Day theater.

But this weekend,
the first snap of a firecracker
will bring it all rushing back-
with an unpleasant tug of time
and pure childish joy.

Checking In

2010-06-28T07:36:00.009-05:00

I think I've forgotten how to type.

No- wait.
I never did know how to type.
All I do know is- these two fingers sure have
been away from the keyboard
way too long.

More than writing,
I have missed reading.
You bloggy friends have been
the unending source of inspiration,
friendship, communication
and entertainment.
I can't wait to have the time again
to visit you all individually
and leave comments.

But, my husband is still off work
and we have been like DIY'ers on steroids.
Hallelujah!
I think- I hope- the cabin is about done.

I have never been so hot and tired
in my entire life.
I just can't wait to sit back and enjoy
the fruits of our labor.

I hope to be back in blogging mode
within a week or two...
Hope these hammer wielding fingers
will know right where to pick up
where I left off.

Click on these before and after pics
to see what I've been up to.
My husband and I did this all ourselves.

And I think we make a pretty good team,
don't you?

A Year

2010-06-23T05:03:00.000-05:00

The world misses you, Bob.

Short Hello

2010-06-14T19:28:00.000-05:00

Just taking a few minutes
to say hi and let you know
how much I miss all of you.

We bought back the little cabin
that we sold ten years ago.
Great story,
but gotta save it for later.

Needless to say,
there is no internet-
no cell sevice-
and we spent last week without a bit of TV !!!
Kinda felt good.

Fixin the place up-
hadn't been cleaned in ten years.
I'll post some before and after pics
next week.

Got spider? Tick? bug? bit:

But the doc says I'm gonna live!

I miss reading all my favorite blogs
and commenting to my good friends.

I promise I'll be back real soon.

With just a little more hillbilly in me...:)

It's Ours!

2010-06-08T15:40:00.000-05:00

Life's Laundry

2010-06-06T13:05:00.000-05:00

In case you aren't aware-
this is National Clothesline Week.

That means: Shut down the
ol' Kenmore,
grab a basket of wet laundry-
and head outside
for some good old-fashioned
sun-dried garment therapy.

Some of the best times I spent with my Mom
was while she hung clothes on the wire line
that Dad had strung between a heavy post
and a maple tree.

We would sit in the cool clover
and watch as Mom pulled wet shirts
from the frayed wicker basket
and slapped them into the air-
grabbing the clean, cotton corners
with wooden clothespins
and suspending them
like wispy dancers
in the summer breeze.

Her gingham bag of pins
bulged like an expectant belly at first,
then slowly deflated
as the army of bluejeans
and sock soldiers lined up
against the blue cloudless sky.

There was something quite soothing,
even as a child,
to see once soiled clothes
renewed with fresh air
and fluttering with a sweet soapy scent.

Later, when the blue jeans became stiff
and the shirts grew tired from their
fight against the honeysuckle breezes,
we helped Mom pluck them from their
temporary restraints
and fold them loosely
into a clean basket.

There were days when we rushed out
to save the laundry from unforeseen raindrops
and unexpected storms-
haphazardly ripping dresses and white sheets
from the grip of wet clothespins-
tossing them carelessly into a bundle
to save them from a cloudburst.

When there were no clothes flapping from the line,
it was a perfect place for pitching a tent-
pulling an old woolen army blanket taught over the wire
and securing the four corners tightly.
We snuck in the shed and borrowed Dad's good hammer
and drove clothespins into the dry earth-
our substitute for a poor man's tent stakes.

There we were agin-
amid the cool clover-grass, now wet with evening dew.
We laid on our bellies in our makeshift pup tent,
watching as the fireflies gathered in the field
and the moon smiled on our special little world.

Even now, when I slip between sweet smelling sheets,
I think of my Mom.

And I can still see her silhouette amid the green grass,
her blue dress dancing in the wind
and her hair kissed by warm sunshine-
as she adorns the clothesline
with garments of our life...

Wishes

2010-05-30T00:32:00.000-05:00

It's midnight.

That means today is my birthday.

Everyone else in the house is asleep.
But I am awake...
wondering what this new chapter in my life
will bring.

I have no candles or cake right now,
but here are my wishes:

I wish to lose weight, be healthier,
have more energy.

I wish to pursue my art hobbies further.

I wish to prioritize my time better.

I wish to write a book.

I wish to get closer to God.

I wish to get a good hairstyle, a great purse,
and a real tan.

I wish to learn to listen more and talk less.

I wish to get my closets cleaned, my drawers organized,
and my laundry put away.

I wish to listen to more music or read books-
and watch less TV.

It's strange.
And sad.
Today I turn 54.
But inside I still feel 19.

**************************************************

I may not be posting regularly for a few weeks.
My husband has some time off and
we will be spending it doing gardening and
yard work and household fix me ups.

We also bought back our cabin in the woods
of Missouri that we sold ten years ago.
So we will be spending a few days there.
I'm excited to get it cleaned and decorated...
And sit on the screened-in porch
and watch the world go by...
real slow.

I have a blessed life.
And I thank God for another wonderful birthday.

Keep in touch.
I'll be back regularly real soon.

Life After Facebook

2010-05-28T05:52:00.000-05:00

Since kicking Facebook to the curb,
I've actually gotten a bit
of housework done.
I even surprised myself by
turning the computer completely OFF,
and not just letting it sit in sleep mode-
ready to ambush me every time I passed.

I found a spot for my old chart.

The desk was one I picked up for $40
a few years ago.
My husband says its a piece of junk-but I love it.
Here's a better view:

And the wonderful Charlie doll is
a birthday gift from my daughter Erin.
I know it's kinda creepy,
but I've wanted one for quite a while now.
As you can see in the first picture,
I even pinned his arm to the wall
so he would look like he was waving.

(So, I'm weird - sue me.)

I also found a place for the giant clothespin
that I picked up for a quarter

at last weeks yard sales.
I Velcro-ed it to my laundry room door.

Then I decided to use my picnic carrier-
(one that holds paper plates, napkins,
utensils or mustard and ketchup)
to corral all the remote controls-
...and stuff.

I found this mirror last Saturday, too.
$2.50.
I distressed it a bit and put
a wall pocket full of fun flowers
beneath it.

Then I needed something
to tie back the curtains to let the
sun shine in.
I got an old necklace from
my costume pile
and used it:

I found this cute little bunny bowl
at Goodwill for 50 cents.
I smile whenever I see it
holding my stash of granola bars.
(I hide the chocolate bars!)

Last, but not least.
Don't spend money on expensive
wall word graphics-
(If you like that sorta thing...)
I printed mine out from the computer.
applied it with carbon paper,
and filled it in with a paint pen.
The three words say it all!
(I don't know why that wall looks
likes it's drooping!)

Anyway...
Have a fun and safe Memorial Day weekend!
I know I will.
It's my birthday!

"I'm gonna party like it my birthday-
Gonna sip Bacardi like it's my birthday..."
Woo-Hoo!!!!!!

Lawnmower Music

2010-05-27T07:00:00.002-05:00

I look like an ordinary housewife
when I'm mowing the lawn.

Certainly no one would ever mistake me
for anything Orange County,
or Desperate,
and rarely even Stepford.

As I putter along on my trusty rider,
my tee shirt is a little stained,
my jeans a little tight,
my inappropriate flip flops
are firm against the pedals.

It's times like these that I realize
I really do wish I had a pedicure,
a layer of sunscreen,
better posture,
and prettier hair.

I keep imagining the people passing by saying,
"Look at that old lady mowing the yard.
Is that a pizza stain on her shirt?"
Or:
"Her yard looks really nice and neat. It's a shame
I can't say the same about her hair."
And:
"Don't those little lawn mowers have load limits?"

But, you know-
I really don't care what they think.

Because when the wind rushes through my hair,
the sun hits my face,
and I power up my MP3-
I. Am. A.
rock star!

I crank that baby up loud enough
to be heard above an atomic blast!

I let its smooth music flow
into my ears like healing honey.

I envelop myself in a vibrating world
of notes and lyrics and vocals
that raise my senses to elevated glory.

I rock. I tap.
I weep. I laugh.
I hum. I sing.
I dream. I dare.

For two solid hours,
I endulge in my own private concert.
The music is mine.
The beat is my own heart.
My soul yearns to live in
such complete rhythms.

Most people have their favorites
to listen to at the gym.
Or while jogging.
Or,( heaven forbid this body), running.

But, I have Lawnmower Music.

Take a listen, if you will.
(I am trying to post the mix tape
at the bottom of my page,
but Blogger is being bull-headed
again this morning.
So- it may or may not be there)!

For sweet moments of the day-
I. Am. A.
rock star!
Then, I put away the music-
put away my lawnmower-
and turn into an ordinary housewife again...

Crunch On!

2010-05-26T06:11:00.000-05:00

When my sister Linda and I
were growing up,
we didn't crave treats of ice cream
or pizza- or even candy.
Our idea of a special treat was
pickles!

It really didn't matter what brand they were-
as long as they were crunchy and sour.

Our whole family has this thing about sour stuff.
We like pickled eggs, green gooseberries, salted lemons-
and even bologna in vinegar.
And by the looks of it,
it's been passed down through the generations.

I can't remember the last time I ate a pickle,
but I've got at least three kinds in my fridge
for the grand kids.

One hot summer, Linda and I walked all the way to town.
It was probably 4 or 5 miles, but we were young and thin
back then-
(and not bothered by achy backs,
sore muscles,
and chaffing thighs.)

Our goal on that particular day
was to go to Kroger
to buy a jar of pickles.

We must have discussed it in great length.
Because we knew we wanted the
little midget kosher dills
that were no bigger than our pinkie fingers.

Oh! We were so excited as
we purchased our prized pickles
and retreated to the curb
to partake in their sour satisfaction!

But, all of a sudden,
we dropped the jar.

There lay our baby pickles,
in a pool of brine and vinegar,
on a dirty public sidewalk-
amid chunks of glass.

Did we cry?
Did we run home mad?
Did we have enough money for another jar?
No. No.And no.

We sat down and ate them!

(I have got to wonder now
if we might have been
a little retarded back then.)

I guess we aren't the only people
who enjoy a good pickle.
According to Pickle Packers International,
Americans buy pickles every 53 days.

And pickles have a special holiday, too.

International Pickle Week is one of
the country's longest running food promotions.
It's been observed for more than 50 years,
and actually runs for 10 days-
during the last two weeks of May.

I thought I was pretty familiar with the pickle.
But here are some facts that I did not know:

Good pickles have an audible crunch at 10 paces. This can be measured at "crunch-off" using the "scientific" device known as the Audible Crunch Meter. Pickles that can be heard at only one pace are known as denture dills.

North Americans prefer pickles with warts. Europeans prefer wartless pickles. Refrigerated pickles account for about 20 percent of all pickle sales.

During WWII the U.S. Government tagged 40 percent of all pickle production for the ration kits of the armed forces.

More than 67 percent of all households eat pickles.

Americans consume more than 9 pounds of pickles per person annually.

Pickles are fat free and low in calories. An average-size dill contains only 15 calories.

Maybe Linda and I should have stuck with pickles.
Our choice of treats nowadays aren't sour at all.
They consist of rich, sweet indulgent desserts
that stick to our thighs like humongous sucky leeches.

But, I still believe in pickle power.

Take time to enjoy a cute little cuke.
Celebrate International Pickle Week-
going on now...
(and try not to drop the jar!)

Crunch On!

BFF...Bye, my Facebook Friend

2010-05-25T06:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Facebook,

It is with a twinge of sadness that I write today. Yet, you and I both know this was coming. I guess I might as well just come out and say it. 

It's over. We can't see each other anymore.

I remember the days before I met you. I was a productive citizen. My fridge was clean. I showered every morning. I enjoyed the outdoors.

Then I met you. You were young and attractive and always exciting. I never knew from day to day what to expect. You kept me coming back for more and I was hooked. 

You brought me hidden gifts, jewels, special videos and favorite songs. You shared photos and invitations and thought-provoking quotes. You opened doors to new friends, exotic places and great people. It was fun to experiment and watch our relationship bloom.

I felt badly at first. I didn't know how to love you back. My posts were immature and generic. My photos, unorganized and blurry. I embraced all your friends without hesitation and began to crave your total attention.

I would seek you out every morning before my shower. And sometimes -still be gazing at you when noon came. I let the dishes go, the laundry pile up, the seasons pass without an utter thought to their beauty.

It was like going to the mailbox every ten minutes -all day long-to see if I had gotten a letter.

Most times you didn't disappoint me. There was usually some notice- a message- a communication.

But, other times- there was nothing. You were silent and cold and indifferent to my needs.

By early spring, I began to question my obsession with you. You began to bore me, ignore me, cause me sleeplessness. You would occasionally malfunction, repeat yourself, and seldom changed things up.

I was tired of your Farm and your pretty bouquets and gifts of lost kitties. I hated that you had turned me into a stalker- a pitiful, pajama-clad woman with no clue. I resented the fact that you smothered me- kept stringing me on- but, yet, insisted that we were  "just friends".

I just can't live this way any longer. 

I know I'll miss the social parties, the life-changing announcements, the funny photos and the profound and theoretical things you shared with me.

But, believe it or not, I have another life. One that doesn't include you. 

It's a life of clean carpets and hot meals and no bath tub rings. It's an afternoon of fresh air, laughing with my family, reading a book, and daily prayers. It's a life of reality. Of purpose. Of knowing that you do not have to be the nucleus of my world.

It's been a whirlwind relationship- reckless and impulsive. But, I learned a lot. I grew. I developed a better understanding of my own strengths and expectations.

For a while. 

But because of you, I've become weak. Lackadaisical. Dependent and undependable. 

I've changed.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I enjoyed it while it lasted, but it's time to move on. I'm sure you will find lots of other friends to feed your ego. I'm almost positive that you really won't even miss me. 

Thank you for introducing me to your world. I will never forget you. 

But,this is goodbye, my friend. Other worlds await me.

Love,

Rae

FW: car inventory (fwd)
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