Taking Back Christmas

I've always had a hard time with national holidays, and especially Christmas. I just don't like the feeling that we're all doing the same thing at the same time. It diffuses the day for me. I have tried, over time, to take measures to avoid the things that set me off. If I'm really good I plan my grocery shopping in advance and go at an odd time so I'm not faced with a packed store and no turkeys! Gift shopping in advance helps a lot, too. For such a great holiday it seems counterproductive to be under so much stress. The day itself can never live up to the expectation. I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said many times before by many people, including Charlie Brown. Christmas has gone commercial.

This year I gave our usual guests notice that Christmas would not be at our house this year. If they want to exchange gifts, we may do that at some unnamed date in the distant future. I've discussed with my family what they really want to do, since all these years we've done what we thought we were supposed to do. My kids are probably a lot like most in that they have more fun playing with the boxes the toys come in than the toys. Yup. Our big, grandiose, prefabricated Christmas plans will include: baking cookies, staying in our p.j.s, and make-ahead meals. They told us they don't like the stress of presents and the outlay of cash (in their own way, of course) and asked for the tree not to be bumped up against the ceiling with presents. Apparently, no matter how we try to smile at the thought of the impending Visa bill, the kids are on to us. They asked for no guests so they could spend more time with us and less "going places" requiring baths and perfect behavior. They want Mommy out of the kitchen and on the couch watching Ratatouille with them. Wow. Count me in. I think my heart just grew 2 sizes.

Old-Timer's Disease

The best way I can update the situation with my Dad and Alzheimer's is to share a phone conversation my daughter just had with him. This was a few days after spending a week together over Thanksgiving.

(ring ring)

Bumpa: Hello?

Coco: Hi, Bumpa! This is Coco!

Bumpa: What? Who? You have the wrong number. (click)

(ring ring)

Bumpa: Hello?

Coco: Bumpa! It's me, Coco! (then states her full name)

Bumpa: (long pause) Who? You have the wrong... (Coco interrupts)

Coco: Can I speak to Grandma?

Bumpa: Grandma? (long pause)

Coco: Is Mary there? (using Grandma's name)

Bumpa: Oh! No, she's at the store. Do you want to leave your name and I'll have her call you back?

Turkey Day

My parents are in town for Thanksgiving. I'm taking it day by day. I've already melted down once, but I'm sure I am not "done" yet. It's not them, it's everything. My Dad is this little old man. I have a clear memory of him running down the hill at our lake place, sprinting over the dock and diving into the water, coming up and floating me around on his chest while he did the backstroke. Now he does this slow waltz to move across a room: cane-foot-foot, cane-foot-foot. My kids started coughing the night before my Folks arrived but there was no talking them out of coming; damn the consequences! Well, the kids have RSV. "Has anyone at your house had pneumonia?" the doctor asked. Um, yeah, my 80-year-old Dad. My Mom seems happy to be here, she hasn't cried once that I know of! She cracks me up. She is the real-world Debbie Downer. She can take any conversation and just take the life right out of it. They told us they were bored. What they could do with two bad knees, two bad hips, a bad heart and numerous other ailments I have no idea, but we came up with what I thought was a lovely outing, easy on the joints and family-friendly. The town where I live has an old-fashioned downtown area that is seriously cute. In fact, if legend serves, it was the model for Disneyland's MainStreet USA. We've just had our first snowfall and the City has every tree on main street decorated (low wattage, high efficiency bulbs, natch). It's really pretty and festive and just my parent's thing. After dinner we bundled up and got in our "sleigh" and set off in the frosty night. My husband tuned in the radio to the all-Christmas-music station and the mood was set. "And now we hope you enjoy the mellow sound of Bing Crosby's White Christmas." We were all singing along and having a grand time when my Mom said, "I remember when Bing's kids wrote that terrible book about how he used to beat them. I've never heard his voice the same way."

Happy Turkey Day!

Halloween and the Perfect Woman

After that nasty incident last summer in which I fed peanut butter cookies to Type A+'s allergic daughter, I felt guilty for my "Perfect Woman" postings. I'm over that now and ready to continue singing her praises once more! How does my Perfect Woman celebrate Halloween? First, her yard is sprinkled with a perfect circle of fallen leaves. In the center are two reclaimed antique chairs that she has sanded and repainted to look really old and worn. In one of the chairs is a life sized scarecrow. He's a friendly guy, and not one bit scary. He's just flopping there in his chair, hay peeking perfectly from his OshKosh overalls. You ring the doorbell and have just shouted your "Trick-or-treat" when you are invited in, you must be cold. In you go and you are escorted to the crackling fire and given a mug of steamy hot chocolate. Maybe that isn't how she greeted every group of kids, but that's how she treated my daughter. Nice, huh? I know, she's a trip and a half. At my house I was the neighborhood grinch who didn't buy enough candy. "Just take one!" I'd say and slap their little hands out of the bowl. Okay, not really, but I did run so low on treats that I turned off the lights and made like no one was home at 8 o'clock!

More Bumpa

Everytime I speak to my Mom, she cries. She used to say she had to hang up because she would cry if we talked, but now I insist she stay on the phone, tears or no tears. My entire life I think I saw my Mother cry maybe three times. She didn't pretend not to be sad, she simply did not cry. Now she cries each time we speak, sometimes three calls in a day. Today the topics were: insurance, diabetes and Depends. Which one of those brings a smile to any face? My siblings sort of dance around when they talk to Mom, but she and I have gotten so deeply involved the past six months or so, it's like nothing for a conversation to begin, "When I die I want you to..." It isn't fun, but it takes the power out of it, I think.

I'm working on Dad's Boy Scout award. I can't remember if I've written about that already, so I'll recap: In the late 1940s, Dad was an Eagle Scout on his way to earning the Bronze Palm. He was two badges short when he went to Germany with the Army and he never made them up. The badges were for Journalism and Printing, two things that became my Dad's profession for several decades. I've tapped the Boy Scouts to help but have gotten very little response. Now, I've actually asked for Oprah's help. She seems like someone who can get something done. I don't want a lot of hoopla and trust me, neither does my Dad. I just want him to get the award while it still matters. Alzheimer's is such a weird illness. Dad has talked of nothing but the Boy Scouts for three weeks. He sings a marching song to my Mom every night at bedtime. He knows the names of his Scoutmaster and the other Scouts he earned Eagle with. But, can he remember why he went up the stairs? Nope.

Bumpa

My Dad, "Bumpa" age 80, has quite suddenly (over the past couple of months) assumed most of the calling cards of Alzheimer's. He has been diagnosed and placed on Aricept, but his behavior has really snowballed lately. It began with pneumonia. He was in the hospital for a few days and then home recovering. He was ill and weak from pneumonia, but didn't get completely better, ever. My Mom would wake up in the middle of the night to find him out of bed. Once she found him outside in the alley in back of their house. He does a thing called "sundowning" which I am learning means his symptoms get worse in the evening. He quite often gets his days and nights mixed up, like babies sometimes do. Mom and Dad like to grocery shop almost every day. It's an outing for them and they go to pick up fresh fruit or milk or whatever. Mom tells me they can't get out of the store for under $100 because Dad fills the cart with anything that catches his eye. If Mom objects, he gets really angry at her at the store. Last week he bought $70 of tulip bulbs, which is a lovely thought, but they'll never get into the ground. Normally when any of the "kids" calls Mom and Dad, we talk primarily to Mom. Dad has always been a man of very few words and not outwardly demonstrative emotionally. Now he asks for the phone and tells us each of his love for us, which is nice, but if you're accustomed to a certain behavior from your Dad and he suddenly turns into someone else, it's very unnerving. Today my brother relayed that Dad told him "a guy drove his car down the alley and threw a rock through the kitchen window so I put up a big, tall fence in back". This is true, only it happened 30 years ago.

"Children's" books

I'm getting really good at changing the words in the things presented to my children. In the "Foo Foo Rabbit" song, he merely gets "Bonked on the head" and not "Shot dead". And, what about the "I'll Love You Forever" book? The one where the Mommy rocks her baby boy and sings to him about loving him forever? Then the boy grows up and the old lady Mommy drives to his house in the middle of the night and climbs through his window to sing him the song? Eek! And finally the son holds his very elderly mother in his arms and sings to her? Wow. That one is hard to alter, and harder to explain to a traumatized child. Tonight I was reading "The Rainbow Fish", which is a preschool lesson in communism. What does it teach? That to have anything extra or special will render you friendless and the only way to be happy (and have friends) is to give away everything you have that makes you special. Who is writing this stuff?

forgive and forget

I have a lot of good and even wonderful things going on in my life, but the stuff that sucks really sucks at the moment. I have figured something out that has brought me a lot of peace. I have parents who are aging and aged. They are officially elderly. In their elder years they are sweet and funny and unfortunately in terrible health. In their younger years they weren't always so sweet and, in fact left their kids with some unfortunate memories, like most families experience. I'm not a greatly religious person, but I follow most things that nice people find to be good, like honoring my parents. I haven't always been happy with them. They each have made me crazy angry on occasion (and vice-versa, naturally). But, now, when they are really vulnerable and certainly not going to be with us much longer, I've decided to start over and accept them as they are today, forgiving all the stuff that happened before. You may disagree, my siblings sure do, but it is working for me.

Ben Franklin for President

I love Ben Franklin. As founding fathers go, he was one of the best. The man was a do-it-all kind of guy. He was a diplomat, inventor, author, scientist, and he loved beer. BUT! (a big but) Benjamin Franklin was never, no never a U.S. President! Really, go look it up if you don't believe me.

peanut allergy

I've just had such a bad experience. Worse, I caused a small child and her parents to have a terrible experience. Remember I have friends who are "perfect women"? We went to a July 4th BBQ at PW's house yesterday. It was such a sweet, traditional but with the flair only PW could provide backyard party. The conestoga wagon used for the Christmas party was now holding our potluck dishes. I agreed to bring a large container filled with ice and drinks, but I didn't feel that was enough, so the day of the party I whipped up some cookies, knowing there would be a lot of children at the party. We had been there about 20 minutes when my daughter came to me and said that PW's daughter ate one of my cookies and was sick in the bathroom. My daughter followed up with, "Mom, she has a peanut allergy!" I ran into the house to find PW in the bathroom with her daughter, her husband on the phone to 911 and the grandparents hovering around discussing the contingency plans. The daughter ate a cookie, started having problems (Anaphylaxis) and tried to hide until her friends got help. Her parents gave her some benadryl and an epi shot and we watched her to see if we needed an ambulance. Once the initial panic was over, PW and I sat down and cried. I still can't believe I brought toxic cookies to her house. I knew her daughter was lactose intolerant, but I didn't know about peanuts. Still, I should have checked in with PW. I was just working on auto-pilot, just making some cookies. PW said she was surprised that I was the one to do that, because my family has so many health issues (true). That was it for me, I couldn't stop crying and when the house cleared, my family and I made an exit from the party. We went out to dinner and I cried through the whole thing. PW called and asked me to come back, but I told her we were finished for the night. This morning I called and apologized again and spoke with PW's daughter who is fine and was very sweet. They've invited us over for left-overs tonight, which I think is really nice of them. I hope the grandparents aren't there because I honestly think they wanted to murder me.

Fun With Fireworks

This is a re-post of an entry I made last year at this time. I had the pleasure of meeting some new friends who read this blog who asked me to transfer some of my older posts into this new, secret blog. And, by the way, so far I am incognito in cyberspace. No word that any family or acquaintances have recognized themselves in these postings.

I have two children who are afraid of fireworks. They hate the noise, they hate how unpredictable fireworks are, it's all just too much. Because of this we don't go to fireworks displays or set any off at our house. Last year I decided to ease them into the whole July Fourth scene. I picked up a pack of sparklers and a few whizzy, spinny things that make sparks on the ground. You remember sparklers? You hold them in your hand and write your name in the air. They sparkle and are pretty and last all of 15 seconds? Glorious childhood memories were conjured up when I bought that pack. Fast forward to last summer. I gathered everybody on the steps by the driveway. I had wet the grass with the hose, nice and safe, don't want any freak accidents. It was still early so it wasn't dark and scary. I used my best "Mommy-is-the-island-of-safety" voice and it went something like this:

Okay, we're going to start with this cute little flower basket one. Let's see, it says it emits a shower of sparks. Oooh! That sounds pretty. Here we go! (lights the flower basket which goes crazy with sparks and loud, high pitched whistles which scares the bejesus out of me and I FALL DOWN trying to get away from the thing. This is all caught on tape, of course) Kids scoot up a few steps. I get up, apologize for the bad words I've yelled and pull out the next demon firework. It's a little race car! My son loves cars!

Look, Honey! This one is a car! Now, it's going to shower sparks and make noises like the other one, okay? (okay) Ready? (ready) (lights the race car which does indeed go crazy with sparks and whistles but has the added bonus of ROLLING STRAIGHT TOWARD THE STEPS!)
Run! Run!

Kids are all on top of their Dad who is looking quite amused by this time.

Alright, that was a little scary. I'm really sorry about that. Look, all we have now are sparklers! I only bought the kind that you look at and don't hold in your hand. Maybe next year we can get the kind you hold. These I will put into the ground and we can stand back and watch them. Okay? (okay)

(lights the sparklers, which do indeed begin sparkling and shooting big chunks of burning embers into the air, one of which goes into the sleeve of my tee-shirt.) I'M ON FIRE! HELP! HELP! (jumping and flapping)

Kids and Dad are in the house, watching out the window. Show's over.

Have a Happy July 4th everybody and remember: stop, drop and roll.

Mable's Baby Story

So, here's a little birth story. It happened three years ago and I still have little panic episodes. Warning: for those of you who may be pregnant, this is probably one of those stories you don't need to hear. Let me start by stating the fault lies with many people, including me. I look back and see things I could have/should have done differently, but the fact of abandonment by my medical team is undeniable. I was due with my 4th baby. I love babies. I love being pregnant, I have honestly enjoyed labor and delivery drug-free each birth. No, I'm not a pioneer woman or earth muffin. I always told my husband and doctors/nurses "If I feel I need it, give it to me". I just never got to the point of asking for meds, I just handled it like they taught me in Lamaze and tried to stay calm. Anyway, I start having interesting contractions one day and some bloody show (sorry to the men and/or queasy readers - this is your last chance to exit this blog....) but, hey, I've been through this three times, it's gonna take a lot to get me to the doctor. I experienced false labor with every pregnancy and those middle-of-the-night trips to the hospital only to be sent home still pregnant are no fun. Well, the contractions keep coming and are getting regular so I decide to sleep and go to the doctor the next morning. Note: I went to a clinic with 3 doctors, A B & C. Dr. B I loathe with the fire of a thousand suns and refuse to let him near me after a really bad moment during my second labor when he called the hospital from hi s house and told them to tell me not to push, he'd mosey over when he finished dinner. I was at 10cm. Dr. C is okay, but Dr. A is my hero. He has really taken care of me over the years, he knows all of my ins and outs, literally. (sorry, couldn't resist) He and I have an agreement that he will deliver this baby no matter what, whether he is on-call or not. He even changed his vacation to accommodate my due date. At the clinic, good old Dr. A examines me, but is not impressed. He tells me to go home, but if anything happens to call and go to the hospital. After I hang out at home for a while, I'm feeling pretty much like having a baby so I call the clinic. The receptionist tells me Dr. A has gone for the day and no, she won't page him, he isn't on-call. "But we have an agreement!" I say. She says, "Sorry, if I don't have his written orders, I am not to call him. You'll have to go to the hospital and see the Dr. on-call". In the hospital I am hooked to a monitor which also isn't showing anything very impressive and the nurse tells me Dr. B will be in soon to do an internal exam (nurse already did one, I am starting to dilate). Remember, I hate Dr. B's guts. After an hour Dr. B still hasn't moseyed in to check me so I pull the monitor off my tummy and say I'm going home. The nurse checks in with Dr. B who orders her to give me 2 Ambien and send me home. Mind you, I am a lightweight with all meds/alcohol/whathaveyou. I once took 1/2 an Ambien and it was, "Bye bye, Mable. See you next Thursday". So, off I go to labor at home. I think I've mentioned that I've done this a few times so I'm thinking, the best way to hurry up a baby is movement! We played badminton with our three other kids in the backyard. Now my neighbors tell me it was a really scary sight seeing this hugely pregnant woman running around. I would pause for each contraction and go on playing. When it got dark we went inside and I continued the reading aloud of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Again: read a little, have a contraction, read a little, and so on. At bedtime I dutifully took my Ambien (only one though, I 'm not a complete fool) and we all go to sleep. My eldest daughter is worried about me so she camps out on the floor in our room. At about 3am I wake up suddenly, having to use the toilet. I clamber out of the bed and go into the bathroom when I realize I don't have to go potty, I'm about to have a baby. Apparently I've slept through transition! I call my sweet husband who comes in saying, "Oh no, oh no, you can't have the baby here!" He said I had the look of a wild animal in my eyes as I sought a place to deliver. Fortunately we had been in full nesting mode and a huge pile of clean, folded towels was at the ready. He threw them all over the bathroom floor so I would have a semi-sanitary place to deliver. Like all my babies, a couple of pushes was all it took. I had been reading a fabulous book on Midwifery to prepare for this birth and the knowledge I gained was a saving grace. I remembered not to push too hard, but to pant and let the baby exit easily. I still tore, but oh well. By this time my husband had 911 on the line. They were instructing him to tie off the cord. He told them he didn't have anything to use and then he remembered his brand new pack of shoelaces! After the cord stopped pulsing, he tied a lace around it as instructed. The baby was born and didn't make a sound. She was really warm, of course, but her eyes weren't open and she wasn't moving. They kept telling us we had to get her to breathe. My husband put his face against hers and she wasn't inhaling. We had her laying on my chest/tummy and we began rubbing her back vigorously, back and forth and finally she gave a huge cough and blew out all the stuff that was blocking her mouth and nose. At his point the paramedics arrived and loaded us onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. I delivered the placenta on the way to the hospital. One thing I forgot to mention was that the hospital I planned to deliver in, the one in which I'd been checked that day, was in another town. The ambulance took me to the hospital in the town where I live, which didn't know who I was. After checking in, baby to NICU, stitches, etc. Social Services came to see the homeless lady who had the baby on her bathroom floor! They thought I had no doctor! Oh, and my husband wasn't yet at the hospital because he was at home cleaning up the bathroom and waiting for the sitter to get there. When we finally got the story straight, the new hospital was in shock about what had happened. They called my doctor's office and told them they had his patient. Do you know, my own doctor, my beloved Dr A NEVER CALLED ME? Not one word, no "how is the baby", no flowers, no check-up, no "how are you doing". Nothing. The baby went to the NICU and stayed for a week. She was healthy, but had a hard time breathing room air. Her little face was obscured with tape and tubes, it was an unbelievably difficult time. She wasn't able to breastfeed with her tubes so I pumped and tried to bottle feed her. When we brought her home she was still on oxygen, but soon that wasn't needed. Today she is a fabulous, healthy girl about to have her 3rd birthday. I will never move from this house. In my bathroom I've hung a print by Gustav Klimt of a detail of a painting depicting a mother holding her baby. I think they kind of look like us.

Mohawk Boy

We're on our big trip and have covered a couple of states and over 1000 miles so far. We're in Montana, land that I love. Well, I love Bozeman where I went to college and lived for a while. We were there for the Sweet Pea Festival of Art. It's three days of fun each summer. I got to see lots of friends and sorority sisters, it was marvelous. From there we traveled on to Kalispell which is in the NW corner of MT, almost at the US border. It is so beautiful up there, you can't believe it. Flathead Lake is so big and amazing. I love the place. Now, you may have heard the story about Kalispell and the alligator? Yikes. The place is a little behind, but don't tell the people who live there. They have their dial-up and that's just good enough. I know, I'm from there, so I think the people are funny and quirky and NOT AT ALL like Deliverance. Plus, the people up there have this funny accent. For example, they pronounce Sunday like sun-dee. Sundee, Mondee, Tuesdee. But again, don't tell them. In Kalispell we spent some time with my folks who I've mentioned in blogs past. Speaking of quirky..... Well, my parents are an acquired taste, but good people. Quirky. My daughter asked about the first time I brought my then boyfriend (her Dad) home to meet them. I told her the tale of bringing him inside, making the introductions and running out in tears. Well, he loved them and me and here we are.

Then my daughter said: Okay, so you brought home Dad and the Mohawk Guy, anybody else?

Husband: ummm.... the Mohawk Guy? (See he knew about Mohawk Boy, but didn't know that he had ever been to my hometown with me. We don't talk about Mohawk Boy. We were having a rough patch in our relationship, say no more.)

Now I'm pointing out cute houses and trying to steer the conversation away from old bad boys and my daughter is laughing and peeing her pants in the back seat over the crisis going on in the front. It was good to see him get so riled up over Mohawk Boy. In fact, I think every marriage needs a good dose of Mohawk Boy just to liven things up.

The Perfect Woman

Do you have a perfect woman in your life? You may be one and not even know it! You know who I mean, she's pretty and thin, has cute kids and a perfect house. She usually has some other great talent, got good grades and is generally all-around fabulous. Well, I have two of them in my life. We'll call them Type-A and Type-A+. Type-A is a CPA with an architect husband and two little boys. They live in a stunning house of his design and manage to take many fun-filled vacations. She is also an award winning dancer and although in her late 30's has the body of a showgirl. I once helped her move to a new home and when I came across some random thing I asked her where her junk drawer was located. She just looked at me and said, "I don't have one of those." HUH? Can I just tell you how many of "those" I have and that they are the key to my sanity? I secretely got an evil jolly when she became pregnant, thinking kids would really shake up her reality. Plus, childbirth is messy! Of course children have not swayed her from her orderly course one bit. Her boys have always slept through the night and always put their toys in the pottery barn cubicles when they are finished playing.Type-A+ is perfect in her own way, which is what makes having two of them as friends particularly diabolical. A+ isn't wealthy, but I swear the girl can do anything. Her husband travels a lot and she knows how to do any kind of home maintenance. She once built her own screen door and painted it the perfect shade of Martha Stewart green. At any given time she has a jumbo batch of frozen cookie dough ready to slice and bake. Homemade, of course. She is a Jill of all trades and is literally the Google of our neighborhood. If you need an answer, ask A+. The only thing A+ isn't really, really good at is calling before she comes over. I swear it's a test! She pops in unannounced to make sure she is still number one. You could drop in on her at any hour and she would be ready for company and would invite you to lunch. She'd even send you home with flowers from her garden. If you've read my blog, you know how I feel about unexpected company. Bing Bong! Oh look, it's A+ at my door, kids in tow. I clean my house, I really do, but I'm not ready for company with no notice. Instead of going through the apologies for the state of my post-Fourth of July house, I just closed the door behind me and we visited in the yard! She weeded my flower bed, no joke. That's not the first time I've done that and I'm sure it's a topic in the neighborhood. I am the crazy lady who won't let you in her house unless she specifically invites you in. Kool-aid Mom, I ain't. I just like to give myself a big old break now and then and just be a bag lady and play with my kids. That is not the time for the white glove brigade to stop by for inspection. Clearly, I have issues. But I always call before I come over.

I'm a Butterfly!

I've been volunteering in my son's kindergarten class. Li'l Freddy (not his real name, ya think?) thinks it's nice for me to be there and as long as those good feelings are in the air, I'll take them. His classmates never got my name straight, but I love the derivations: Mrs. Freddy, Mrs. Freddy's Mom, Mrs. Mom. One little girl, Macy, was wearing a pretty, bedazzled shirt with a butterfly on the front.

Me: Macy, I really like your shirt.

Macy: I'm a butterfly!

Me: I can see that!

Macy: But you can't see my wings.

Me: No, I can't.

Macy: Do you know why you can't see them?

Me: (getting with the program, lowering voice to a conspiratorial whisper) Because they're invisible?

Macy: (looking at me like I'm the crazy, three headed Mrs. Mom lady) No! They're just really small!

Christmas and the Perfect Woman

Christmas and the Perfect Woman
This past weekend I attended a party hosted by one of my Perfect Women. This is the one who weeds my flower beds when she visits me in the summer. Please don't get the idea that I don't like miss type A+. I really do, she and I have a lot in common. It's the things we don't share that make our friendship interesting. A+ is my own personal Martha Stewart, without the wealth. She can do it all and, if I asked her, she would come over and do it at my house, too. She's like the "Hometime" girl, only beautiful and southern. A Chi-O for those interested. On arrival her house and yard are decorated with little lights. She has brought in a small Conestoga wagon which is surrounded by lit deer. Go inside and the lights are perfectly dimmed, as she has installed dimmers this past week herself. Evergreen boughs cover each window and door frame. The Christmas tree has a nice collection of not perfect ornaments, which is a relief. When you have kids, people send them ornaments and, there you are, wondering where to place "Biker Barbie" for the best effect. A little choo choo train runs around the bottom of the tree. And, above the fireplace is a painting of... you guessed it! A regionally famous artist saw A+ and asked her to sit for him. She has a print, the original sold for $17,000. In the kitchen it's a bit out of her control as this is a potluck so nestled between her homemade sugar cookies and gingerbread boys are random dishes of meatballs and (my addition) li'l smokies. But she has provided a myriad of beverages: cocoa with or without schnapps and wassail are heating on the stovetop and a large tureen of her old family "recipe" is on the counter. This is for adults only and contains a fifth of Southern Comfort. One guy comes in wanting to show us his "fireball" trick involving Everclear and she sends him out into the snow for his pyrotechnics. All the children are included and are having a merry time in the basement which has been converted into what looks like a preschool, but is just the way A+ wants it.The kids are being kids and dumping out entire containers of Mr. PotatoHead parts, but then I watched these little boys magically pick them all up and put them away when they were finished. There is a little kitchen, a lego table, a train table, all atop a cushioned carpet. No one is fighting or crying or unhappy. How does she do it? There is a door in the wall that if you open it you will find A+'s pantry. She has carved out a pantry in a wall with no space, just what is there between the studs. The girl never fails to amaze and inspire. Knowing she would be returning my crockpot the next day, I was motivated to finish my decorating that I started Thanksgiving weekend, fold my mountain of laundry and identify the furry wad that is under the computer desk.

Hey Lady! Your participle is dangling...

I am not going back to school. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not! School was challenging and fun the first time. I liked and am still happy with my major and I was able to graduate in four years. But, I've been working intensely with a junior high student to prepare for school placement tests and have uncovered a buried regret: I wish I had an English degree. Of all the text books I had in college, the one I didn't re-sell was my English handbook. I love reading it! Now, don't compare my love of the subject with my actual practice. I'm lacking in the practical application of grammar. But my desire for mastery is fierce! I'm going to study my handbook this summer, and hopefully all things, this space included, will benefit.

In the spirit of James Frey's root canal...

Only my tale really happened. You can ask my eye doctor, Dr. Smith. Really, that's his name.

I went in for one of many post-op appointments and to see if my post-traumatic stress was justified. I'm talking about how he mechanically unhinged my corneal flaps. (Translation: he used a scalpel and cut big U shapes into my eyes while I watched in the reflection.)

Me: You know that medicine that was supposed to take the edge off?

Smith: Yes?

Me: It didn't work.

Smith: Uh oh.

Me: Yeah, and you know that whole manual cutting of my corneas thing?

Smith: Yes?

Me: I didn't know you were going to do that. I was completely unprepared.

Smith: Really?

Me: Really. And I could see the reflection of the procedure while you were doing it.

Smith: So, no meds on board and a scary procedure.

Me: Yep.

Smith: Do you want me to draw you a picture of what I did? You're not a fainter, are you?

Me: No thanks, I've seen it, and you'd already know if I were a fainter.

Lamaze is handy for lots of things

Doctor's orders, I'm not supposed to spend much time on the computer and for the past three days, I've done nothing but sit with my eyes closed like a good eye surgery patient. I'll be brief. I've just had my second laser surgery and for all intents and purposes it went really well. The morning of my surgery I was very nervous and upset. Yes, lasik it a pretty easy procedure, but it involves the eyes (duh) and makes me sort of sick just thinking about it. Ten years ago they gave me Valium, put me in a chair, told me where to look and it was over, no big whoop. Valium worked for me. This time the nurse gave me a mystery pill "to take the edge off". I was counting on that, but it never happened. I kept waiting and waiting for that happy feeling to come over me. Never happened. I went into the surgical suite with my fists firmly clenched and my jaw set. Instead of going straight to the laser, I sat by while my doctor unhinged my corneal flap manually. You know those eye gizmos you sit at with you on one side and the doctor on the other and it's all bright lights while they examine the inside of your skull? Thankfully he used numbing drops. First he drew a line to mark my old incision, then he took a sharp instrument and cut over the line he had drawn. I could see the reflection of my eye in the device, not fun. Thank the Lord for Lamaze breathing. The actual laser part was just as simple and easy as I remembered, but that alien-abduction-eye-probe thing was no piece of cake. Now I'm resting at home with giant contact lenses in place and goggles for sleeping. Which I think I will go do now because this is the most my eyes have had to do in days and they're tired!

Vision

Way back in the second grade, when my teacher realized I couldn't see the blackboard from my desk (yes, we used chalk way back then...) my Mom took me to the eye doctor and I was blessed with a pair of tortoise, stop-sign shaped frames. They were swell. At 13 I petitioned for and got contacts, 20 years later I had Lasik and am now getting ready for my second round of Lasik. The eyes, like other body parts, let you down after a certain age. If you read this blog, you know I had a Lasik appointment with an eye doctor about 6 months ago that didn't go so well. He told me not to bother, that I was too old and then proceeded to gossip about people we have in common. And, even though his subject was someone I adore blogging about, I wouldn't bite. I like my gossip anonymous. When I got my back-up plan glasses, the prescription was wrong, but he and his staff didn't believe me when I told them I couldn't see through them. They made me keep them for a month before they would actually look at them to see that, whoopsy, the doctor transposed a measurement or two and, what do you know, I was telling the truth! Now I have found a doctor with references and a big, shiny eye center who is very nice, does not gossip, and will happily perform Lasik on my older-than-dirt eyes. He is anal to the point of exhaustion, but I like that in an eye surgeon. In two weeks I will be out of glasses once more, and will hopefully be out of them until well into my golden years, which, depending on which doctor you ask are either way down the road or knocking on my door.

Elton, how could you?

When I was little, I was very impressed with my big sister's record collection. She had a million albums which she kept in old apple crates, which I thought was the coolest. I loved looking at her albums, and truthfully, I miss the plus sized version of the lyrics, album notes and illustrations. I would listen to albums with headphones and eventually knew many by heart, right down to the weird things that would occur during a "live" recording. Which brings me to today's gross realization. As we were shopping today, we heard the Elton John song, Benny and the Jets, from his Goodbye Yellow Brick Road album, one of my old favorites. That song has always held a sweet place for me because it was a "live" and therefore "imperfect" recording. My favorite part is the off beat hand claps which sound as if the recording was in a large venue but especially the whistle near the song's ending. I did not sing along today when I heard the song, but I couldn't resist whistling in time with the whistle on the recording. I was overheard by a guy who informed me that Benny and the Jets was a studio recording, but they added "live" sounds to make it more interesting. That shakes my core, I'm telling you. I made up an entire story line for that stupid whistle! I always imagined some guy wanted to get on the record, so he waited for just the right pause and blew that whistle. Now he's immortalized! But, no. I came home and googled it and sure enough, it's a big fake! Check it out for yourselves.

http://www.answers.com/topic/bennie-and-the-jets-1

I am so upset by this, that I've been running my list of favorite "live" songs through my head, but I'm unwilling to do any more searches. If those aren't real, screaming Japanese girls on "I Want You To Want Me", I may have an existential breakdown.

Madeleine McCann

First let me just say, I can't even imagine how terrified and full of dread her parents must be. Actually, once my own three year old disappeared at an outlet mall. She was missing for only half an hour, but in that time we organized a search party, mall security closed the parking lot and everything stopped while we searched for her. By about minute 15 I had visions of her being carried off down the nearby interstate. So, I guess I've felt a small fraction of that kind of fear. Fortunately, my child was only hiding in the racks of clothes. Whenever this stuff happens I start lecturing (myself and anyone within hearing) about child safety and parenting. This always makes me even more vigilant than my normally neurotic self. I have this terrible feeling this wasn't the first time Madeleine's parents had dinner out while the babies slept back at the room. People who do terrible things like steal babies know exactly what they're doing. They probably watched these people and got to know their habits and patterns. I try to keep from having the same daily routine for this exact reason. I set the house alarm to go to the mailbox, I'm that cautious. And, not to disparage all foreign countries, but when you are out of your element to that degree, you are so vulnerable. Once on a trip out-of-country, our child got a head injury at our hotel. The hotel manager said he wouldn't recommend going to the hospital, he couldn't guarantee our safety. First I felt like the worst parent for bringing a child to such an unsafe place and second, I felt like a very small dot on a very large planet. I couldn't get home fast enough.

I am confident the enormous reward being offered will get people's tongues wagging and they will find this poor little girl. I love people like JK Rowling who get involved in cases like this and use their fortune in such a benevolent way.

In the week after Elizabeth Smart was abducted, my child was invited to a sleep-over. I asked the Mother if they had an alarm on their house. She just laughed and said they don't even lock their doors, God will protect them. I just laughed and reminded her that God gave her the locks for a reason.

I am not trying to vilify these poor parents. It just makes me crazy when people play into the bad guy's hands like this.

The Face of The Plague?

Wasn't it just yesterday I was telling my sweet tale of building backyard oases (oasises? Oh Lord, don't get me started on the vocabulary again. It's Friday, for pete's sake) for woodland creatures? And today the headlines warn of squirrels and bunnies carrying THE PLAGUE! Actually, the story just called it "plague", no capitalization or anything. Nothing to worry about, really. So, I am rethinking my weekend plans, obviously.

Foxes-yes, mooses-no

I have a "thing" for little, fluffy woodland creatures. I love squirrels, bunnies, chipmunks and foxes. Yes, I said "foxes", for that is the correct plural of "fox". I once got into a sparring match with an attorney friend over this word and was able to win my case, much to his dismay. My punctuation may be lacking, but Kristy the Wordsmith and I go way back. Where was I? Oh yes! Mice must go away, but the bigger, nicer rodents are okay with me. Most of my neighbors have bird feeders with complicated apparati* for keeping the squirrels out. I toss peanuts (unsalted in the shell) on my deck every morning to keep them coming back to my place. Mother's Day is coming, maybe you've heard? For my big day I am going to put in a Garden of Earthly Delights for my neighborhood bunnies! I'm planting all things bunnies love: carrots, clover, other veggies, and catnip so they can get a little buzz for dessert.

*Okay, the correct term is "apparatuses", but come on! Apparati sounds so much better!

"Stranger" being the key word

I've always loved walking in and out of a room full of people just to hear the random snippets of conversation. When my parents are visiting, this little game is particularly entertaining. Here are some gems from the latest visit:

Dad, don't flip that guy off. (Me, yelling to the back seat)

We'd live here, but we don't think the doctors are as good as they are back home. (Ours is a top 100 hospital, they live in Two Dot, Montana)

What color is your hair? (to me)

You've certainly inherited the family eyebrows, haven't you? (to my daughter)

I've never wanted a scotch and a cigarette so bad in my life. (after being a sober non-smoker for 20 years)

Honey, your Dad had a little ovaltine accident. (Just had the carpet cleaned and more company comes the day after they leave)

They counted 15 polyps. (You don't want to know)

Let me show you my incision. (ditto)

I'll make something your hubby can finally eat. (no comment)

Tell the truth, how does she have blonde hair and the rest of you are brunette?

Truth is stranger than fiction, folks.

A girl who cain't say no

I love my parents, Lord knows I do. As the years have gone by we have developed a sweet relationship, hopefully making up for the years of distress I put them through as a teen. Now I have the teenagers and my parents are in their golden years. We live a couple of states away and don't see each other very often because, on my end we have kids and work and activities and just trying to take this show on the road is a unimaginable feat. But, one we accomplish once every summer. On their end, they are elderly and in poor health. Dad has had a quad heart bypass and two new hips, Mom has had three total knees (one twice, silly!) and a multitude of other problems. Driving to see us is out of the question and flying is iffy at best. They can neither sit nor stand/walk for long periods. What does that leave? But, bless their little hearts, they are absolutely determined the timing isn't going to get any better, and they are flying here to spend a few days. My siblings are in an uproar. Well, except my brother who never says much. My sisters think this is the worst idea and are predicting dire results. True, the last time they came Mom wound up in the hospital... I think part of the problem is that my parents didn't run this by the family for their approval, they just checked the date with me and booked their tickets like the big kids they are. Could I say no? No! Even though my husband is having surgery the day before they arrive? No! Even though I am up to my eyebrows in end of the school year paperwork? No! Even though I am planning a large event including another overnight guest in one week? No! Even though I have contractors in my house daily to fix the water damage in my roof and ceiling from the snowfall? No! Even though we have no place for them to sleep? No! No! and No! I haven't cried yet, but it's just a matter of time. I can feel the stress building up. Honestly, it feels better just having my party of personal woe right here. Therapy is great in all forms. I have my friend, Sylvia, up the street prepared to welcome me at any hour, sight unseen, should things here get really wonky. I can just run up to her house for a breather and she'll pat my back and send me back in for another round.

"Some People Are so Touchy" - Rizzo

Time for a new blog! Believe it or not, in this big old inter-webb world you can be "outed" for your blog. You think it's all anonymous and secretive, but it really isn't. How someone who knows me caught on to my blog is beyond me, but I'm starting over. Hey, I use pseudonyms! This blog is for my own personal sanity and enjoyment. I don't gossip in real time, but I do get a lot off my chest in here! So, new blog (looks the same, but I like this layout) so I can go on venting to my heart's desire and not crawl under my bed to deal with the world. Really, I'm sure this is very healthy.