A Room for My Thoughts to Ramble

Questioning Fixing My Facebook Status

2011-09-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

Ahhhhh!

There it is - that sweet sound of frustrated people pounding their keyboards expressing their displeasure with Facebook … it surrounds us.

Once again, Facebook has changed its formatting, thus making their subscribers cranky. Status lines are filled with displeasure, petitions are being formed, other social networks are being explored by people who are not happy, people accustomed to going right to the things that interest them most and bypassing the items that don’t, people who are resistant to change.

Hmmmm.

One Facebook status line caught my eye … “If it ain’t broke, why fix it?"

*snorts*

Sorry. Couldn’t help it. I had to laugh.

Seriously?

If it ain’t broke, why fix it could be the slogan for most of the items in our daily lives!

I like to use Tide laundry detergent to wash my clothes. My mom used it and I learned from her about the good job it did. That’s not to say I didn’t try others. I went to college … I’ve been broke … I’ve tried others over the years. But I always seem to come back to Tide. I like the way it cleans my clothes and the way it smells. FYI … I’m referring to the ORIGINAL Tide. Not the one that’s “mountain fresh”, not the one with softener added, not the one with Febreeze scent added. I don’t need the “improved” versions. The original wasn’t broke, so why did it have to be fixed?

To make it more marketable?

Because if all you offered was an item that did a really good job, people wouldn’t buy it?

Does anyone else see the weirdness of that statement?

Remember when you could get a pack of 10 sticks of Wrigley’s gum for a quarter? Remember Bazooka Joe and the bubble gum you could get for a penny and snap irritatingly large bubbles, the powdery sweet taste staying longer on your tongue than the ability to blow the bubble?

I don’t chew a lot of gum lately but if I did decide to buy a pack, I’m not going for one the fancy, schmancy brands that come in plastic tubs, or boxes, or bundles. Why do I need to buy a piece of gum that has flavor that lasts forever and costs as much, or more than a candy bar, when all I want is a bit of sugar and flavor and chewing action? My name is not Violet Beauregarde and I’m not looking for a stick of gum to chew so long that I have to stick it behind my ear while I eat my dinner.

Gum wasn’t broken, but it had to be fixed … improved … because “new and improved”, even if it is more expensive, gets purchased more than good taste and low cost?

Don’t even get me started on the cola products. Or their “new and improved” water. *snorts*

What about those coffee makers that require an engineering degree in order to operate, not to mention the powders and liquids and flavors and whips that are added to “improve” that caffeine jolt of java? Do we REALLY need get up earlier in the morning so that we have time to stop and get a drink of something that costs more than an entire breakfast platter at IHOP? Couldn’t those extra moments be spent having a nice breakfast at home, with family or … in my case … pupper? *insert smiley face*

The act of brewing a cup of coffee (or steeping a cup of tea) hasn’t changed. It wasn’t broke. You just need hot water and a pot. No. The act of brewing just got fixed.

Our athletic shoes have gone from a basic pair of white keds or converse high tops to pumped up, balanced, cushioned, air soled wonders that trim our thighs, work our calves and round our tushies.

Our phones have gone from switchboard party calls, to trimline phone with a cord, to a cordless phone, to cell phones, to iPhones and Androids.

Our home entertainment has moved from a single radio to a giant, wall gripping flat screen high def television complete with blue-ray player and surround sound stereo.

We’ve moved from the anticipation of a letter from a relative arriving in a couple of months, to the instant texting, emailing, and Skyping.

And a bottle of cola can now, instead of being regular or diet, be original, sugar-free, caffeine-free, cherry flavored, vanilla flavored, raspberry flavored, zero-calorie wonders. (I told you not to get me started!)

The thing is … those original items weren’t really broken.

I’m really not saying that change is a bad thing, or that variety isn’t fun to try. Let’s face it … I always enjoyed the variety flavored box of instant oatmeal. But do we have to have the lower sodium oatmeal, the heart healthy oatmeal, the higher fiber oatmeal, etc. etc.? Isn’t oatmeal already supposed to be all of those? Maybe we just like to have the shelves of the grocery store decorated with pretty boxes?

I realize this sounds rather simplistic and I suppose, in a way, it is. Technology continues to pave the way. Our children know more about computers at the age of three than most fifty year olds did at the age of twenty-five. However, “new and improved” seems to be more and more a way of saying “we’ve taken something that worked for you and changed it, thereby making it more expensive to make and/or use”.

Again, I’m not saying that change is a bad thing … I’m just asking why did we have to go to such extremes?

Do consumers REALLY need to have a multitude of laundry detergents to choose from?

Does a single piece of gum truly need to last FOREVER?

Is what you have to say to me so important that I have to take my laptop to the restaurant so we can Skype while I eat?

Do Facebook users REALLY need to be told how to know which status updates are recent and which are new and which are considered “top stories”?

It wasn’t broken. Why did it have to be fixed?

Understanding Peace

2011-08-14T14:55:00.000-05:00

Peace.

It has been on my mind this morning. No matter what I find myself doing, I seem to keep coming back to it.

I’m not talking about peace, love, & caddyshack. *grins* I’m talking the peace that passes understanding. It’s not really describable and yet, here I am making the attempt as it appears to have taken root and is willing me to do something I haven’t done in quite awhile … write … and something I haven’t done in an even longer while … post.

This morning I was not just awake, but also up (as in the "out of bed and dressed" kind) before I wanted to be through no one’s fault, not even the small, white ball of fluff that seems to rule my house and my schedule. As a matter of fact, the small one was still nestled on the bed, sleeping quite peacefully when I decided that we would go outside and check the early morning. It was a bit before 7am and the sun had just crested its way into the sky. I stopped to brew a mug of tea from a blend gifted me by the eldest girlie Friday night before grabbing leash and pupper and making my way out of doors.

According to the weather I checked before leaving my phone inside, the temperature was a light 69 degrees. After weeks of 110 plus – either from heat index or, worse, actual temperature – the morning seemed almost chilly. Almost. Yet while the breeze was cool, the rising sun was bright in the clear blue palette of sky and was warming. Not hot. Just warm. The morning was perfect.

We walked for a few minutes, my pupper and I. Not far. Not to the field. Just down the sidewalk enough to give him some places to sniff and me a feeling that I’d stretched, however little. Then we went back and I relaxed, in my chair, sipping my tea, while he searched for something elusively scented under his bushes.

It was quiet. Not silent, just ... quiet.

Our morning's musical underscore was a combination of the birds, busy with beginning their day, and the gentle breeze, which was enough to give a rustle to Fluff’s bushes and toss a couple of dried leaves across the driveway for him to give chase before another scent caught his twitching little nose and he began exploring again. The birds made me think of Harold and Francine, my cardinals. I wondered where they were and if they had already begun another nest, hopefully in a safer location than my tree and window could evidently provide, but they are nature’s creatures and I just gave another quick thanks to their Creator for allowing me the chance to view their life for a short time.

I lay my head back, closed my eyes and felt, simply put, the perfectly peaceful morning flow around me, welcoming and embracing.

There was nothing to understand, nothing to sort out. There was just peace - of mind, of body, of soul.

Yesterday afternoon, after an early morning trip to the Farmer’s Market, combined with real estate wandering (aka. driving around looking at houses for rent & for sale and checking out garage sales), not to mention a brief errand, my youngest girlie settled herself curled in my big chair whilst I worked in the kitchen for a bit. It didn’t take long for the quiet and lull in activity to settle her into a soft sleep. While I worked, I found my eyes drawn to her slumber, my hands gentling the sounds so I didn’t disturb, and my mind casting back in memories so thick and rich, they seemed to wrap themselves around me like a warm cloak or a soft comforter.

Memories of girlies of varying ages and sizes … curled separately or together … on the couch, in the chair, on my shoulder, in my lap, on the floor, in the car … sleeping the quiet, yet not so quiet, sleep of innocence … of childhood. Tucked up on pillows or hands, nestled in blankets or not, they dreamed the dreams cast by their hearts, minds, and imaginations. Sometimes they might wake startled by nightmare or illness, but the moments passed quickly and sleep would always return to give them peace.

Ask me of one of my fondest memories and would reply something like this:

Take any weekend filled with laughter and playtime, movies and books and end it with girlies asleep in their beds as I finish out my day. Then, after closing down the house and securing our safety, I would turn out the lights and make my way down the hall. Aided by small nightlights, I would stand in the juncture of the hall, looking into both rooms, reveling in the gift of time spent before tucking each one with a small kiss and phrase, then gratefully giving thanks to the Creator who made them and the parents that shared them.

That moment. That memory. That was my feeling of peace.

According to the dictionary, peace can be defined in multiple ways. There is the one of the “normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world” which is in parallel to the one about “an agreement or treaty between warring or antagonistic nations, groups, etc., to end hostilities and abstain from further fighting or antagonism” to be followed in the same genre as “a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations”. There are also the definitions of “being deceased”, of “maintaining order”, of “refraining from speaking”. One definition that kinda made me giggle, but that could be because of the way it is phrased, is the one where peace is definined as “a state or relationship of non-belligerence”. Not sure why it made me giggle, except perhaps because I hear this English voice in my head from a movie I know I’ve seen and yet cannot place at the moment (when it comes to me at 3am, I’ll be sure to post it for you) of the good guy fighting the bad guy and calling him a “belligerent bugger”. But that’s a side trip in the realm of definitions and not where I was heading.

Where I am heading is the simple and concise definition of peace as “untroubled, tranquil, content … a state of stillness, silence, or serenity.”

These are the words that define my memory of those quiet moments. This is the feeling ... is the peace ... I had this morning as I relaxed with my tea outside while my pupper explored before starting my day. This is the sense of self that is welcomed each weekend to rejuvenate my mind and, more specifically, my soul in order to approach the coming week.

That is my description of peace.

It is the gift that surpasses all understanding, flows like a river and is only truly received when heart and mind are surrendered to the One from who it is given.

My prayer this Sunday morning, before my pupper and I came inside and truly began our day, was … is … for each member of my family, each of my friends to be blessed with their own moment of peace. And ... when you find yourself in that moment, do two things. First … give thanks to Him who has bestowed it, and then, secondly, pass it on. You know the adage … if you tell two people, then they tell two people, then they tell two people, and so on, and so forth?

Is your imagination good enough to imagine what would happen?

Have You Hugged A Stranger Today?

2010-10-02T10:28:00.000-05:00

I made an elderly lady cry today.

Yep.

I really did.

Right in the thrift shop parking lot.

In my defense, I wasn't trying to make her cry and I wasn't mean. I simply told her how lovely I thought she looked.

Perhaps I should back up a bit and start from the beginning ...

Fridays are my new special day. Not just because it is the end of the week and the weekend is so close on the horizon, but also because of my favorite show. I won't go fangirl crazy here ... it's not the point. The point is ... it is Friday and it is special and I was ... am ... feeling incredibly good today for many reasons.

The weather is fantastic! One of those fall days where the morning is crisp, the day is warm & breezy, the evening cool under a clear, stary sky.

Then there was the fact that I woke with a happy, happy pupper ... and we enjoyed a morning filled with playing inside and out before I had to say the dreaded four letter word ... *whispers W.O.R.K.* ... and head out to the office.

Work, though, was actually pleasant. There was chaos but that is normal when you have almost 100 elderly people all in one place. However the day moved right along and, after an extremely arduous long week ... the early close of the office, if only an hour, was a blessing.

So it was, that I hit the road with a light heart and a bright sky. My sweet red Baby had her sunroof open and a new CD mix in the stereo streaming the music. Laughing and singing, I knew that my two necessary stops would not take long and I would soon be home to my little Ball of Fluff to begin preparations for our Awesome Friday Night.

Stop 1 was quickly finished and Baby & I took off for Stop 2, feeling pretty chipper.

In front of the little thrift shop, I pulled Baby into a parking spot next to a luxury SUV. I think it was a Lexus but, honestly? ... I don't really care and it doesn't truly matter. As I turned off the engine, preparing to get out and go in the store, an elderly lady came out of the door and made her way to the SUV. She was very striking ... quietly elegant in a fitted, solid black pantsuit with white satiny lapels and black heels.

She looked lovely. So, I got out of my car, leaned against the roof, and told her so.

I may have expected alot of things, but I didn not expect for her eyes to well up with tears, even as she gave me a tremulous smile and thanked me. She then told me that she had purchased the suit at the first of the year for her husband's funeral. She was wearing it again today because her best friend's husband had passed away and his funeral had been this afternoon.

Oh.

There was nothing I could say and I couldn't help myself. I went around the car and gave her a brief hug.

She sniffed and thanked me.

We wished each other a nice weekend and then she drove away and I made my way into the store.

That private moment between two strangers struck me as I made my purchases and headed Baby towards home and our little Fluffernut.

In today's world, we work so very hard teaching our children "Stranger Danger", that we forget to teach them about simple human kindness. It hurts my heart that they must be more in tune to caution than they are in reaching out to someone who seems sad, or lonely, or in need. Wouldn't it be lovely if our children could be taught understanding as well as caution ... respect for others as well as defensive tactics ... care for the people they pass in the street, not just the people around the dinner table?

That, every once in awhile, blessings are shared on both sides when you hug a stranger?

We Should All Be Patriots

2010-07-04T15:15:00.001-05:00

Fourth of July

The American holiday has its traditions, just the same as Thanksgiving or Christmas. The summertime holiday is celebrated in a multitude of various ways, each as individual as the family or person celebrating. For some it means traveling, for some it is swimming and picnics and parties, boats on a lake or tubes on a river. It means grilled hamburgers or hotdogs, barbequed ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, fresh summer grown tomatoes, and homemade apple pie. It is a vine ripened watermelon. It is a time of sparklers waved by children’s hands, firecrackers lit and thrown to snap and pop, and fireworks to light up the night’s sky with colors and designs set to orchestrations that stir our hearts and embolden our spirits.

According to an MSN internet article, it is possible that Americans will spend in the range of $3 billion on parties, food, entertainment and travel this year. However, those are celebrations of food and fun and fireworks are just one part of this holiday. For the Fourth of July is, in fact, actually Independence Day and the meaning of that holiday goes a lot deeper.

Independence Day is about patriotism. It is a declaration of believing in something wholeheartedly, supporting it no matter what, loving it completely. America's Independence Day is believing in this country and the freedoms possible within it were and are so worthwhile that men and women have fought and died to make it possible both then and now.

Independence isn’t simply a right American’s have due to the actions of our forefathers. It is something that is earned and we have a responsibility to it. We have a responsibility to each be patriots. This doesn’t mean that we must all be members of America’s Armed Forces, fighting at home and abroad to keep our country safe from those who would destroy it, in order to be patriots. However, it does mean that we as individuals can and should take up the flag of patriotism, the ideals of those soldiers who fight for us, and we should keep them alive within ourselves.

Patriotism begins at home … as parents raise up their children – teaching them right from wrong, disciplining when needed, and loving them always. Imagine our nation if parents cared more that their children become strong, not strong-willed, independent and beautiful of spirit, not rebellious and self-absorbed … that they raised the child as someONE, not someTHING … as an individual rather than a friend or a way to relive a youth that didn’t go as they wanted … supporting and trusting them, even as they falter and mistakes are made, instead of ignoring them, tearing them down, or striking out in anger.

Patriotism should continue in our schools … with those teachers that we entrust with our children, to teach them more than just the basic ABCs & 123s but also history and English and science and geography, instilling a thirst for more knowledge and guiding them always. Imagine our nation if teachers didn’t have to worry about guns in the classrooms and how to make 20 textbooks work for 30 children but could get into the meat of a topic instead of skimming it over the outline of facts. Teachers should inspire and guide as they teach and students should be able to become creative and achieve more than they dream.

Strength of morals, not to mention honesty and respect … we’re not born with these values, we are taught them (or, unfortunately, not) from our earliest moments. With them comes gratitude … having an appreciation for the history of our nation, not to mention the men and women, past and present, who have worn a uniform in service and honor to our country. These men and women were raised as patriots and we should be not only be aware of their deeds – again, past or present – but give them our thanks, as we each work to be patriots in our own right, in our own homes and communities.

I know I do, and I will.

While I wave my flag, eat my pie and sit out on the grass, listening to the music and wondering at the beauty of those flashes of color sparkling in the sky.

And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.
And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up, next to you and defend her still today.
Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,

GOD BLESS THE USA!**

(**lyrics from Proud To Be An American by Lee Greenwood)

A Good Man

2010-06-20T18:16:00.005-05:00

There’s a story my mom loves to bring out every once. It’s one of those stories that, when you’re in high school or college, you simply cringe in embarrassment but as life goes on you enjoy the laugh and then draw out one of your own. I don’t actually remember ALL the details, I just recall that I was outside playing with the hose and, since we were in Kansas City, I was younger than four years. I’m not sure if I wasn’t supposed to be playing with it, or was simply being cautioned, but I spun around with it in my hand when my father’s voice came to me regarding the water and I ended up spraying him thoroughly. It was an innocent, childhood mistake – I was turning towards his voice and the water in the hose in my hand came with me. Unfortunately he had just arrived home from work and was dressed in one of his business suits and I had a full spraying stream going as I whirled to greet him. Dark suit ... white pressed shirt ... dark tie ... wing tip shoes ... soaked.

Yep. Laughter is had on that one. Now.

My poor Daddy.

The good Lord blessed him with an extraordinary amount of patience, for which I am abundantly grateful.

Although I know he will be embarrassed and will most likely tell my mother that I “shouldn’t have”, I’m gonna tell a little bit about the type of man I call Father.

My dad is hamburgers & steaks grilled just right … driving the boat around “just one more” cove before heading back … calm voice when teaching to drive a car … Saturday late night movies with Clint Eastwood, Lee Marvin, Lee Van Cleef, or maybe just The Duke … pancakes and maple syrup vying with a simple box of donuts for being the best breakfast ever … standing outside on the front step of Grandma’s trailer watching a tornado pass by … saving a small girl from a bunch of loose pigs (not the small cute kind) … holding a little girl up on his shoulders to see the Macy’s parade … cheering or groaning for his Dallas Cowboys … playing Santa for a company children’s party … mowing the yard … playing in the pool … sitting at the counter and letting me tease & pick on him … finishing a task begun – no matter how detailed or time consuming.

Most of all, my daddy is wrapping me in a huge hug when I hurt, am sad, just arrived for a visit, fixing to leave after a visit, or just any other reason he can think of ... being married to, and loving, one woman for 53 years … reading Luke Chapter 2 before bedtime on Christmas Eve … praying so fully before each meal at the table … spending each week studying/preparing his Sunday School lesson … standing tall and proud as he joins the other deacons in serving the Lord’s Supper … a Godly man, the head of our household, following Joshua 24:15.

Today, on this special day when we honor our Fathers, I don’t get to physically be with my Daddy – to hug him and tell him how much I love and adore him, how he is the tape measure I use when looking at men and relationships, how much he is admired, how much I miss being with him on his special day.

That is why I wanted to just take a minute and tell you a bit about the man I call Father.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy! I love you!

A Quiet Tribute

2010-05-28T11:20:00.001-05:00

It is a quiet day at the office today.

Actually, it’s a quiet day in the whole building. Not that it’s always a rip roaring party all the time, but there is usually a sense of relief and a certain giddiness in the office the day after our annual OHFA inspection goes well and the residents are usually roaming around on Fridays, chatting, coming and going in preparation for the weekend, getting their hair done at the beauty shop next to the office. The smell of perms is normally pervasive. Not so much today.

Today, or at least this morning, it is quiet.

You see … there’s a funeral being held at the church next door this morning.

A funeral for a resident who passed away in the wee hours of Wednesday morning or, as her son so eloquently put it ... “One moment she was sleeping peacefully, the next moment she went Home.”

It’s easy to think of her there … in heaven … her jubilation in being reunited with her husband who had gone to wait for her 20 years ago, in the presence of her dear Lord.

For the purposes of this little blog … we’ll call her Mrs. W.

Mrs. W. would have been the first to tell you she was just a country gal. She was 98 years old and, although in recent years her sight had failed and, even more recently, her health had slipped, through the assistance of a large and loving family, she had remained independent in the little apartment in our building she had called home the last 16 years. She loved the life of a resident and embraced the activities with enthusiasm. She never failed, unless sick, to be right in the front row when the 1st & 2nd graders from the school across the street came to give our residents a Christmas concert. She enjoyed the community feeling of the potluck dinners, baking cornbread for her friends, and going up to do exercises with the group that gathered three times a week. She thrilled each spring when the “4 O’Clocks” would bloom outside the exit door by her apartment. (I don’t know the actual name of this bush of flowers. Mrs. W. called them 4 O’Clocks and that is good enough for me.)

One of the ten remaining residents that were here when I began working at the Village, Mrs. W. would walk the halls of our building with a cheerful smile and a greeting for any that she met. When asked how she was doing, her standard response was that she was doing okay … “until someone tells me different”. Respectful of the office and the work being done, she would always have a smile and greeting, yet never stayed to chat unless one of us initiated the conversation. Even when her sight had failed, she would always smile and wave as she passed by … never certain anyone was in the office to see, but not wanting to pass by and seem rude.

As memory and hearing also began to fail, she began to stop a bit more frequently by the window … inquiring as to the day of the week and if there were any activities on the calendar. After getting a response, she would give thanks for the information with a big smile and exclaim that waking up always seemed to bring a new and different day. A happy smile, a boisterous laugh, and a wicked sense of humor … three things I admire and she had them in spades.

Mrs. W. was a simple, gracious lady who’s favorite activities included feeding people and sharing stories of her three children or multiple grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Nothing delighted her more than when one or more of them would stop by for a visit with “mom” or “granny”. She took great pride in them and their accomplishments but was never boastful.

It’s difficult to think that she is gone. Her little corner apartment where, before her sight left and cooking became difficult, the staff had been invited several times to share a tasty lunch and lively conversation, will soon be rented to someone new … someone different … someone who won’t call me “Shug” and check on the 4 O’Clocks in the spring. That’s the hard part.

The easy part is imagining her in heaven … setting a table for family and friends and inviting them to come and eat before it gets cold, as she keeps an eye from above on those kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, not to mention the rest of us.

Yep. It’s a quiet morning today. The halls are silent and the conversations are muted but I’m doing okay … at least until someone tells me different.

What's So Special About This Thursday?

2010-04-01T14:46:00.005-05:00

You know how some days are just more special than others? I know that in the scheme of things, particularly if you get literal and think time wise or calendar wise, every day is the same as any other. Yet there’s some event, some activity, some holiday, or some memory that makes an individual day just a bit more special than it’s counterparts that came before or will come after.

Today is one of those days … one of those SPECIAL days. It may just be special to me, however that is okay. I’m still gonna tell you why today … Thursday … April 1, 2010 … is a day that means more to me than yesterday.

Granted, anyone who knows me understands that Thursdays are my favorite day of the week. Especially right now when we are being treated to new episodes of Supernatural and each one just keeps getting a little better than the one before it, drawing us ever closer to an apocalyptic season ending that has fans like me on the very edge of their couches watching with bated breath and anticipation.

*gasp*

Sorry. Started to get a bit carried away there. *sheepish grin*

This is not about Supernatural … although … there is a slight, teensy weensy correlation. But I’ll explain that later.

Nope. Today is special to me for another reason. And it’s also not because it’s April 1^st, aka. April Fools Day.

April Fools is the day each year when people, young and old, seem to delight in pulling pranks and jokes. I’ll be honest. I’m not a good prankster and I usually screw up the telling of a joke unless I’m reading it. In all my years I have pulled off one prank. Granted, I had an abundance of help and it was seamless and flawless, grabbing its intended victim and leaving her definitely fooled. But then, and here’s why I’m really not a good prankster, I went the next full week totally feeling guilty and trying every which way I could to make it up to my victim. She was a wonderful sport, delighting in April Fools pranks herself, but I was a guilt-ridden basket case.

So, no … April Fools is not the reason this particular Thursday is special to me.

Today is special because today is the birthday of someone who has been in my life less than a year and yet he has completely filled it with joy and laughter, a bit of confusion, panic, and frustration as well, but mostly an overwhelming sense of love.

Today my Chester … aka. Ball of Fluff … aka. Fluffernut … aka. Sir Bounds-A-Lot … aka. Fierce Guard Dog … celebrates his first birthday!

Yay!!

Weighing in at 8lbs 10oz, my little guy has survived his first year. And so have I.

I didn’t get to be there when Chester was born, nor when he was weaned. My guy was three months old when I discovered him through an online “Puppy Finder” a friend suggested I check out. He wasn’t the closest Maltese puppy for sale, nor was he the youngest, or even the least expensive. There was just something about the picture they posted, something about his little face – his expressive little face – that grabbed my heart and said, “Hey! I’m your guy. I need you to come and get me.”

I’d wanted to get a dog for several years. I wanted a companion, someone to be there when I came home … to go with me when I went out. I’d resisted for several reasons, not the least of which being my sometimes long work hours. About three years ago, the desire increased to the point that I began to research dog breeds … considering size, typical health, “yappiness”, etc. After reading all I could find, I determined that the Maltese was the breed for me. Small, friendly, typically good health and long life, not prone to continual yapping, owner protective, and … to the delight of my allergy inclined lungs/eyes/nose … due to the fact that the Maltese actually have a fine “hair” instead of fur thus not having the pet dander that make allergies so fun, nor the shedding factor. Sweet!

Once I had the breed determined, it was simply a matter of timing and funding. I actually had decided on two pups … a boy and a girl … to keep each other company while I was not at home. That was my plan, right down to the fact that I already had their names chosen – Winnie for the girl and Chester for the boy. (Get it? Winnie … Chester … Winchester for my favorite guys on my favorite show, Supernatural. See … told you there was a slight connection. *grins*)

Much like everything else I tend to find … from chocolate to shoes … after determining what I liked and wanted, then getting myself settled into the idea, I found that my chosen breed does not come cheap. Nope. The Maltese is not your bargain basement pup. They’re not even on the first or second floor. *sigh* Even though I had absolutely no desire to “show” the dog or breed them myself, and I had no inclination to deal with the long hair … choosing to allow my pup full range and keep him in a “puppy cut” … I still found the expense of purchasing was out of my league.

And before the idea is put out there … I DID check into shelters. Maltese pups are not exactly shelter pups either.

Then came an unexpected and delightful financial gift at the same time my friend suggested the online puppy find where I saw the face that captured my heart. After corresponding with she whom I shall call “the seller”, it was determined that I would meet her just south of Norman to “meet” the pup. When she handed me this little white ball and he snuggled right up over my heart, nestling his face at my neck and licking my ear, my heart was lost. I handed her the check and left with my Chester.

I’ve never regretted the decision for a moment.

We’ve had some issues, not the least of which is discovering that “the seller” was less than truthful in a few areas such as crate training, & health records. It has been determined that my guy had some major … M.A.J.O.R. … issues with being in a crate. His fear of it was insurmountable and we finally gave up. It just wasn’t worth it. Luckily, he is one of the good ones as it became increasingly obvious that Chester spends his day, while I am at work, on the back of the couch, most likely sleeping. Nothing is ever disturbed and his water dish doesn’t even appear to have been used while I am gone. Yet the blanket on the back of the couch has a deep indent where it is obvious a small body has been nestled.

We were also incredibly blessed to happen upon a wonderful groomer. Our Stasi is awesome and Chester, much like a child left with the sitter … he’s not thrilled to go but he doesn’t cry when I leave and he gets glowing and happy reports from everyone in the grooming salon. She takes such great care of him and also teaches me about how to care for him. Those first couple visits she let me stay and observe, guiding me into how to care for his fur/hair, detangling and gripping him without hurting him. When she moved to a different location, we tried a different person but that was such an awful experience for both Chester and me, we drive the extra bit and go to where our Stasi is … knowing she’ll take care of us. J

Another blessing is our wonderful vet and her ever so patient and calm staff. After our first visit, where it was discovered that “the seller” had never properly cared for my guy’s ears – thus we got to start our time together dealing with an ear infection. Nothing bonds an owner and a pet faster than having to do icky ear medicine twice a day for 10 days. Since then we have gotten caught up on shots, gone through the boyhood “snip snip” of neutering as well as taking care of extracting 4 baby teeth that had roots for oak trees not teeth that should just fall out. You know your vet office is a blessing when they wait till after they hang up from your call describing a cough, a poop, or an action to begin laughing. We probably do have a reputation at our vet’s office, but the doc also thinks he is a very healthy, well-adjusted little guy, so that’s just fine with me.

So, here we are now. My Ball of Fluff is one year old. He’s passed his infancy and is now in his childhood years. Yet, there’s no foreseeable slowdown with my little boy. He is definitely still in his playful puppy stage as evidenced from the moment I open the door in the evening until I close the door in the morning. His favorite words are “Wanna go bye-bye?” and he will fly down the sidewalk to wait by the car door, leaping into his seat and waiting for his window to be rolled down. His deep little growl/bark sounds so “fierce” yet it is offset by the swishing fast wagging of his curly little tail. He has yet to meet a sock he doesn’t want to remove from a foot, a piece of paper that he doesn’t feel the need to taste test and tear, or a roll of toilet paper or article of clothing that he doesn’t think needs to gleefully be pulled down the hallway. Much like a 2 year old child, he is inquisitive and delights in the repetitive … snooping to find out what I am doing at all times, chasing the elusive wind controlled leaf, sniffing the air at all times trying to locate where treats have been hidden or a snack laid down briefly, or playing endless games of fetch with favored toys. He has achieved the command of “stay”, considers the command of “come”, and looks at you intently when commanded to “quiet”.

While Chester has managed to catch his first mouse during his first year and has come to understand that ringing the bell on the doorknob gets me to let him outside, we are still working steadily on some basics such as “why can’t you poop outside if you will go potty outside??????”.

He’s not a perfect pup, however you wanna know what?

He’s MY pup.

He is happiest when he is with me.

He is saddest when I leave.

Wanna know what else?

So am I.

Happy Birthday, my little boy … my fierce protector from beneath my legs … my wiggling wart of fluff … my overzealous tongue wagging licking monster … my cuddling bedtime companion.

Your ChesterMomma loves you. I’m glad we found each other.

And that’s no joke, nor is it a prank. Just the honest to goodness truth.

Oh for the Love ... !! I Quit. I Mean It. I Do. Maybe.

2010-02-05T16:07:00.001-06:00

Note: It’s been a long while since I dedicated a blog but this one I am. This is for my favorite BubbleGirl. An awesome supporter and a sweet friend … pushing me, prodding me, and, when necessary *hugging* me. I don’t know when I can go backwards, Whims, but I promise I will try to continue to go forwards. This ramble prelude is for you. The full-on episode ramble will be ready no later than Monday morning. That’s my deadline and I give you full permission to become your peskiest textiest self if I don’t meet it. On that you have Keeper’s Word.

Supernatural is unlike any show I’ve ever previously watched and I’m not too sure that I’ll ever have the opportunity to watch another like it. Some may try and may come close, but they won’t be the same by any stretch of the imagination.

Now, I have avidly enjoyed television all my life. When I was young, I watched CBS soap operas with my mom during our lunch and early afternoon “rest” time. I loved the Hughes family with the conniving Lisa and the Bauers were always taking care of family in the most interesting ways. As I got older, and I got to stay up later on Fridays and Saturdays, I discovered late night television and Saturdays particularly stay in my mind because it would just be me and my dad, staying up late and watching movies (particularly westerns) while my mom & brother went on to bed. I even enjoyed spending time watching the PBS programs of Sesame Street & The Electric Company with my little brother. Of course, I was really too old for them. I was simply watching to keep him involved and learning. Seriously. *wink*

Over the years, my viewing wandered the television spectrum … Dallas was a must see on Fridays, but my favorite were the antics of Knots Landing on Thursdays. While the original Star Trek was watched with my family, it didn’t catch my attention as much as Star Trek: The Next Generation. Will Riker was lovely, but I was always a Jean Luc Picard girl. I even followed to Deep Space Nine and Voyager. I’m not really going to go into my 21 Jump Street phase, except to say that Johnny Depp may be a bit different, but even when he was just starting out, he inhabited an intriguing and ever changing character. We also won’t go into my Hercules and Xena phase. Let’s just say that Kevin Sorbo was … um … ahem … well, I’ll just say I sure did enjoy that show!!

Then came Buffy and, later, Angel. Oh, good grief! How I did love those shows. Time would stop and I would simply enter the worlds of Sunnydale & Los Angeles to be swallowed up in the characters and atmosphere created by some incredibly talented people. There was also my Firefly adoration. I’m still angry with FOX and their lack of faith in something so incredibly wonderful.

Along the way there have been many other shows that I’ve made a point to stop and watch, to videotape, to mention in conversation with friends, to watch again. I’ll confess, I still have my video tape of the original 6 episodes of Max Headroom and pull it out periodically to watch. There are currently run program I adore … The Big Bang Theory … and enjoy … NCIS & Bones & Chuck & Criminal Minds and others … or get frustrated with but still keep coming back … 24 & Numbers. Yet none of them hold a candle to the love I have for the show Supernatural.

I don’t just enjoy the show, I am a confessed fan.

From the moment it premiered on September 13, 2005, I have been carried away and blown away by the world and the characters created by Kripke and his band of merry torturers … er … um … writers. His creative staff continually pull together each week some of the best television I have ever watched. The worst episode of Supernatural, in my opinion, is better than anything else I’ve watched on another program. That’s my opinion. I realize it isn’t for others. Many have laughed at me or scoffed my dedication. That’s okay. It doesn’t hurt my feelings.

Anymore.

Because along with finding a program that I thoroughly enjoy, I gained something incredible … a family of fans that became a family of friends, even if we are spread across this nation … and, in a couple of cases, overseas. Granted, the internet was a big proponent. Through TVGuide’s, once upon a time, wonderful website, I found people who were not only interested in talking about this show, but also encouraged me to write about my feelings, write about this show that I loved and enjoyed. I found people who went past just the program and actually cared about me as a person. People who, after the demise of our favorite spot on TVGuide.com, found alternative ways to gather, to continue to chat & discuss & check in on me and the others of our group. Friendships were forged and, as time progressed, meetings took place in person and faces were attached to names as we traveled.

So … after all this … why in the world would I sit down and declare last night that I hated this show and vow to never watch again?

I was serious. I was sobbing. I was so frustrated and filled with emotion for the episode that had just played itself out on my television screen that I wanted to throw my remote and not my Nerf ball at the television. (Nerf balls are safe, they don’t break screens the way remotes and other harder objects do.) The point had arrived that, in my brain I knew would come, yet my heart wasn’t ready and the fact that it came in the form of an episode written by one of my all time favorite Supernatural writers, Sera Gamble, is no surprise. She has wrenched my emotions before and has had me declaring my undying hatred and quest to quit watching more than once.

Of course, I might also mention here that I tend to get a bit rash in my declarations of intent when I am emotional. Most of the time I can remain calm and level, but when pushed to a point where rational thought is lost in the sea of emotion, I have been known to make some hasty remarks and last night, well, last night there was a lot of emotion going on … both on my television screen and on my couch.

Have you ever read a book in which the author crafts the most amazing and intense story, drawing you into the characters, into the world where they revolve … intensifying emotions and weaving the threads of story so tightly that suddenly you have to quit? The book isn’t finished, but you simply have to stop. You have to physically put it down … step away … take a breath and gather back your equilibrium? Sometimes it takes just a moment … a quick trip to the fridge … sometimes it takes a bit longer. Ultimately you return, you find your place and you plunge once more into the world of your imagination – colored by the words written by this gifted writer.

The same thing can happen with a piece of art … a canvas being drawn … a ceramic piece being painted … a needlework being sewn. You work so hard on it, watching it grow from a blank, empty, unformed base towards that finished product that only you can truly see inside your head, inside your imagination. Yet you reach a point where you believe it will never look the way you see it … that it is simply a mess of colors and paint and thread and has no form or pattern. You have to step away. Your emotions have gotten involved and you need to take a moment to get perspective before you can return and finish the piece of art that you are lovingly crafting.

It seems as though each season of Supernatural does the same thing for me … to me. I get so caught up in the lives of the Winchester Boys, in the adventures, in the emotions, in the story being woven – overall and seasonally – that I reach a point in the season where I have to step back, gain some perspective, and calm my heart before plunging back into the story … onto the next episode. Lucky for me, I’m always given at least a week – although those stupid hiatus’ sometimes increase that time – to get myself mentally ready to continue on this journey that Eric Kripke dreamed of and his merry band of torturers … er … um … writers/directors/actors/et al … create through dialogue, direction, atmosphere, characterization, etc.

The Song Remains the Same was the episode for this fifth season that made me stop. I’ll admit it snuck up on me. I honestly didn’t see it coming. I’m not sure why I didn’t. It always seems to be the 12th or 13th episode that catches me. Season one … it was Faith. Season two … it was Houses of the Holy. Season three … it was Jus in Bello. Season four it was Sex & Violence. And this season, season five … it was The Song Remains the Same. Each one powerfully done, tying together the emotions and the path changes of the previous episodes of that individual season, taking the journey of The Boys and thrusting them forward in their thoughts, their beliefs, their incredibly complex and yet strangely simple black and white with shades of gray world. Their beliefs are challenged. Everything they previously thought has either been altered, confirmed or discounted. The world around them leaps and distorts as they try to keep their feet planted and believe in one another because in the end, it’s just them … two brothers (well … now two brothers and an angel) journeying on a hero’s path filled with pitfalls and lined with evil on one side and good on the other.

It’s been said that there is a fine line between good and evil, between love and hate.

With those last words spoken from young Mary to her unborn son, I knew in my heart three things …

1) That I hated this show with everything I had for the way it has woven itself around and through my heart for the past 95 episodes, for making me have to wait, and guess, and hope, and angst over the possibilities of what will come based on what has come previously … twisting my emotions with laughter and delight one minute, only to be quickly followed by heartache and despair. The show is evil.

2) That I loved this show with everything I had for the way it has woven itself around and through my heart for the past 95 episodes, for taking a genre so filled with stereotypical creatures and storylines and filling it with complexities and emotions, dysfunctional family dynamic where normal is defined only by the life of the individual leading it, for weaving a story so tightly over a period of 5 years, crafting a tapestry that shows dimensions in it’s picturing of a hero’s journey and quest.

3) That I had to write. I had to write about this episode. I had things to say, threads to follow, dialogue to weep over yet again even as it tied both past and present together. I had to declare my love once again, in written word, for the character of a father who, in all actuality, has only physically been present in 11 out of 95 episodes and two of them were flashbacks, the character played by two completely different yet eerily similar looking/acting actors, yet whose presence has been felt … through the words, actions, feelings of his sons … in each and every episode.

There’s a fine line between love and hate, between good and evil.

I love that Supernatural is a program that doesn’t take the easy path, that walks the fine line in it’s creativity and presentation, that it’s characters are not always good men, but that they are human and trying to be honorable men amidst the chaos that is their lives. I hate the fact that I can’t wait to progress in this story yet I hate for it to end, I am caught in the abyss of wanting it over so I know how it ends but not wanting it to continue because once complete, it is over. Unlike a book, I can’t skip forward and read the ending before finding out how we get there.

Frankly … this show is so good, it’s evil.

However, good or evil, this episode is one that had me sobbing and marveling, laughing and scoffing but more than that … it got me doing something I haven’t done in quite awhile … rambling. I’ve found I can’t keep my thoughts away from the threads that were so adroitly tied together in this episode, the tapestry deepened, outlined, woven so tightly throughout the five seasons that the picture of this journey is fills it’s viewers with passion for the story that has come before and anticipation of what is yet to happen.

So, the ramble continues …

Odor, Oh Odor ... Wherefore Art Thou Coming From, Odor?

2010-01-08T19:55:00.005-06:00

This is not exactly what I had planned to write for my first entry of the new year, but a small note I was going to post on Facebook kinda grew and I found myself rambling and writing a blog instead.

Why I felt the need to share this embarrassing moment is beyond me, but here goes:

As some people already know, I have been having a dreadful time with this terribly nasty smell in my laundry/pantry room since returning from Mom & Dad's for Christmas. I've emptied the trash numerous times, sprayed down the room and the trash can with lysol more than I normally do in a year, I have tried getting to the sides & peeking at the back of the washer/dryer with my big flashlight to see if something was back there ... all to no avail. Finally last weekend I got a concentrated odor remover and a couple of high powered solid air freshners to see if they could help.

I figured something had died in the attic, however, since I have no way of really getting up in there and I would die of aphixiation before my landlord would come check it out, so I decided to battle the odor and pray that it would eventually go away.

Now ... at this point I should probably note that the light in my laundry/pantry has been out since Thanksgiving. I hate climbing the little ladder and getting up there to change the light, so I've procrastinated and it is still out.

*sigh*

Don't judge. I'm sure there's something you've procrastinated on. It's not like I don't know exactly where everything is in there with my eyes closed, anyhow.

Tonight I got a sudden urge (where, I don't know) to clean a few things out of the refrigerator ... this has to be done quickly because a certain small ball of white fluff loves to try and capture the big black plastic bag and rip it to shreds, thus saving me from the evil bag of garbage whilst strewing it around the living room. So, I dragged the trash can with it's diabolical liner black bag out of the laundry/pantry room, where it is kept to keep it from my fierce protector, into the kitchen, positioned it between me and the refrigerator, blocked the ball of fluff and proceeded to remove some offending pre-Christmas items from the fridge.

Again ... don't judge. Procrastination is not a completely bad thing. Think of the advances in science experiments for the young children in your household.

While doing this, I have to admit that the odor was fairly intense, but I figured it was due to the fact I was directly over the offending can, involved in the stinky business of removing some interesting items from the fridge.

Once done, I had to chase the ball of fluff to retrieve the baggie of molded swiss cheese before it caused damage to him and the house. I then went into the laundry/pantry room to get a paper bag, in order to retrieve the trash from the rest of the house. In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured at this point.

Hmmm. I'm in the laundry/pantry room and I immediately notice that the smell is no longer so intense. Turning, I look at the trash can and decide to get the trash out as quick as possible and then spray down everything yet again with lysol.

Chester and I took the trash out and then, because he's a dog, we had to spend a little quality time in the cold.

Coming back into the kitchen, the smell was more than intense ... it was making my eyes water. I hurriedly got the lysol and proceeded to spray the laundry/pantry room, the kitchen and then the can.

It was then that I noticed there was something in the bottom of the can.

Aha! Epiphany. Something had fallen out of the bag at some point, gotten caught in the can and had spoiled. I started to reach in and remove it. Then I halted and looked a little closer.

*facepalm*

There, in the bottom of my tall, Rubbermaid trashcan, were four ... count them ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... mice in various stages of decomp. Evidently they had tried to getting to the trash, only go fall between the bag and the can, land in the bottom and ... eventually ... die.

And because there was no light in the laundry/pantry room, I had not noticed when I had removed previous bags of trash.

*double sigh*

I had been rejoicing at the fact that we had not seen any signs of the meeces for quite some time and yet I had been frustrated beyond belief by the horrid smell in my laundry/pantry room.

Talk about a catch 22 situation.

No mice because they are DEAD.

Huge smell because they are DEAD.

Oy!

I'm not sad they are dead.

I am, perhaps, sad about the way they died.

I am, definitely, sad that they died and I didn't catch the clue faster.

Needless to say, the offending can has now gone out to the garage and will now go out with the trash. It's old. It needs to be replaced. And there is absolutely NO FRIGGIN' WAY it will ever come back into my house ... dead meece or no dead meece.

The rooms have been thoroughly sprayed for ... hopefully ... the last time.

My house is swiftly (how embarrassingly amazing) becoming deoderized.

The light bulb has not been changed, however.

Give me a break ... I've had a traumatic time and I'm not going to add climbing onto the small ladder to it. At this point I'd most likely fall and that would simply create another embarrassing situation I'd have to write about for a blog.

I do believe one is enough at this time.

Now ... go ahead ... laugh ... you know you want to.

I have been.

Did You Catch It Before You Blinked?

2009-12-06T11:17:00.008-06:00

I've been advised that I've been remiss in writing.

And I have.

November was one of those weird months that simply sapped the writing right out of me. However, I'd like to pretend for a moment that it is still that eleventh month of the year, if you don't mind. Sometimes I feel it gets neglected and trampled over in our rush to get from the end of summer/beginning of school (September) and exhaulting in the beauty of autumn with colorful leaves & fat pumpkins (October) to the crisp joy of Christmas (December) and the opportunity to begin anew (January).

There's something about November. It always seems to go by so fast. With 30 days, it's not the shortest month of the year, but unlike April, June, & September, I always have such plans for a leisurely month of November and, in the end, I'm scrambling to figure out where the time went.

So I'd like to spend a few moments discussing this favorite month of mine. There's no real rhyme or reason here, just some thoughts that my brain keeps making me write down on napkins and scraps of paper, an indication that I was supposed to be actually writing and not avoiding it claiming writer's block. *grins*

In the realm of holidays often overlooked, November somehow got blessed with two of them. While Memorial Day & Labor Day get all the glory of beginning and ending summer, not to mention Independence Day with it's summertime fireworks, tucked into the fall month of November is Veteran's Day. Yes, the holiday gets its share of speeches and some areas even give it a parade, but for the most part it tends to slip on by as merely a day that government employees, and some businesses, have off. Yet, like Mother's Day and Father's Day, this holiday is a time for us to honor those who have served in our armed forces, who by the very act of signing up - either as enlisted or drafted - performed a sacred duty to protect our country and all of it's citizens. Wow. Say what you will about the various wars or police actions or whatever you'd like to call them, the men and women who served during those times of uncertainty, as well as those who served inbetween during times of peace, deserve our whole-hearted respect and appreciation. My dad served, as did two of my uncles. Between the three, our family covered three branches - Army, Navy & Marines. I'm always proud of my dad, but I have to admit, when we're out either at a show or a service and they call upon our veterans to stand, there is a slight catch in my throat and a mist to my eye for knowing that my father was one of those ready to do his duty. Veteran's Day comes in November, not a good month for picnics or gatherings for fireworks, so it has to stand on it's own merits. Quiet respect for those who have simply done what needed to be done. I was lucky. All three of my veterans came home. Not all of them did.

Now I know that TECHNICALLY Thanksgiving doesn't get overlooked. However, it doesn't really get to stand on it's own two legs (or drumsticks, as the case may be) either. The last Thursday of the next to the last month of the year, Thanksgiving seems to be more and more the herald of the Christmas season and less and less the day to gather with family and friends, to count our blessings, to give thanks for this new world the pilgrims ventured towards with their meager belongings and hearts filled with hopes and prayers for the freedom to worship as they chose.

Huh.

Hmm.

Kinda interesting that the holiday that came about as a way of honoring those who bravely ventured to a new continent in order to gain religious freedom and takes place in the month prior to the month in which Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus has been subtley overshadowed by the commercialism of shopping, of preparing the lists for black Friday's gift buying and giving, of filling calendars with lavish dinners entertained by Santas. Is it me or does it seem that the meaning of Thanksgiving has been taken away, much as prayer has been taken away from our children's schools?

I found rather appalling the news reports of people who spent the entire day of Thanksgiving camped out in front of storefronts, rather than with family and friends giving thanks for the blessings that were theirs.

I may not enjoy football, but I was with my family ... my mother, my father, my brother, his lady & my two nieces ... and that alone made my heart give thanks as my house was filled with warmth, love, and happiness. Particularly after their football team won. *grins*

Yep, November holds a couple of holidays that I find particularly meaningful. It is also a life changing month in that it holds Election Day Tuesday. Strikes me as intriguing that the month that includes the time for us to give thanks for the bounty of our great nation also brings us the day where we, as citizens, are also allowed to practice the freedom to chose the leader of our city, our state, our nation. Over the years we've had some great leaders, as well as some not so great, but the one constant in all the changing is our right to be the ones to choose.

Of course, November also is a personal favorite, just from some of the anniversaries of memories it holds. It is the month I began working for a delightful young couple as the nanny to their only daughter *mumblemumble* years ago, it is the month that I purchased my very first car all by myself (okay, with a little haggling help from a friend, but the money was all mine!), it was the night before Thanksgiving I moved into my little house 12 years ago, and then there was the Backroads Roadtrip of 2008 that led to a fast, fun filled weekend in Chicago last year.

November is more than just the next to the last month of the year. It's more than just the month before Christmas. It's a blustery autumn month filled with times of rememberance, family, and blessings. A month that we should all give thanks for our leaders, are protectors, our families. Maybe if we spent a bit more time doing that than in preparing our camping gear so that we can spend the night in front of store doors, we might all come away a bit richer.

One last thing ... there's a house in my neighborhood I've previously mentioned. It always amazes me. The older couple who live there keep their yard filled with the huge air blown creations for the various holidays. They have a bear with a heart, they have a leprechan with a pot of gold, they have a giant bunny. They have all types of creatures inhabiting their yards for the various holidays. Halloween decorations this year began, I kid you not, on August 31st and as the month of September waned into October, the yard simply became more and more filled. Then on November 1st, the goblins and ghouls disappeared and drivers by were greeted by a turkey. Unfortunately, the weekend before Thanksgiving, so arrived the Christmas blowups. November was not over, the day of Thanksgiving had yet to dawn, yet Tom the Turkey had been completely overwhelmed.

Can you see the cute turkey? Much like Veterans Day, Thanksgiving and even the month of November, if you blink, you might not catch something simple but rather special.

Puppies Are Like Two Year Olds (Aka. Life With Chester)

2009-10-13T10:52:00.004-05:00

If there is one thing I know, and know well, it is two year olds.

It seems as though I have been around them all my life. Or pretty darn close to it. I have baby sat them, I have worked in their classes at daycare, I was their lead teacher in a private preschool, I was the nanny to one, and I have had dozens of them through the years at our church nursery - including my current class.

Oh ... and all three of my girlies were two at one point in their lives.

So, yeah ... I can honestly say that two year old behavior is no longer surprising. Mostly entertaining and exasperating, I love two year olds simply because they are on that teeter-totter cusp between wanting to still being a baby and trying so hard to be an independent preschooler. Favorite phrases are "wha' dat?" and "I do it mysef!" Parrots to whatever the adults in their lives say, the dreaded "NO!" makes you wonder exactly how often do they hear it. The common joke is that a child thinks his name is "No-no *insert name*!" during that second year of their lives. Two year olds are so precocious and intoxicating in their innocence and yet, with closer watching, you can see the little wheels actually turning in their head as they negotiate how to achieve what they want, whether that is getting the baby out of your lap so that they can get in it, removing the toy they wish to play with from the hands of another or negotiating how to keep you from seeing what they are truly doing at any given moment.

In the case of puppies, I'm not as familiar. I simply haven't been around them as often. However, I'm learning fast. Chester was 3 months old when he came home with me. He is now officially 6 months old. I know I'm not an expert. I still have to regularly call my "doggy guru", my friend who laughs at me and guides me when I'm unsure on a behavior or eating habit. I've made mistakes, I know this, but I'm trying.

No ... I'm not an expert on puppies by any means. However, if there is one lesson I HAVE learned, and learned well during these last 3 months, it is this - puppies are simply furry, four legged, two year olds. Don't believe me? Let me give you some examples:

1) You are NEVER alone, even in the bathroom. When The Twins were two, they were okay playing by themselves as long as I was visibly near by. The minute I went to the restroom, however, I suddenly had two attachments ... exploring the bathroom, standing right in front of me, demanding attention.

Now I have Chester ... exploring the bathroom, standing right in front of me, demanding attention. Closing the door doesn't work. In the case of The Twins, they would knock continuously while calling my name. One would be trying the door knob while the other would be crouched down trying to see under the door. In the case of Chester, there is the continuous scratching at the door, the barking out, the jumping to reach the door knob, and the belly wiggle trying to get his nose under the door.

If you have children and/or a dog ... you KNOW this is true.

2) You have to constantly watch because any and EVERYTHING goes into the mouth. Some days it seems as though I spend all of my time at church telling my kiddos to “take that out of your mouth!” I’m not exactly sure why, but for one little girl it seems as though the toy house works better if you put the people’s rounded head in your mouth. Play keys, balls, edges of blankets, edges of dresses and shirts, train steam stacks, blocks, shapes … you name it, it goes in the mouth. Some things are quickly discarded and others remain, sort of like a large rounded pacifier. Then, of course, there’s the fingers … thumbs, one finger, two fingers, the whole fist. For two year olds, a large reason for this oral fixation is because they are continuing to do a lot of teething.

So it is with Chester. Nothing is sacred. Toys, pillows, blankets, clothing (socks & shoes in particular) are all sampled through the little pup’s mouth. Some are discarded, most are not. The vet says this will start to go away in a couple months when he looses all of his baby teeth and has his full set of “adult” teeth. I’m gonna wait to see if that really happens. If it does, then hallelujah! I’ll simply give thanks that canine teething isn’t as long as human teething.

3) Simple toys are the best toys. When I was a nanny *mumblemumble* years ago, my young charge was blessed with parents that could afford to get her a plethora of books and learning toys, not to mention dolls, stuffed animals, etc. Don’t get me wrong, she really wasn’t a spoiled child, she just had all manner of toys. So it was always amusing to me when opening her presents on her birthday, her favorite gift was a pair of socks. She put them on her hands and worked them like puppets. She put them on her ears and pretended to be a puppy. She stuffed them full of pieces of other toys and used them as purses. She was blissfully happy with her socks and the remainder of the toys … well, they just stayed stacked on the table.

Chester’s favorite toy is a blue water bottle. He will carry it around, chase it, gnaw on it, bat it back and forth around on the ground – even better if he remembers to take it to the kitchen where it makes more noise. Every night when I pick up his toys and put them back in his toy basket, it doesn’t matter where I put it – top or bottom – his bottle is the first toy he gets out. Followed a close second by his beanie baby worm on a red ribbon. :-)

4) Listening skills need some work … a lot of work. Whether it is the stubborn streak of independence that is beginning to assert itself in the two year old mindset or whether it is because they simply get so intent in what they are playing/working on, two year olds don’t always respond immediately when called or told something. A few years back I had a little boy in my nursery I seriously began to wonder if was deaf, I had such a difficult time getting him to hear and listen to me. Then I caught him giving me a sly look under his bangs, cutting his eyes to the side as they looked up at me with a smirk. Oh. Yes. The little guy HEARD me tell him it was time to pick up the toys, but he wasn’t going to listen to me without some reinforcement. Time out is simply not fun when it is facing a wall and no where near the toys or books or other children.

Chester knows his name. He understands what it means when he hears the sound of keys and the word “bye-bye”. He knows the difference between the opening of the refrigerator door and the freezer door and will instantly make an appearance when the freezer door opens in the hopes of getting a coveted ice cube. Yep. My little ball of fluff does not have a hearing problem and he’s very intelligent. Which is why I know for certain that he is simply not listening to the words “no”, “stop”, “quit”, and “quiet” come out of my mouth when he is in the act of doing something I don’t want him to be doing, particularly when he does actually pause and/or look at me when I issue the commands. Nope. My little guy requires reinforcement at times and, hopefully, he will learn to understand I mean what I say. A short quick spurt from a water bottle has been effective. Recommended by a friend with very well trained dogs, we’ll see how this goes.

5) It may take a master engineer to put something together, but it only requires a two-year old or a puppy to take it apart. Many *mumblemumble* years ago, I had the opportunity to work for a time at a “then” state-of-the-art preschool center. It was designed for Zales Corporation in Dallas and developed to provide quality preschool on-site for Zales employee’s children, 3 months through 5 years. I was the lead teacher for their two year old class and had 18 children … 12 of whom were boys. We had a wonderful playground area right outside of our room, complete with the coolest swings/slide/climbing apparatus seen at that time. The kids loved it. It was a great area and easy to control, every area visible so that it was easy to keep an eye on all the kids. When we would go outside, I always had at least one, if not two, helpers. It didn’t matter. Invariably those tiny little two year old minds and fingers, working together were able to remove swings from chains or safety cushions from climbing areas. I would have to use a set of pliers or a Phillips head screwdriver to replace these objects, but with their nimble persevering little fingers, they would promptly take them apart again.

Chester is the master at disassembling. There is no magazine staple or glued binding able to withstand this little pup’s page removal. Rolls of toilet paper are no match for him. The perforations are quickly and easily torn and shredded. Trashcans lose their abilities to hold trash, sofas lose their stuffing. Then there are shoe laces. Bound at the ends by hard plastic and tied in double knots, these strings are nothing but momentary puzzles to be sorted by my little guy. He is the master champ at unraveling, uprooting, and undoing anything. I love his ingenuity. I sigh over the clean up that follows, not to mention the necessity in purchasing more shoelaces.

6) Remember the 1980’s Matthew Broderick movie, “WarGames” and the classic line – “Shall we play a game?”? The line is actually “spoken” by the computer that had been programmed to “play games” and win, thus “learning” strategy and providing a foundation for the computer to predict outcome. Children love to play games … they love to play and in reality, their “play” is actually work, because they are constantly learning THROUGH play. They love it even more when the grown up in their life takes the time to play with them, their little bodies seem to quiver with excitement, big eyes watching and waiting. I always loved to play with my oldest girlie when she was two. We would spend Friday nights and Saturdays, simply reading and playing and watching Disney Sing-Along videos, and yes, we DID sing along. Each and every single time to each and every single song. It might have seemed like all we were doing is singing and playing and singing WHILE we played, but I can’t help wonder at times if those times we spent playing and singing didn’t play an unknowingly strategic part in laying the foundation for that same girlie to develop such a love for music that she is now in college studying it. Something to ponder.

While Chester isn’t human, and therefore isn’t college bound, he does have a love of play and, in his playing, he is constantly learning. His total delight when I get down on the floor and play with him is evident in his body language … head down, butt in the air, tail wagging 90 miles an hour as he prepares to pounce. The most fun we have is playing fetch … he never knows which direction I am going to throw the toy or ball and his entire body quivers with the anticipation. I love to watch him fly down the hall to retrieve the toy and then his eager return to me to do it all over again. No, my ball of fluff may not go to college, but I believe he’s getting a good foundation in observing which keeps him smart … retrieving which keeps him active … and returning to me which keeps him safe in a sense of security.

7) At the end of the day, don’t we all simply want to be loved and cuddled and feel a sense of security? I realize I’m not two years old, but I know I do. This sense is even stronger for a two year old. The world is a big and scary place for grown ups. Imagine it from a perspective of two feet tall and not near as much understanding of what’s going on in the world today. Even as they strive so hard for that sense of independence, a two year old can only gain that sense in a healthy manner if it comes with a sense of security. In my nursery I have a little one whose mom has to place her in my lap before she can leave. My tiny tot has learned that her mom will return, but in the meantime, my lap is a place of security. It doesn’t take long, a few minutes usually, and then she is able to hop down and play on her own, her independence renewed. Yet, when fingers get smushed, or chairs tip over, then it is a quick return to Ms. Cindy’s lap to cuddle, to be loved, to gain back that sense of security in the world. I have to admit, I adore those moments. I miss them when the child passes two and, as independence grows, so does the need for the cuddling. I delight that their sense of security has grown stronger, but … well … I miss the loving cuddles! My memories are strong of a tiny girl who preferred to take her morning nap while nestled on my chest because she was scared of the shadows in her big new bedroom and big new bed. Saturday mornings with my oldest girlie provided a time of cuddling, love, and security as she would nestle with me on the couch and we would watch cartoons. The Twins would end our Saturdays in my Lazy Boy rocker, one on each armrest, heads nestled down on each of my shoulders as we would read the latest adventures of Dr. Seuss. Two year olds are simply built to receive and give unconditional love with those who provide a safe haven, a sense of security – whether it’s a parent, a teacher, a nanny, or simply a friend.

My little ball of white fluff is similar in so many ways … so tiny that the world becomes a strange and scary place. Even as he strives to protect me fiercely, he does so from a place of security provided underneath my legs as I stand or sit. When I arrive home from a long day at work, he does not settle until he has been picked up and cuddled for a time, nestled firmly against my chest as I scratch his chin or ear. All through our evenings or days, he is my constant companion. Independent enough to explore and play, as long as I remain where I was at the time he left, and quick to return to my side if I move to a different area. He is secure in the knowledge that I am “his human” and I will provide his needs. In return, he gives me such a fierce devotion and love in his own manner. When sadness creeps in and tears fall, he is right there … nuzzling my neck and licking my chin. It’s not exactly the same as the hug from a little one, but it’s a comfort and a warm sense of not being alone. And at the end of the day, comfort in the form of furry love and cuddles is definitely not a bad thing. :-)

I have other areas of comparison between your basic pint-sized two year olds and my ball of fluff, however I think I’ve rambled long enough (you soooo don’t want me to get into the similarities of potty training). Plus, you get the picture … puppies and two year olds … both filled with mischief, curiosity, stubbornness, and an enjoyment of all things in life.

Messing with My Saturday Viewing! A Mini Sternly Worded Letter

2009-09-19T10:07:00.003-05:00

It's Saturday morning and I'm not happy.

Well, I AM happy - the sun is shining for the first time in over a week, my pup and I are harmoniously sharing a peaceful morning after a busy Friday evening, and I've been satisfying my writing itch this morning which always makes me a happy camper.

However, it is now 10am and I put away my writing, made my cup of tea, got my muffin and settled down with pup at feet to watch one of my favorite hours of television: PBS's Everyday Baking followed by America's Test Kitchen. However, this is not to be. Seems as though my Everyday Baking has been turned into some kind of food trip with some guy in Tuscany.

This does not please me!

This threatens to take away my happy!

Therefore, I am doing what any self-respecting crazy writer would do ... I am having a mini-rant via a sternly worded letter.

Dear Public Broadcasting System:

Just last month, you spent your AugustFest asking for support from viewers like me in order to bring me the shows I enjoy watching. I don't care for AugustFest simply because it changes the order of programming, but I understand it's importance - much like your fest in March each year - to gain those ever important dollars to bring quality programming for families and kids and people ... like me. So I gave my support ... it wasn't very much, but it was what I could afford, and I waited for the schedule to come back to normal and it did.

Now you've changed it again and there's no festival going on!!!

Every Saturday morning I spend one hour with my television. One. I spend it watching Everyday Baking (which took over for my other favorite - Everyday Cooking) and then America's Test Kitchens. I love these shows!! Much like Julia Child's show of past, they give me recipes ... but they also teach me ... they teach me techniques, they teach me the why and how of mixing, they teach me how ingredients blend together bringing all senses into the act of cooking, not just taste.

Most importantly, they are for people like me ... here in Northeastern Oklahoma ... cooking for me and my family and my friends. Just regular folks who like regular food.

Now you've taken away my Everyday Baking and replaced it with this "Food Trip with Todd English". Well, no offense to Todd English ... his visit to a medieval castle and market and food looks lovely, but ... um ... I AM NOT LIVING IN A MEDIEVAL CASTLE!! I don't have a professional fry vat. I'm not going to be making food such as he is waving on a plate on my television screen.

It's a lovely program ... but it is a TRAVEL program ... not a food preparation program. I might have watched and enjoyed it in conjunction wtih Rick's "Mexico: One Plate at at Time". That would be a good pairing. Both traveling and cooking mixed together and, while I might be able to attempt some of Rick's cooking easier, both are still not my style of baking and cooking.

I'm disappointed PBS. I'm not a happy viewer. You have let me down.

My hour of viewing is now 30 minutes. I don't want to watch Food Trip. It might be a good show, but not for me at this point. Not at 10am when I am wanting to learn how to make moist Raisin Bran Muffins for breakfast.

Thank you for letting me add my voice ... even if it is an unhappy one. Now, I'm going to watch Christopher & the gang at ATK ... unless you've changed that one too.

Sincerely,

One Hour of Cooking Happy No More

Washing Machine Pennies Have Been Spent

2009-09-13T21:05:00.004-05:00

Tragedy struck just before Christmas 2007.

No ... not talking about my car accident. That WAS tragic but I'm referring to the death of a washing machine.

MY washing machine. The one that I had purchased 10 years earlier when I had moved into this little house. It had been faithful and then it was dead.

Great.

Atleast the dryer still works.

So, I began the task of loading up the laundry every week ... or more ... and heading out to the laundromat to wash the clothes. There's one that is less than a mile from my house and it is in a nicely lit area, clean and run by an older gentleman that doesn't say much but is always friendly.

I also began the task of saving up my pennies to purchase a new one.

Let's face it. Taking the laundry away from the house is not the greatest of fun.

After *mumblemumble* years of living in apartment complexes and carting the laundry basket across parking lots, down to basements, around to offices, my joy was extreme when upon moving to Tulsa all those years ago, I found an apartment that actually had the washer and dryer in the apartment. Not just the hook up. The actual machines.

Awesome.

I vowed then and there that I wouldn't be one to ever not have a "laundry room" again. Kept that vow for many years.

Until the darn washing machine decided that while the water could go in and the water could go out, if I wanted the clothes to be washed, I had to move that agitator in the middle by myself.

Yes. Because that was going to happen.

Nope ... washing machine was placed to the top of the list of things that I really, really, REALLY want to own, moving to a spot even higher than an HD television and DVR. There are some basic priorities. However, my priorities must be a bit off, because here I am, one year and 9 months later and I still am taking the laundry to the laundry mat ever 10 days to two weeks. (I bought more lingerie - that gives me atleast 14 days before I get desperate - I'm not completely stupid.)

I will admit. I have actually had the possibility of purchasing a washer 3 times since it died. Yep. Three times I have literally had in my hot little hand the amount of money necessary to purchase a machine that could live inside my house and wash my clothes, never having to load them into their respective bags and into the car and out to the laundromat in the rain, the sleet, the snow, the ice, the humidity, the heat, the wind ... well ... you get the picture.

So, why am I still wandering out into the dark of night to take my clothing to the public place where a variety of humanity gather to do this thing called laundry?

Because the President will not make it a federal law that nudity should be instituted nationwide.

Um. No ... that's not true. Just a pipe dream when it's late, I'm tired, and I don't want to but I've washed and rinsed in the sink for three nights and now, in addition to being out of lingerie, I'm also out of outerwear. For some reason my manager refuses to accept my pitiful "should only be seen in the darkness of my own home" clothing as actual "Business Casual". I'm thinking narrow-minded, but then ... she's probably right.

No, the three times were judgement calls ... I had the money ... I could have been responsible ... but I wasn't ... yet, I can't say that they were irresponsible because the three items I received I could not have gotten at any other time and because of them, my life has been filled with much joy, contentment, and happiness.

First ... the washing machine money was used to make my original ticket purchase to my first, and likely only, Supernatural Convention. While the trip morphed into something completely different than originally planned, it would not have occured at all if not for that stash of cash that I had saved and I would not have had a roadtrip week filled with such fun, culminating in the pleasure of squeeing like a little fangirl and having the opportunity to hug and put faces to some special people who have become such special friends.

Nope. That judgement call brought much joy and wouldn't be traded for anything, washing machine included.

Second ... the washing machine money was used last Christmas in a time of financial tightness to allow me to do two things - enjoy being the giver at Christmas, something I truly love and usually am able to do the way I plan, as well as paying up all of my bills and starting the new year off without struggling to find a way to make ends meet. It's not very glamorous but it was a wonderful feeling to start the new year without worrying about the rent and utilities.

Nope. That judgement call brought too much contentment to ever be considered less important than the ease a washing machine would bring.

Third ... the washing machine money was gathered earlier this summer and I actually went and looked at a couple to see about the possibility. Then a dream became achievable and all thoughts of washing machines went completely out of my head and into my house came a small 4.5 pound ball of white fluff I named Chester. He's grown a bit more in the two months I've had him. He is now up to 5.5 lbs and is a bit bigger than the minute size he used to be. He has also discovered a love of going bye-bye, has an extremely aggressive foot fettish at times (he'll actually work to remove both shoes and socks so he can lick and nibble toes and ankles), will fly through the house playing Superman with any piece of paper or magazine he can possibly get hold of, and believes that toilet paper is an actual food group. He also licks my face and gives me kisses, nestles between my legs as we sleep, crawls onto my head and whimpers during a thunder/lightning storm, and has the sweetest way of rubbing his eyes and head awake with his paws when the alarm goes off in the morning. He delights my heart when he begs me to pick him up upon arriving home and he fills a wonderful spot that keeps my house from being empty.

Nope. That judgement call was the best one yet for it has brought me great happiness - even as I sit here writing and watch him dash through the living room with a trail of toilet paper streaming from the bathroom behind him.

*sigh*

So, my savings priority remains to gather enough pennies to purchase a washing machine. I'm not worried. I know that it will happen when the time is right. Sometimes you just have to look at the bigger picture of what is more important. For me it was the joy of a once in a lifetime trip, the contentment of ending a year with a fun Christmas and beginning a year without stress, and the happiness found in a small, furry companion who laughs at me, drives me crazy, and most of all depends on me to be responsible for his safety and welfare while at the same time giving me complete and utter devotion.

Meanwhile, I am still loading up my bags and heading out to the laundromat every once in a while ... meeting the most entertaining and interesting people imaginable.

But that's for another time. Right now someone is advising me he wants to play ... and I am remembering that even though it's washed, it still has to be dried, folded and put away. And since I'm home, I'd best get to that.

Laboring? Not Today!!

2009-09-07T10:04:00.005-05:00

It's been *mumblemumble* years ago, but I once had a kiddo in my preschool class ask me how did the stork know to bring all the babies on one day. I was perplexed and I guess I looked it, because this sincere little face looked at me and further asked if all the babies are born on the same day, then why did all the kids in his class have different birthdays.

Can a person look even more perplexed than previously? Cause I have to tell you, I did.

The inquisitive young soul then advised me that his mommy's labor day was coming soon. He knew this because his daddy had said that his mommy would labor and then he would have a baby brother or sister.

The light dawned.

It was Friday and I had been talking to my little class about the fact that we would not be having preschool on Monday because it was Labor Day. My little guy's mother was pregnant and due at any time. His father had told him she would "go into labor".

So, the equation began to make sense. Mommy's who are pregnant have a special holiday named for when they go pick up the new baby brother/sister from the stork and bring them home.

Don't you love the convoluted and yet, intriguing, mind of a 4 year old preschooler?

It is Labor Day today and, while there are possibly many, many, MANY women out there who are delivering a child (we won't go into the stork factor *grins*) today, this holiday was not specifically designed with them in mind.

It is also not a holiday specifically designed to signal the end of summer, the beginning of school and/or professional football season, the last weekend to wear white until Easter, the eating of grilled meats, picnics, boating on the lake, last minute vacations, simply sleeping late because you don't have to work, or the only weekend the stores will ever, ever, EVER have prices THIS low. (please insert sarcastic smirk here ... thank you)

Not that all those things haven't been attached to this weekend, in some form or another, but that is not the actual reason for the holiday.

Like every other holiday, it has been commercialized and/or twisted from one ideal to another. Easter is not actually about bunnies and eggs ... Thanksgiving is not actually about turkey and football ... Christmas is not actually about santas and presents ... well, okay ... it is about presents - but only in the truest sense of the Word - due to Christ's birth being the biggest gift ever - however that's the point of a blog for another time, today's rambling words are referencing Labor Day.

So ... moving forward ... I knew that Labor Day had begun as a celebration of the work force, however, to be honest, I wasn't completely sure when/how it came into being. So I did a bit of looking around. Here's what I found:

Per the U.S. Department of Labor ... "Labor Day, the first Monday in September, is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."

Hmm.

Per PBS.org ... "The observance of Labor Day began over 100 years ago. Conceived by America's labor unions as a testament to their cause, the legislation sanctioning the holiday was shepherded through Congress amid labor unrest and signed by President Grover Cleveland as a reluctant election-year compromise."

Okie dokie.

Per Wikipedia ... (no quote here, I'm gonna do a bit of summerizing) ... the holiday originated in Canada out of labor disputes in the 1870s and was brought to America after labor leader Peter J. McGuire witnessed one of these labor festivals in Toronto. The first labor day was celebrated on September 5, 1882 in New York City. Once all 50 states had made labor day a state holiday, each year street parades were organized to celebrate the labor forces and were followed by festivals for the workers and their families.

All righty then.

Evidently the family picnics and the gatherings of peoples ... on land or water ... are originally parts of this holiday. Of course, there should also be parades, political speeches and tributes for the working force of this country. That part must have gotten lost amongst the sales for washers and dryers, the packing away of white shoes and clothing, and the clogging of the highways returning from that last vacation before settling in for a season of NFL football.

Granted, the plight of the workers is not as deathly as the 1880's, nor do striking workforces riot, burn, & pillage causing state and federal forces to respond in force. Yet, we do have a recession right now, unemployment is rampant, and poverty/homelessness is epidemic.

Perhaps we SHOULD take atleast a few minutes to actually think about what this day means as we make up the potato salad and fire up the grill after we slept in until noon ... on this day we take as the proverbial end of summer ... don't get me started on the fact that autumn does not begin until September 22nd which means we still have 15 days before the ACTUAL end of summer ... I'll wait for another blog to ramble on that. Right now I have to go back to watching dvds in my jammies, eating a donut, and enjoying a lazy afternoon with girlies and pup before going back to work tomorrow.

:-)

Happy Labor Day!

Hi! Remember Me? Well ... I'm Back.

2009-09-01T21:30:00.006-05:00

Hmm. Checking the date of my last entry, I'm going to say that the phrase "I haven't been writing much lately" is a bit of an understatement. I've had thoughts and ideas ... I've made notes and started entries ... yet not really finished anything recently. I've actually been fussing at myself that I need to get back to it, however, as you can tell by the date of my last entry, that hadn't happened.

Then, this weekend, I went to the movies with my favorite Twinkles. After a couple weeks of anticpation, we went to see Julie & Julia. It's a wonderful, quirky movie that I thoroughly enjoyed. One of my favorite shows on PBS was always Julia Child's cooking show reruns and, although I love America's Test Kitchens, it's not the same. So I was delighted to see how remarkably well Meryl Streep portrayed the infamous chef. The quirk of her mouth, the riotous laughter, the stiff way she seemed to turn and acknowledge the world around her, not to mention her passion for good food and her forthright manner ... Ms. Streep had them down perfectly! Amy Adams portrayed Julie. I'm not familiar with her, nor have I read her book, although I have now added it to my Barnes & Noble wish list because I definitely want to. However, not being familiar with her character does not mean that I wasn't impressed and didn't enjoy her portrayal of a young married woman, unhappy with her lack of writing success ... her husband says she IS a writer ... she retorts that you aren't a writer if you aren't published. The end result is she begins to write a blog ... a blog about something she is passionate about ... cooking ... specifically GOOD, rich cooking such as Julia Childs wrote about in her cookbook. Julie sets herself a goal ... she will blog and cook her way through Julia's cookbook over the course of a year. By the end of the year, she had not only created everything in the cookbook, but she had also found herself.

I loved that.

Now, I'm not lost, nor am I depressed or feeling like a failure. But this movie struck a chord in me when Julie was not to be swayed from her blogging goals ... her writing.

I have let myself be swayed and I have missed it.

So, after giving it some though, I decided that I would once again take up blogging. I'm not guaranteeing an entry every single day, but I AM going to write atleast twice a week for atleast a year. The saying goes that you must do something consistently for a year before it becomes a habit. This is a habit I wish to cultivate, since writing is something I truly enjoy.

Therefore, I opted to begin today. It's September 1st. I felt it was a good day to start.

I also decided that I want to do this here, in my little blogger ramble room. It's where I originated and it's still the place I feel most comfortable. I miss writing for TVGuide.com and so I have moved my Supernatural writing (another area that has suffered that I am going to renew) to my livejournal address. If anyone is interested in it, let me know and I'll forward the address. I have a Facebook address and I enjoy it as well, but that is for quick jots and thoughts, and I want some place I can ... well ... ramble my thoughts. Some can be shorter than others, but most are definitely longer than Facebook gives room for, unless you write "a note" and I haven't gotten the hang of that or the comfort factor in it yet. And let's face it, I only Plurk because it's the place my Supernatural friends have migrated to and I would miss them too much if I didn't wander around in there occasionally but that is soooo not the place for long rambles. Twitter, well, it just scares me. I might check a page I know about, but me? tweet? *shakes head* yeah, I don't think so.

That brings me to here. This place. I created it long ago and maybe some have forgotten it's here, maybe not. But I'm gonna open it back up today ... air it out ... and re-establish it. I hope that someone will enjoy it, but if not ... that's okay too. My philosophy when I started was simply to be writing for myself. That is the pleasure of putting down thoughts. If someone were to read and enjoy as well ... well, that is just the hot fudge on top of the sundae.

So, this is me, getting re-started. Same person as before - just a bit older, which I don't mind. I love getting older. I refuse to get "old". Trust me. There IS a difference! I still have three girlies I'm passionate about, three nieces I love dearly, parents and brother and friends who love, support, annoy, and make life bearable, a car that brings me joy, and a job that drives me nuts and fulfills me at the same time. I still am a HUGE fan of the show Supernatural and Thursdays are still my favorite day of the week.

Now add to the mix the arrival of a small white ball of fluff named Chester and I am complete.

I'm back now. I guess, like Julie in the movie, this makes me sound a bit narcissistic. I don't mean to be, however, according to my book on writing, you should write about what you know. Well, I know me and I know my point of view on the world around me. So, that's where I'm going to get started. Who knows what may come of this or where it will lead? (Hopefully back to the book that I seriously did start a couple years ago that has been laying around collecting electronic dust in the folder on my computer, but I'm not jumping into the deep end just yet.)

I simply know that I've set myself a goal and I want to see it through. If you'd like to journey with me, then it's hot fudge sundaes on me (or whatever your favorite treat of choice)!

Thanks for stopping by. Please come again.

Guiding Light ... Farewell and Thanks for the Picnics

2009-07-03T23:22:00.003-05:00

This morning I had the television on while I was working around the house. It was kinda silly from the stand point that I had the volume muted and was enjoying the sounds of a couple of my favorite CDs. Still, the movement of people playing on game shows, the young being restless, and the noontime news accompanied my cleaning and cooking, as I listened to the rock of some favored classics. Afterwards, characters that continue to have the world turning kept me company while I cleaned up and got ready to adventure outside for a while in the afternoon.

Turning off the music and slipping into some shoes, I went to the television to darken its screen when the scene caught my attention and I was helpless to do anything but take a seat and simply watch for a bit.

It was 2pm central time on CBS and The Guiding Light was broadcasting their annual Fourth of July show – a complete hour with the Bauer family and friends and their annual picnic. Even though it has been years since I actually sat and watched this show, it still tugs my heart. This was a program from my earliest memories as a child at home with my mom. After lunch I would “nap” upon the couch as my mom enjoyed her afternoon show while folding clothes or writing letters. As I grew older, I could only see it during school breaks and summer. When I got my first VCR, it was one of the programs I would enjoy taping and watching in those evening hours after work, till time passed and my attention wavered.

Still, each year, the Bauer family Fourth of July picnic always seems to catch my eye, even as it did today.

Today was made even more nostalgic and caused heart to catch as I watched these characters interact … grilling (and burning) the infamous Bauer burgers, playing catch, living and loving as only a soap opera characters can do … many of them characters I remembered growing up with … Bauers, Spauldings, Lewis, Shanes … they were all represented, most of they by the actors and actresses who originated their portrayals.

Today was nostalgic because this is the last one. There will be no more Bauer family picnics.

CBS has cancelled its long running soap and this fall The Guiding Light will be turned off and the stories and characters will become memories to those who remember a different era.

I truly did love The Guiding Light and while some of its stories were a bit fantastic or convoluted, at their heart, the show’s stories were of family. Of faith, belief, and traditions – something that always seems to catch my attention. As the show began to wind down today, they did a series of flashbacks which were wonderful to see, yet they also ended it the way they always did. More than any other program I have ever seen, The Guiding Light was traditional in that they always broadcast a Fourth of July episode, no matter which day of the week the fourth fell on and they always, no matter who was divorcing, loving, in jail, fleeing the country, plotting a murder or takeover or planning a marriage … they ALWAYS had a picnic at the Bauer house.

And the episode always ended with one of the Bauer family members making the annual toast to this great nation and to the family and friends surrounding them.

Rick Bauer, grandson of the original Berta Bauer … the matriarch of the family that came to America to live the American dream … gave the heart stirring toast this year to life and liberty, to those who gave their lives defending this great country and the freedoms we enjoy each day. He gave thanks to God for his grandma and made me cry. Then there was the scene with Reva Shane and her daddy, Hank singing along with The Star Spangled Banner as more flashbacks were shown. It wasn’t perfect or even always in tune, but it was heartfelt and had me singing along as well.

I’m glad that I was home today and that this episode caught my attention. When it comes to the Fourth of July, we often think of the big things … of the American Revolution, of the Declaration of Independence, of the wars fought, the soldiers who have lost their lives defending the freedoms we enjoy each day … and we should, for they are the foundation … the reason for the holiday to even exist. Along with the big things, we find ourselves enjoying the little things … the family get-togethers, the fireworks, the swimming or other activities, the picnics or dinners. These are some of the freedoms this day represents and we should always remember to give thanks for them. I love the fact that this program was one that never ignored this holiday – that celebrated it each year and always remembered to give thanks for those who made it possible.

I realize it’s simply a television program. However, The Guiding Light was, and is, a show about family and life, about traditions and faith. It has been cancelled. It will be missed.

It’s interesting. Isn’t that part of the foundation – the reasoning – behind fighting all these years for the freedoms America represents?

Family

Life

Tradition

Faith

Long may they continue and never be cancelled.

Memorial Day Weekend - Gratitude, Bunnies, and Patriotic Pie

2009-05-25T09:02:00.004-05:00

Here's a line that some will find amusing and some will wonder at my sanity, but in either case, for me, the sentiment remains this holiday weekend.

It's all about the pie.

Yep. You read that right.

Memorial Day.

An American holiday to commemorate the American casualties in any war or military action in which our country has taken part.

A salute to those brave soldiers who fought for the freedoms we as a nation hold dear.

Larger freedoms such as those of speech and religion.

Smaller freedoms such as the right to picnic when the sun is shining and grill our favorite food of choice, be it hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken, ribs, or whatever suits our tastebuds.

Like pie.

Yeah, I know, it's strange the way my mind works at times.

I'll be honest ... my first thought as this weekend approached was more a gleeful anticipation of three days away from the office, a time to rest and recoup after a week of non-stop activities, both during office hours and long into the evenings after hours, than the actual meaning behind the holiday.

I knew about the raising of the flags ceremony at our local cemetary and looked forward to driving the winding trails at some point this weekend or week as they are lined with the billowing flag.

I always enjoy watching and listening to the National Memorial Concert broadcast on PBS from Washington, DC on the weekend's Sunday night, hearing the music that honors our soldiers and it never fails to stir the pride in my heart.

Most important of all, I fully acknowledge, support, and deeply, DEEPLY appreciate our nation's veterans both living and deceased. It is through their fierce dedication and protection that I am able to sit here at my computer with my windows wide open, enjoying the peace and solitude, listening to the birds and insects backing up my iTunes playlist of classic rock and write these words, these thoughts, these feelings.

Yet I'm also honest enough to admit that this weekend my first thought was not in flag waving. I wanted to simply ... be.

Yes, I did make a list of some chores that do need to be accomplished but I wasn't sweating the timing. There is no enemy approaching that will be thwarted by whether or not I dust & vacuum my living room. (A word of warning ... first person who snidely remarks about my being able to thwart my allergy enemies by accomplishing this chore will be the recepient of my right to bear arms - even if they are verbal arms and not actual bullet discharging weapons.)

A simple, peaceful weekend to relax, to read, to write, to think thoughts and sleep naps.

I didn't know I was going to have a visitor hop by.

Literally.

In the middle of the afternoon Saturday, a flash of shadow out of the corner of my eye had me fearing that a mouse (or squirrel or cat or worse) had decided to take advantage of my fresh air addiction and come in to check out the house. A prowl of the bedrooms and bathrooms brought nothing more to light than the fact that I had yet to accomplish a couple other chores on my list. A quiet, still stance of some time brought no auditory shadows ... rustling of papers, clothes, or anything that might suggest a creature would be attempting to take up residence. So, I returned to the living room and quietly sat reading while intermittently casting an eye towards the hallway.

Imagine my surprise when this itty bitty creature seemed to be peering round the corner of the hall entry. Sitting perfectly still, I watched as the tiny bunny ventured further into my living room ... stopping moment by moment ... it's little nose twitching and body still. I was entranced.

I spoke. A quiet greeting ... "Hello, little one."

It looked towards me and seemed to be listening.

So I talked some more.

At first quiet encouragements to head towards the doorway still open, then ... as it continued to sit and watch me ... listening ... other non-sensical queries and comments that if I were to publish them would simply give further proof that I ... well ... not gonna publish them, so you'll just have to guess on that part. *grins*

Needless to say, it didn't head towards the door.

I got up ... it scampered back to the bedrooms. *sigh*

After making some preparations, I again sat quietly and waited on my itty bitty baby bunny to make an appearance. Sure enough, after some time, it hopped itself out into the living room and then under a table. Okay. Not out the door, but away from the hallway.

Hallway is now blocked.

I sit and watch and, again, quietly talk with my little guest.

Baby Bunny decides it wants to go back to the rooms to play. I can't even begin to describe the incredible cuteness of it's discovery of the blocked hallway. Stopping it's flight to the bedrooms just barely an inch from careening headfirst into the wall I'd erected, it first sat and simply looked. It went to one side. It seemed to cock it's head in puzzlement and went to the other side. It then sat up on his little haunches, as though to try and peer over it. The fact that it was completely taken aback by this new arrival was obvious. Unfortunately, as I made my way towards it, it sped off in a different direction. This time underneath a corner table.

My eldest girlie stopped by on her way to work in order to have a look at my petite visitor. After some moments of coaxing and prodding, she was able to get Baby Bunny out from the corner under the table.

To behind the refrigerator.

*sigh*

Blocked the hallway. Forgot to block the kitchen.

Girlie had to go to work. I was left with Baby Bunny.

After a time my pint-sized guest came out from behind the refrigerator. In a sweet repeat, it tried to once again go back to it's previous spot, this time under the table, only to find the pathway blocked. Bunny curiously tried to get around the blockage before giving up and wandering the living room.

I decided to simply relax and enjoy the visit. I had my tiny companion effectively barred from passage to areas it could hide permanently. As it ventured ... exploring the area ... we talked - or rather, I talked, it listened with a seeming cunning attentiveness. I had snack of pasta salad ... it nibbled a small carrot I laid out for it. We seemed to enjoy each other's company. We both listened and watched as one of the forecasted rain showers was dispersed around my house for a brief, intense time.

Then it was, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen and darken, I looked up from my reading to see that my tiny visitor had finally made it's way to the doorway. I simply watched as it sat for a time, looking out the door, a miniature shadow in silhouette against the waning of the light outside. It was as though it knew that our visit was over and the time had arrived for it to go home.

It hopped out the door.

I went back to my Memorial Day weekend.

A relaxing, quiet weekend to wave my flag and enjoy the freedom to give thanks for those who gave their lives fighting in order that I might do so.

A simple, peaceful weekend to grill some favorites, to read a book, to do some writing, to watch a favorite television show.

A traditional weekend, ushering in the summer with my favorite cool summer holiday dessert ... a pie. Not just any pie ... a pie that is light and fluffy, perfect for those approaching warm days of summer. Not to filling, a perfect match to a dinner of grilled meat and tasty salads. A patriotic pie of red, white, and blue to match the holiday.

Yep. That's how my mind works ... in the end ... after the flag waving and bunny visiting ... it's all about the pie.

It's Thursday, But It's Not Supernatural

2009-05-21T03:36:00.006-05:00

Excuse me a moment, before I get started here. Please note: I realize I usually post my Supernatural blogs on my LJ or BFZ spots, however, this one is a bit different than my normal Supernatural stuff and I REALLY wanted it to be here as well. Hence the reason why I'm posting it here. Okay????

It’s the first Thursday after the season finale and I had a plan.

Actually … I still have a plan.

It is a plan that was something to help get me … and hopefully entertain you as well … through the endlessness that is called “Supernatural Summer Hiatus”.

However, today’s initial publication has been interrupted by the Broken Arrow Public School System.

*grins*

I don’t know why you would be surprised. Those of you who have been around awhile know they’ve been doing to me for years. Heck, those who have been around a short time probably still know about it. Having three girlies … one in choir and two in band … means having activities to attend. Yet somehow, the BA school system automatically always seemed to know exactly when Thursday night would present, not only a new episode of Supernatural, but usually an episode that was key to the mythological storyline, thus making it twice as enticing.

However … as I am constantly advised by the youngest of my girlies (with hands on hips, toss of hair, and glaring eye – all she need is the tapping toe – scary!) … the three of them are indeed more important than any television program, even Supernatural. That doesn’t mean to say that I haven’t become excelled at strategic cut and run parking and hugging/kissing/dashing at the end of a program. And it sure doesn’t mean that my sweet Baby has become an expert streak at navigating the road from school program to home in minutes. It also doesn’t mean that my girlies don’t roll their eyes as I make my departure, and then quiz me the next day … begging to see the newest episode and determine for themselves whether it was good or not.

However, my girlies … well … they are my heart and they are my soul and they ARE more important than a Supernatural episode. (Shhh! Don’t’ tell them!) Therefore, today … the Broken Arrow School System and my eldest girlie are allowed to interrupt this blog originally designed to be my introductory Supernatural blog for my summer ramble room.

Today … tonight … at 7:30pm (CST) … my eldest girlie will be entering an auditorium with her graduating class of 2009 to receive her high school diploma.

Proud doesn’t even begin to describe the way I feel about this young lady.

I could spend some time and tell you about her accomplishments, for they are many.

I could spend some time and tell you about her years of band – the awards, the parades, the concerts, the practicing in my garage when she was just beginning.

I could spend some time and tell you about her years of softball, games, practices, getting dirty and scraped and loving every minute of it.

I could spend some time and tell you about her love for her cat, her enjoyment of reading, of heckling her younger sisters, of sleeping past noon, of listening to music, of playing games, of drawing, of watching the “The Lion King” over and over and over and over and over.

I could spend time and tell you of her years growing in God’s grace, of watching her grow, grasping the concepts presented and understanding God’s love for her as His own child.

I could spend time and tell you several things about this child whom I held the day she was born … a gift from heaven … delivered as a blessing to my heart and a delight to my soul.

However that would take more words than I can post without once again breaking the blogosphere. I’ve done it once, I won’t do it again.

I will simply tell you that there is no greater feeling for me than to have this child’s arms encircle me and lay her head upon my shoulder … there is no more feeling of completeness than to hear the words at the end of a phone call – “I love you, too” … there is no greater joy than to be rewarded by a sweet smile, a twinkling eye, a wicked grin, or a snarky comment during times spent together.

She is precious.

And tonight, she will be doing the walk across the stage and be given her diploma (or the semblance of it until final grades are tallied – not that there’s a question, but there are procedures), thus marking the end of one journey and embarking on another. Accepted to an awesome university, next fall she will be moving onward – learning more about life, about people, about the world around her – towards her dreams, some fulfilled, others changed, others evolving.

And tonight, I’ll be in the audience … watching the young blonde girl cross the stage in her cap and gown and seeing the small girl with shiny gold hair and tiny hands clutching tightly to the plastic play spoons as she sits on my kitchen counter on a Saturday morning “helping” me make Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast before we settle ourselves on the couch for yet another viewing of Disney’s “The Lion King”. I will be watching the spirited young girl, smiling and laughing amidst her friends and peers and seeing the little girl who would place her hands on each side of my face, look me in the eye and tell me in her little girl voice that I was her “bestest friend ever”.

Nope. Proud just doesn’t quite cover the feelings I have for this young girl. I don’t think words ever truly describe them.

Yet that’s okay.

Because what’s important is that she already knows.

And I know.

And that’s enough for both of us.

So, my friends … today I’m taking a break from my love of Supernatural and concentrating on my love for something … someone … a wee bit more important.

Okay … a whole heaping mound more important.

Yet, I hope you will keep an eye on this space … I plan to return next week. I’m re-watching Season Four and I’m rambling. I’ll actually be starting with the finale of Season Three, since I never actually wrote about it. And I’ll be doing these rambles with the help of “my friend”. BDW has always been central to the storyline. It seemed only right to bring him along with me. :-D

But for now … I’ve got a girlie to watch graduate.

Isn't she beautiful?

Happy Thursday!! Best day of the week!

20 Days ... Records Set ... Events Occured ... Discoveries Made

2009-05-15T12:48:00.001-05:00

Last night on the news, the weatherman advised that we had set a new record ... 20 continuous days of rain, effectively beating the previous record of 13 days. Now, granted, there have been - few and far between - spots of sunshine during these past twenty days. There have been actual hours where no rain has fallen. It has not been a continuous flooding rain for the past 480 hours. We have had days which began with sunshine and ended in storms or vice versa. We have had days of continual light misting rain. We have had storms rage continually throughout the day. However the method ... the result has been the same ... at some point during the last twenty days, rain has fallen on each of them and a new record has thus been set. Now, for some reason known only to the insanity of my mind, when I heard this news, I began thinking about the last twenty record-breaking days and realized that, while I personally haven't exactly set any major records, the last twenty days have been fairly momentous in my life. Events have occurred and discoveries have been made, prompting me to share some of them here ... in my own little ramble room.

Anniversaries are considered to be momentous occasions. The larger the number ... the greater the occasion. Right? I mean ... 25th & 50th anniversaries are celebrated with silver and gold respectively, thus indicating that their achievement is to be valued. Although it wasn’t a silver or gold anniversary, May 3, 2009 commemorated a special date for me. As of that date I had been employed by my company for ten years.

I have to say, I'm rather proud of that achievement. Since beginning my employment availability at the tender age of 16 *mumblemumble* years ago ... we won't count the number of previous years of babysitting ... 10 years is the longest length of time I have been employed with a single company, thus breaking my previous record of 7.5 years at Avis Rent-a-Car. With today's economy such as it is, I am grateful for my job, yet there's more to it than just being grateful for being employed.

This job is something that came about after I had been laid off from a previous employer and without work for four months. At the time I remember thinking it was a "God thing", my coming to this place at just the right time with the ability to utilize all the skills I had gained over the years. I have since realized that this job truly is a "God thing" for I have been blessed over and over by it ... by the people who have come and gone throughout the years and whose lives have touched mine. Yes, there have been bad days ... gray days ... frustratingly aggravating black storm ridden days ... yet it always seems that even in the midst of my most infuriating times, something would occur - a short note ... a grateful smile ... a quiet comment - that renewed my faith that this position was the right one for me and that it truly continues to be a "God Thing".

My ten years was celebrated by the arrival of a truly spectacular arrangement of flowers, sent to me at my office from the president & vice-president of our management company. An array of tulips, hydrangea blooms, lilies, snapdragons, and other assorted bright spring flowers entwined with eucalyptus and greenery, it was breathtaking in its beauty. This morning ... eleven days later ... as I was removing some of the withering stems, I found the bud of a single remaining lily just beginning to open its petals ... a burst of new life and beauty amidst the faded blooms.

Perhaps it's not a record but it was definitely a reminder that beauty continues even when we believe life around us is gray and dreary … like when you’re in the midst of 20 days of rain.

During these twenty days I have also discovered that I will never – EVER - become a narcotic junkie. Seriously. I couldn’t even begin to deal with the constipation, a side effect that comes with regular usage.

‘Nuff said.

*grins*

I discovered this fact during the last twenty days when, for the first time in my *mumblemumble* years, I actually injured myself in such a way as to require my physician to prescribe pain medication heavier than anything I’d ever used previously. As a single female these *mumblemumble* years, I have discovered that when all is said and done, reliance has to be on one’s self when certain events occur. Family is paramount and friends are blessings, but when you are home alone and you fall in the shower, there’s only one person to rinse you off and then clean up the sudsy mess on the bathroom floor. (BTW … that actually did happen about 4 years ago over the July 4th weekend and … again … we’re gonna go with ‘nuff said on that.)

Therefore, when I twisted my knee getting out of my car one evening after work, I thought nothing more of it than a simple twist … a sprain. They happen. You alternate heat with cold and keep it propped. Ibuprofen works great to take the edge off. A few days later you are walking like nothing occurred. In the meantime, there’s only one person to do the laundry … one person to stop at the grocery store and cook the meals … one person to clean up the kitchen and so on and so forth. So, this single female continued business as usual. The event of a twisted knee would pass.

Except … this time … it didn’t.

Still … seeing as doctors are not my favorite people … (my apologies to the medical profession but its true) … I’ll confess … I delayed. For those of us that have achieved the ripe age of *mumblemumble* years, we understand that continual rain has a tendency to seep into our bones and joints, causing a certain amount of aches and pains. Move a bit slower, stick with the heat because it feels better on the propped knee, pop some extra ibuprofen … everything is fine.

Except ... this time ... it wasn’t.

After a week of rain and of … I’m going with the word “discomfort” here … it was time to seek a doctor’s attention.

Blech.

Events have since unfolded amidst the raindrops and storms, and I have been indoctrinated into the medical profession’s game of “Hurry up … no … wait!” With urgency I was sent for an MRI and given a diagnosis. With waiting I have been turned over to an orthopedic specialist. With urgency I have been given details of pending surgery. With waiting I have been given specific instructions not to walk, keep the knee propped and … did I mention the narcotics??? Events have since unfolded and yet, I am still the same single girl who fell in the shower. There is, still, just me to do the rinsing off and the cleaning up ... or ... in this case, the daily chores of life. Yet with the storms … after the raindrops … there’s always God’s rainbow and my rainbows these last 20 days may not have set records, however they did remind me that blessings … like rainbows are there to be discovered.

Whether it was a pair of supporting parents, an adopted Auntie, a couple of caring co-workers, a crazed friend, a simple note, a late night phone call, a load of laundry, a bag of groceries, a hug - in person or through cyberspace ... all of them worked together to remind this single female that while she is alone ... she is never truly alone.

Yep ... events have a way of happening. Big and momentous like a thunderstorm rolling across the plains (or through your neighborhood) they rumble through your life. Along with the events come the discoveries, gentler like the continuing mist or light showers after the storm, but no less awe inspiring in the rainbows they leave.

Yep ... it's been twenty days of rain here. And according to the weatherman ... that record is soon to be broken as rain is anticipated in the form of a huge honking storm coming through.

Tonight.

Making it twenty-one days of rain.

Wonder if there's another event fixing to unfurl itself in my life?

Yet Another Sternly Worded Letter ... Respectfully Submitted

2009-04-28T10:41:00.005-05:00

I like television.

I know this comes as no surprise.

It's not like anyone who has read a few of these little blogs of mine couldn't easily figure it out.

It's not like anyone who has ever talked to me wouldn't have the opportunity to hear me say something.

It's not like anyone who calls me and get's my voicemail for the last couple seasons of Supernatural had any way of avoiding finding it out.

So, it should come as no surprise when a friend of mine posed the following question this weekend, how I might respond:

"What sense triggers memories more than any other?"

While I realize that television itself is not a "sense", it does require the senses of sight and hearing ... or, when I am trying to be quiet or not really wanting the "noise", I might have the closed captioning on and then it is simply the sense of sight that is utilized. Which is fine ... my imagination can fill in the rest - including theme songs and voice inflections. They may not always be correct, but they are entertaining ... atleast to me. *grins*

It was interesting that shortly after reading my friend's question, I was scanning the television and came across the old movie ... The Magnificent Seven. I love this movie! Yul Bryner dressed all in black ... Robert Vaughn ... Steve McQueen ... horses ... gunfights ... and a theme song that is still one that always gets my attention.

However, best of all are the memories the movie triggers ...

*mumblemumble* years ago when I was living at home, my dad and I would stay up late on Saturday nights and watch movies. Westerns were our favorites. John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Clint Eastwood ... these were just some of the greats that we would enjoy. The quality wasn't always the best ... the stories were often predictable - particularly after we'd seen them a couple of times - but it didn't matter. It was the time shared that was awesome. My mom and my brother were the early birds of our family. My dad and I shared a love of staying up late (and sleeping late) and Saturday nights were our nights - even if we did still get up early for church the next morning. Sometimes we might have snacks, other times one of us might fall asleep before the ending credits but it didn't matter. It was a time shared by a father and a daughter and that memory is the best of all.

CBS recently announced that they are cancelling their daytime drama The Guiding Light, effective September of this year. While I haven't really paid much attention to the soap opera in recent years, this news saddened me and triggered many memories of television times spent as a child with my mom.

I grew up with the CBS soaps ... my mother had them on each day as she went about her day. Lunch was spent with Chris and Nancy Hughes and their family on As the World Turns (gagging followed as invariably that nasty Crest commercial would come on where the kid chewed one of those red tablets and showed how they didn't brush very well - ugh!). Rest/nap time on the couch was spent with the Bert Bauer and her sons and their families on The Guiding Light. The folding, cleaning, and other "chores" were completed with Search for Tomorrow, Love is a Many Splendored Thing, and The Edge of Night. As a child I knew these families and the pattern of the shows structured my days. They were a comfort of routine that revolved around being with my mom ... even if I huffed and puffed about having to fold clothes or dust and "stuff".

Other shows across the *mumblemumble* years of my life have made impressions and when I see them or hear the theme song, memories are triggered. Children's shows such as Sesame Street and Mister Rodger's Neighborhood are triple filled with memories ... first of times as a child spent watching with my little brother, then as a nanny watching them with my small charge, and finally years later with my small girlies ... yet through each memory comes the knowledge of letters and numbers learned, of concepts and thought processes being formed, of entertainment being enjoyed. Evening programming watched with family and/or friends ... watching Star Trek (the original) from the gray rocker in our family room on our new color television ... Dallas evoking memories of high school Friday nights at a friends house ... late nights with Hercules and friends teasing me for enjoying the sight of Kevin Sorbo's muscles ... and I won't even begin to tell the memories and entertainment I've gotten with a certain Thursday night show filled with laughter, angst, and enough family drama to run circles around those bed-hopping doctors or I will overload my word limit here.

Yep ... I like television ... I like sharing it with friends and family ... I like the entertainment of a solid, scripted drama or a comedy program that doesn't play to me like I'm the lowest common denominator ... I don't care for reality programs and game shows bore me for neither of the draw me in with my imagination until I am a part of the show - feeling the pain ... enjoying the laughter.

After a day in my reality, surrounded by the happenings in my city, around my nation and throughout the world, the television programs I favor take me away for a bit ... they entertain me ... they provide the moments of escape - even as I fold laundry, pay bills, clean house, or indulge in stamping or scrapbooking. Some nights I don't have a preference and will simply channel surf till something catches my eye ... other nights I know exactly what I want to view. Then there are the nights when I am not home and have to rely upon my trusty VCR to tape the programs I enjoy following, praying that nothing has happened to disrupt the program or change it's broadcast time.

Therefore, you can hopefully understand my dismay in the news yesterday of yet another primetime news conference from our President interrupting broadcast televisions scheduling and my need to speak up ... afterall, isn't that one of the freedoms this country is founded upon? So, here it is ... my sternly worded letter ... respectfully submitted ...

Dear Mr. President ... Sir ...

Please stop messing with my television schedule.

I appreciate you wanting to be forthright in advising Americans (and the rest of the world) where things stand, however do you have to do it during my "off time" ... my time to relax and be entertained and not worry about the state of the nation? After spending my day involved in the city, state, nation, and world around me ... getting news thrust at me from the people I meet, the radio station I listen to, the papers I read, the websites I surf, the news program I watch ... I look forward to those two to three hours during an evening where I have the opportunity to view programs that allow me a measure of pleasure ... a time of distraction. To not only have that time interrupted with news conferences, but to also have programs I enjoy and indulge in be rescheduled to strange times that I need a dedicated calendar to try and navigate in order to either view them or tape them, is frustrating and, to be honest, aggravating.

I don't wish to be rude. You are indeed the President of our country, and, while I did not myself vote for you, I have been taught to respect your position as the leader of our nation. However, I submit the question ... why can't you have these conferences at different times ... like maybe during the actual evening news time? If they must, for some peculiar reason, be broadcast during primetime ENTERTAINMENT television times, why could they not be treated like the Superbowl or award shows and rotated amongst the major broadcasting stations.

Why must all of the stations take away all of the programs during that specific time period? Is it in an effort to make us watch? Cause, I have to tell you ... I don't. Not because I didn't vote for you but simply because I don't want to hear the news during my time of relaxation. And let's face it, sir ... it's not like I don't get a thirty minute recap during my evening news, not to mention a recap of it in the newspaper the next morning, a recap of it on my websites I visit throughout the day, a recap of it on the morning news programs, a recap of it from various individuals I meet throughout my daily journey. No, sir, I hear all about it.

So, it is, Mr. President ... Sir ... that I respectfully submit my request that you please try another avenue for being honest and forthright in telling the world about the state of our U.S. affairs.

Please.

May is not only sweeps month, it's also the month of season finales ... ie. it's a big month for those of us who really like our television. It's hard enough letting go of a program ... but having to hunt for that final broadcast time does not lend itself to the relaxing portion of my entertainment package.

Sincerely yours,
CindyRose
Television Viewer for *mumblemumble* years

This Single Girl's Valentine Wish

2009-02-14T08:34:00.005-06:00

Ahhh ... Valentine's Day!

That universal day of love signified by hearts and cupids, thereby establishing that while love may exist between parents and children, brothers and sisters, relatives, friends across the nation and around the world ... it is actually a day set aside for lovers.

A day for couples everywhere to declare their undying love.

Jewelry stores count on it.

Flower stores thrive on it.

Card stores go crazy on it.

And restaurants? Yeah ... they overbook and overprice on it.

It's that day when men best remember to step up and make their best effort towards the woman they love and adore. That day when women work to look and smell their best, their most enticing, to show the man they love ...

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

You get the picture.

Seems to me it's a day of trying to hard to achieve something that should naturally occur every day of the year. Then again, I'm single. So what do I know?

For starters ... I know that I have a set of parents who have been married for 52 years and have provided me with an example of the type of love I would like to have in a marriage. A love that doesn't need a special day to make them declare their love with just a shared look across a table ... with the holding of the hands as they walk down the street ... with a giggle-laugh-snort of a fun story told or shared joke ... with a quiet moment a head leaning on the other's shoulder. My parents weren't perfect. They have had their share of disagreements and disappointments over the years, however through each year they gave me and my brother an example of committment to something that means everything to both of them. Their marriage is a combined effort of work and love, on Valentine's day and every other day of the year.

Secondly ... I know I may be single ... I know I may not share this holiday with "a man", giving and receiving gifts of chocolates and flowers ... however, I know each year I have been fortunate enough to share the "Day of Love" with someone I love ... three someones to be exact.

For seventeen years now, I have spent this day in the company of sometimes one, many times two, and those years when I've been extremely blessed - all three of my girlies. Whether rushed due to busy school nights or relaxed when celebrated on a weekend, my heart is filled with delight in the time we spend together.

Now that they are all teenagers, the years of special heart patterned matching jammies and cartooned faced heart decorations are photos of memories in my mind. The special early morning breakfasts of heart shaped pancakes while watching Valentine videos of Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh have been given up for the teen's creed of "We Must Sleep Until Noon". The staying up late the night before the school Valentine's party signing little cards and baking cookies has transformed itself into running to the store and grabbing some of those little boxes of heartshaped sugar candies with messages of "hugs" and "love" and other assorted sayings stamped upon them. The years have passed, the children have grown, but there is a constant that remains.

My heart is still filled with delight in the time we spend together.

This year there won't be a sumptuous dinner at an elegant restaurant with an adoring man for me. There won't be the Valentine Party dinner we had when they were little ... red themed in honor of the day with spaghetti, red jello, red kool-aid, and brownies with red sprinkles. There will simply be me and my girlies ... two of them for sure, hopefully three ... with pizza, cookies, and a movie. Granted, the pizzas are heart-shaped courtesy of our favorite local pizza place and the cookies have the silly red heart faces from courtesy of the Pillsbury Doughboy ... I haven't given up every part of the holiday just because we've all aged!

There may not be jewelry or fancy red heart shaped boxes, but there will be soft smiles, large hugs, sweet kisses and chocolate.

There may not be a huge bouquet of red roses, but there is a simple origami flower made especially for me.

There may not be romance, but there will be love ... simple and consistent ... freely given from the heart ... one special day a year and every day after.

That's the Valentine my parents exampled and I wish for everyone.

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Discussion Between Me, Myself, and I

2009-02-13T20:10:00.000-06:00

I haven’t been writing lately. Oh … I’ve started several pieces. However nothing seems to be going very well. Nothing has been completed in the timely manner I wanted.

I’ll admit it’s made Me rather frustrated and unhappy.

I really enjoy writing. I find I am most at peace when I get an idea and put it into words. It is something that generally makes Me happy, sorting out thoughts, using words to paint pictures of feelings and experiences.

Therefore, when I am not writing, I don’t feel completely right and that leaves Me feeling rather out of sorts. I have learned that I don’t really like Me when that happens and I believe the fault for this usually lies within Myself.

After pondering the situation for a time, I decided that it would most likely help Me get to feeling better if I had a discussion with Myself. This is sometimes a good thing, but, then again, sometimes it isn’t. The discussions I have with Myself always tend to get a bit lively. I will admit that I am not always the most passive person when I find it necessary to have a conversation with Myself. It is usually because I find Myself unwilling to listen. It’s as though I find Myself not wanting to take responsibility for why I am not feeling good, or simply helping to get Me back on track towards being happier.

Therefore, I don’t enter into these conversations lightly. For some reason I can never seem to fathom, I always tend to make Myself a tad bit crazy. No matter how rational I try to be, listing the areas that need to be followed, I find myself balking … resisting listening to reason. It never fails I end up trying to bring the subject back up only to find myself pushing it further and further away.

When that happens, it generally falls to Me to sort out the finer points of the dialogue and bring it back into a semblance of rationality.

I won’t bore anyone with the complete details. The … ahem … discussion has been rather lengthy and time consuming, continuing on over the course of several days, making Me more than a bit distressed at times.

Bottom line, I told Myself that I was not happy with this empathy I felt Myself having towards the writing that I do.

I told Myself that not being able to write was making Me unhappy and something needed to be done … now.

I told Myself that I was holding Myself accountable for this inability and that it was time to get Myself together and get back to the business that makes Me smile.

Essentially, I argued, and bullied, and essentially painted Myself into a corner.

As you can imagine, this is never good. Whenever I find Myself painted into a corner, I find Myself lashing back.

Nope … not good at all, because in the end is it always Me that bears the brunt of it when I get Myself all worked up like that … when I try to make Myself take some responsibility.

For in the end … after I have shouted at Myself, forcing Myself to declare that I will never write again … it is up to Me … with tears in eyes and heavy heart … to plead with Myself to listen to what I am truly saying.

The writing that I do comes from deep within Myself and is ultimately written only for Me.

I had forgotten that.

The writing that I do only works to satisfy Me when I relax and allow Myself to enjoy the process … the search for the words to describe images and concepts that matter most to Me.

The writing that I do only works when I put away the deadlines that I impose upon Myself and understand that while I might require guidelines and structure for many areas of my life, I find Myself needing an atmosphere that is cozy and cheerful, a bit more loose-fitting, so to speak, for the writing to truly enfold Me and make Me feel able to convey ideas adequately.
It is only then that I find Myself writing and that is what makes Me very happy.

Invitation to a Parade with Pride

2008-12-30T22:16:00.003-06:00

Have you ever seen the movie, Mr. Holland's Opus? It's awesome and I highly recommend it. One of my favorite parts is when Mr. Holland (the high school music teacher) creates a high school marching band. It's fairly hysterical watching him try to assemble his students into a marching formation, yet in the end it is a wonderful moment watching him lead his marching band down the street in the depiction of a hometown parade.

I love parades. I love the floats and the clowns and the classic cars and the horses. Most of all, I love the bands.

Picture it ... the sun is shining bright ... you arrived early in order to stake out a good curbside seat ... people are milling around, finding places, spreading blankets, laughing, smiling. Policemen have blocked off the ends of the route and all the side access streets, so the path is clear. Childre are running in and out of the middle of the street, straining to get their first glimpse of the parade as it starts to make it's way down the street. Sitting there ... you hear it long before you can see the band ... the beat of the drums, the resonance of the various instruments as they come together in a blend of harmony. Louder and louder they get as they march towards you ... lines even, backs straight, heads up, steps proud ... their formation unbroken as the music moves past.

Yep. Big city or small town ... live or on television ... I love a parade.

This is my eldest girlie's seventh year in band. She's been marching in our hometown parades for seven years now. She began as a 6th grader in middle school and now she is a high school senior.

In the 9th grade, my girlie became a member of The Pride of Broken Arrow Marching Band. This is not a small feat. This band is serious business. We're in Oklahoma ... an area where football reigns everywhere from little league to high school to college to national ... and while we have a great high school football team ... it is our marching band that brings people from all over, that fills the stands, that win the recognition not only locally but also statewide, regionally and ... in 2006 ... nationally when the Pride of Broken Arrow became the 2006 Grand National Champions.

My girlie was a 15 and a sophmore at the time.

This coming year ... 2009 ... as a senior ... my girlie is going to be marching with Pride one more time in a parade. I would like to invite each and every one of you to join me in watching her.

You can, you know, 'cause this parade is going to be televised.

Nationally.

It's a little parade you might have heard about previously. You see, The Pride of Broken Arrow Marching Band will be marching on January 1, 2009 in the 120th Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, California.

*grins with delight*

I hope you'll join us in watching ... the floats will be breathtaking, the horses will be extraordinary, and the bands will be fantastic ... especially the one with a certain special saxophone player.

She'll be the one in the line behind the cymbals - first one on the left from the middle.

I'll be the one on the couch ... tears in her eyes and pride in her heart.

The Pride of Broken Arrow may be an award winning marching band, but my Pride of Broken Arrow is a certain young lady who has grown from a squeaky beginner to an confident musician.

GO BA!!!

It's Thursday, So It Must Be a Supernatural Christmas!!!

2008-12-25T17:01:00.003-06:00

To all my friends and inmates, I wish you all a Blessed and Merry Christmas! This is just a little something that fell out of my brain and into my computer as I listened to Christmas carols and kept my mom company as she created the most wonderful scents in her kitchen. I hope you enjoy.

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

Still and silent, the inky darkness seemed to envelope the black car speeding down the back road as though it had a memory sense of the twists and curves. The overhanging trees cast their shadows over the pavement as tendrils of fog swirled at the edges. As the night deepened, her driver realized that he would eventually need to slow enough to give a better traction when the visibility became even less clear. There was no moon to shine down and light their path, hidden as it was beneath the thick cover of clouds.

It didn’t matter though. Her driver knew where he was going.

Glancing over to the passenger seat, the driver grinned as he realized his brother had finally given up on his attempt to stay awake, to keep him company as he drove the dark roads. Hunched up against the door and window, long legs stretched as far as possible without encroaching near the driver’s side, it was only the fact that the position was one assumed on a regular basis that would save the young man from any truly strained muscles and neck aches. Oblivious to his brother’s grin, the exhausted young man slept, secure in his safety and calm in the peace still so recently restored to their only true home.

Returning his eyes to the road, in difference to his sleeping passenger, the driver lowered the volume on the pounding music streaming through the car’s speakers enough to soften, but not erase the pulsing rhythm of the bass line that was in tune with his own pulse. Thoughts of the coming day mingled with memories from similar days … some spent with their father, occasionally with their father and a friend or two, and, more times than should have been in their short lives, with simply his little brother for company. He shied away from the memories of the days that were spent alone, either in his favorite girl traveling or holed up in a motel room trying to will the day away with sleep and convenience store snacks.

A slight shift and a muffled snort from the passenger side of the car brought the driver out of his musings briefly to check whether it was an awakening or a deepening of slumber. Satisfied that his brother was still in the sound throes of sleep, he recalled their conversation at the beginning of the drive …

“Stopping for a holiday is a waste of time. If we hustle, we can be there by tomorrow night and maybe be able to stop whatever is going on.”
“It’s not a waste of time. A holiday is a time of being exempt from duty, from work. The work will still be there when the holiday is over. Besides, we celebrated last year.”
“Two things … 1) we were also WORKING last year or do you not remember being sliced and diced by the wicked version of the Kringle family? and 2) … last year was different.”
“Different? Yes … okay … it was different. We thought it would be the last one together. We’ve been given another … I’d say that’s a reason to celebrate, a reason to take a holiday. Besides … seems to me that THIS particular holiday would be one we need to …”
“To what? To go to church at midnight? To commune with angels – who are not too happy with us at the moment. To sing carols – which we suck at, by the way – …”
“No. To remember where we were last year and to be grateful for the divine intervention that did come and gave us … gave YOU … another chance. Come on, man. You know you really want to.”

Then the creep had pulled out the big guns …

“We did it last year when you really wanted to. I really want this this year.”

Darn manipulative sneaky little ...

Though the fact was, he had wanted to and eventually, taking enough time so that his little brother wouldn’t think he’d caved too quickly, especially after that last little nudge, he had given into the idea of going to their friend’s house to spend Christmas with his brother and the man who has become like a father – never replacing the drill sergeant that had loved and raised him but stepping up to offer support and guidance when necessary after the genuine article had gone and sacrificed himself. Not that he was going to slip down into THAT particular memory lane either. He had stipulated this was only to be a side trip and that the next day they had to be back on the road and working. His brother had grinned and agreed, pulling out his cell phone and calling to give the news of his victory.

Shaking his head, the driver took a drink of his cold coffee, grimaced and tightened his hands on the wheel as the night deepened further and the fog gave way to the beginnings of frost and light snow blanketing the passing fields and trees. From here on, there would be a chance of ice patches and snow drifts as they drew nearer to their destination. Not that he minded. Driving gave him a peace, reminding him that all the best of holidays he could remember included two things … his black beauty and his little brother. Despite all that had gone on in the last few years, the three of them were still together, and that meant something … something good … and he could hold onto that, even if it was only for a day.

The pulse of the music stopped as the DJ came on and announced the time with much laughing and ringing of bells.

Going with the impulsive urge, he slapped the back of his hand smartly to his brother’s chest, laughing as the younger man awoke startled, head swiveling around in all directions before his eyes were even really open, he yelled out to his brother…

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, SAMMY! Where’s the eggnog, dude?”

Laundry, Creatures, Executive Decisions and An Insane Stream of Conciousness

2008-12-04T19:15:00.005-06:00

Tonight was laundry night.

I'll be honest, I don't like doing it on Thursdays. I usually do it on Tuesdays, but the week got away from me. Thursdays are rushed because I have an 8pm deadline. (For those who don't know ... and we'll have to have a discussion on why not another time ... Supernatural comes on at 8pm on Thursdays and no, I don't care that we're in a hiatus and it's in re-runs, I'm still going to watch it!!) However, tonight I also did laundry.

I was lucky and, therefore, able to clear my desk ... by taking my arm and sweeping everything into my drawer and locking it up ... shut down the office ... so much faster when you're the only one there and all but one main light are already off ... and head out the door. Traffic was light and Baby was feeling her oats, moving in and around the vehicles going less than the speed limit ... if it says 65, WHY are you only going 50??? ... and taking the faster exit like a pro ... she REALLY does like those highways, little red sweetheart! ... and getting me to the laundromat before I usually am even out of the office. Yay!

The laundromat was empty ... another awesome plus ... and I was able to lug in my four bags of clothes ... is it wrong that I have one bag of white, one bag of red, and two bags of black clothing? ... dumped in, detergent added, quarters inserted and washers started without a hitch.

Yes ... I do have to use the laundromat still. Yes ... I did have the money to purchase one the first of the year after mine died a slow and agonizing death ... the spinner thing in the middle that agitates the clothes, which I find hysterical, I mean, seriously -AGITATES the clothes? Like the clothes are gonna smack it back for it's agitation? Who THINKS of this stuff?? - anyway, the agitator died, or was killed by a shirt that simply couldn't take the agitation any longer ... *snickers* ... where was I? ... oh yeah ... dead washer, money to purchase a new one. Got it.

Yeah ... I did have the money but ... well, the Supernatural convention ticket was just too enticing and so I succumbed and I'm SOOOO not sorry ... but that is another blog that is still being written. So! Anyhow, yes, I am using the laundromat. And this is actually NOT a bad thing. Actually ... the laundromat part of doing my laundry is the good part.

When you use the laundromat, you are guaranteed 23 minutes of peace to sit and just be quiet, to read, to be alone with your thoughts. Machines are humming, people are talking quietly, it's warm in the winter, cool in the summer, it's actually kinda nice. My little neighborhood laundromat is run by a kind older man who is very nice but not intrusive. The regular people are friendly. It's not a bad thing. In 23 minutes I can have 4 ... regularly ... or 6 ... when I've stretched it as far as possible or feel the time is necessary to do sheets ... loads completely washed at one time. Nope, the laundromat is my friend.

It's getting home that makes me crabby.

'Cause ... once I get home there's the hanging ... I hang alot, actually mostly all, of my clothes up to dry - shirts and pants ... because the dryer not only does the shrinkage thing, there's also the fading of the colors due to the heat and it's really not good when you have all this black and still don't match, and then there's the electricity usage which, if I can save a penny by hanging clothes, I'm gonna ... so, I'm hanging the clothes. This takes time and needs to be done as soon as possible when I get home in order to avoid wrinkles ... which leads to ironing ... which leads to shuddering and shaking at the horror of the thought ... you get the picture.

Then, for those clothes that don't get hung up, there's the drying and the remembering to finish one load and put in the other load and then remembering to remove THAT load. Then there's the folding and the putting away and then the putting away of the hanging things once they've dried which isn't until the next day.

So, yeah ... laundry ... not my favorite thing. Which has led to my making an executive decision.

See, I have this friend who refuses to let me become a nudist ... I'm not certain of all of her reasons, however my manager and co-worker have thanked her repeatedly for talking me out of becoming a nudist ... and since she is also the same one who sagely advises me to remember to lay down plastic before committing hari kari mayhem upon some of the moronic people in my life ... it's easier to clean up the mess afterwards ... I'm going to have to bow to her wisdom. However, since I'm not allowed to become a nudist, and since the laundry fairies have been on strike in this household for so long that I can't even get them to come to the negotiatng table any longer, I've decided that it's time to put these mice, who seem to want to live in my house, to work.

Yep.

You heard me ... the mice.

I've given this thought. They're here. It's been 11 years and they won't go away. Every spring and every fall they make their presence known, looking for handouts, setting up their little rooms underneath the entertainment center or in the walls of my cabinets or behind my bookcase by the door, planning their families, refusing to pay rent. I've tried the "humane removal" of capturing and releasing them in a nearby field. (Okay ... not me, but a friend who came and took the captured creature in the trap I caught it in by the use of bribery with peanut butter.) They literally came running back. Would have made it if it wasn't for the street curb. Seriously!! So, I'm thinking it's time for them to get off their furry little butts and help out around here!! The mice in Disney's Cinderella did. They even sang about it. Heck! I'll make them little clothes. I'll sing back to them. I'll even feed them food that doesn't have those special little blue pellets in it if they'll simply take the clothes and hang them up, put them in the dryer, fold them, and then put them all away.

Is that asking too much? I don't think so. It's not even an every day chore. Laundry day is just once a week. I'll even do the washing part. Just get them out of the car, dried via hanging or dryer, and then into the dresser drawers and closet. That's all they have to do.

*sigh*

Unfortunately, that's not going to happen, is it? Yeah. I know. I'm stuck with life as it is and I'll have to continue this chore all on my own. The mice won't help.

They've already unionized.

They won't even eat the special blue pellets I put out unless I lace them with Hershey's syrup.

Such is life.

Now ... if you'll excuse me ... I have to go do the dishes. Stupid ants can lift 20 bajillion more pounds than their own body weight and they can't even help by doing the dishes in exchange for tramping through my kitchen and mooching my food!!

Chocolate Sorrow

2008-12-01T10:30:00.002-06:00

Monday morning's aren't so bad.

Not after having a lovely four day weekend spending quality time with family.

Not after having a relaxing Sunday evening at home because no evening church services means no nursery obligations.

Not after having a chance to get an extra half hour of sleep because the girlies are out of school.

Yep, although the day began with gray clouds and the drive to work included equal parts of rainy mist and spitting snowflakes, I was having a good morning.

The hair ... the make up ... the wardrobe ... everything seemed to come together this morning.

I had time for my tea and for my breakfast before heading (not rushing) out the door. Traffic flowed well and the music playing was good.

I was ready to face the day.

I knew it would be busy. It always is when we have had the office closed for more than a weekend. I was ready.

I was ready for 96 questions about how was my weekend, my Thanksgiving, etc.

I was ready for 96 exclamations over the new onslaught of cold and was I responsible questions. (For those who may not remember, I am evidently responsible for the weather that afflicts our residents.)

I was ready to find out that our boiler system had been out for two days, with no hot water available to over half our residents and the subsequent calls asking if we knew and the stories of frigid showers and baths and "during the war we would go six weeks without bathing".

I was ready to deal with the fact that it is first of the month and therefore, of course the accounting system must take itself offline with an error posting.

I was ready for the need to multitask several situations at one time - between phone, window and simply regular office tasks.

I was, however, NOT ready to find out that a particular resident had passed away during the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning.

Now, I've been doing this job for ten years and it's not the first resident death I've experienced, nor will it be the last. When you work with seniors, death is simply a part of life. There is always a tinge of sadness and, normally, I take a moment, say a prayer and then move on.

While I am not close to all my residents, there are some few who have wound themselves a bit tighter in my heart than others. Some that, I confess, I enjoy seeing, greeting and sharing an occasional moment with more than others. All my residents receive my courtesy and respect for their person, but there are some residents who, by their very nature, win my trust and care.

Ms. M was one of these.

Already a resident when I began working, Ms. M made an impression on me from the very start. She was one of those ladies that rolled with the punches life dealt and relied on her faith to keep her going. A strong woman in a fragile body, she would ride her scooter down to the lobby each day to enjoy a view other than that out her patio, to enjoy the sun. During the winter she particularly enjoyed sitting by the the fireplace in the living room, a change of scenery for a few minutes or a couple of hours.

Fiercely independent, Ms. M took care of all her affairs on her own. She would travel the city either for doctor appointments or shopping or simply going to see a movie via the Lift Bus through the city bus transportation.

Intensely private, her life - her comings and goings - were her own. Often found in the midst of group conversations, Ms. M would be the one to listen quietly and comment infrequently, rarely sharing personal experience, feelings, or thoughts.

Strong in her convictions, Ms. M was never one to "let it slide". She expected to be treated fairly and she treated others the same way. She didn't ask for extra favors, simply expected what was due - whether work by a housekeeper, or public transportation, etc.

Ms. M was on of those people whom I would on occasion make the comment more than once that I wanted "to be just like when I grew up."

Through the years Ms. M and I forged a friendship. Brief moments shared between us - a smiled greeting as she would pass my window, a pat on her back as I moved through the hallways - she was respectful of my time ... knowing I was busy ... simply enjoying the times when I could sit in the lobby for a moment and chat, yet never asking me to do so. She wouldn't ask, but she always appreciated. Ms. M trusted that I would keep her privacy and I trusted she would keep mine. Over the years Ms. M and I shared a few stories, light or serious, enjoying a few occasional moments in each other's company talking about family, health, and life in general.

Today has been a difficult Monday. But then ... the day of the week doesn't matter in this case. Although I rejoice that Ms. M is no longer in pain, no longer suffering, that she is happy and at peace in Heaven, my earthly heart is mourning the loss of the quiet presence of a kind woman.

Two quick stories I'd like to share about my Ms. M:

1) When I returned from my vacation, that first day, Ms. M. came past my window and greeted me with a true, heartfelt delight. She is the only resident with whom I shared some of my journey, and it was Ms. M. who, when I showed her my pictures of myself with Jensen & Jared, exclaimed that she knew them, that she watched Supernatural ... it was one of her favorite shows! She was happy that I had had the opportunity to go and to meet them, and happy that I had safely returned.

2) I cannot remember the first time, it's been years ago that she started stopping briefly at my window and quietly handing me a Hershey bar. She knew I love chocolate and seemed to have fun sporadically popping by and gifting me with the sweet treat. There was no regularity involved, yet she seemed to know when I could use that chocolatey sweetness the most. I would perhaps get a couple a week, sometimes a couple of weeks would pass without one. Nothing obvious ... just a simple clearing of the throat and a tap tap at my counter to get my attention, and then she would lay it down and head on down the hall or across the lobby. No conversation was needed. Of course, she knew by my lightning smile the pleasure it brought. She probably also caught on when I would dash out my door and wrap her in a hug that she had made me very happy.

I am going to miss my friend, Ms. M. Probably more than I can imagine at this time.

I'll miss her smile, her strength, her perserverence.

I'll miss her chocolate.

It's Thursday ... It Must Be Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T01:21:00.002-06:00

Despite the fact that holiday lights are twinkling in the shopping center parking lot and our neighborhood holiday junkie has filled their yard with snowmen, santas, and all manner of festive decorations, it is not yet Christmas time!

I've said it before and I'll say it again ... after we eat the trick or treat candy and before we break out the stockings and the red and green M&Ms, there's a little holiday that needs some recognition.

In the scheme of things, it's not a big holiday. It's not a world wide presence It's a simple American holiday that is about more than football and eating ourselves into turkey oblivion. It's a day set aside to give thanks ... as did those pilgrims years ago for the blessings received.

All those years ago, the English settlers gave thanks for the natives that befriended them and the harvest of crops after a disasterous winter.

While I don't have a harvest of crops, I do have some awesome friends and a harvest of blessings for which I would like to take this day, before the parades begin, the cooking commences, and the football gets kicked, or thrown, or tackled or something like that.

Blessing of Family -
I give thanks each day for the family I was lucky enough to be born into. The saying goes that you can't pick your family and this is true. Therefore it is a blessing to have parents who unconditionally love me, listen to me, giving guidance yet allowing me to make my final decisions for good or for ill. It is a blessing to have a brother who may be far away in distance but is close in time of need, to care and challenge and remind me always I am not alone in this world. It is a blessing to have nieces who are growing beautiful and independent, reminders of our youth of yesterday and our hope for tomorrow. Family is truly important, and I am so incredibly grateful for mine. This year we cannot all be together physically, and while this is a momentary sorrow, I know that there are many who have lost family members over this year. Therefore I take my blessing that we shall celebrate this holiday together in our hearts and look forward to the time we may be together physically again.

Blessings of Girlies -
I give thanks each day for the three girlies who daily bring joy and love to my heart and light to my life. Each one unique and each one so special that words simply fail.

Blessings of Friends -
I give thanks each day for the friends in my life, both new and old ... both far and near. The remainder of the family saying states that you can pick your friends. I'm not always sure who has picked who, however I can state wholeheartedly that I have been truly blessed with an abundance of friends that are supportive, comforting, crazy, and joyous. I give thanks for each and every individual one.

Blessing of Freedom -
I give thanks each day for the freedom I enjoy in this grand country of ours. From the President who leads us to the troops who defend us to local law enforcement officials who protect us, I am blessed to live in this country where opportunity has been and is still available for those who seek it, where I am afforded the right to worship as I choose and voice my opinions in agreement or disagreement without fear of retaliation. It's not perfect but it's mine and I am thankful for the freedom to live in it.

Blessing of Health & Home -
I give thanks each day for the roof over my head. I give thanks for an employer that provides the opportunity earn the living that pays for the roof, as well as the amenities that go with it - such as electricity, water ... internet connection. *grins* I give thanks for the health I have and the doctor that is there when I'm not feeling quite right.

Blessing of Being Me -
I give thanks each day for the opportunity to place my feet upon the floor, look into the mirror, greet the day and simply be me. For the opportunity to enjoy my tea in the morning, to cuddle my nursery babies, to be able to sit and write seriously or nonsensical, to relax and read, to travel or stay home, to simply be me - whether laughing or crying.

And ... since it's Thursday ...
I give thanks for the television show that is unique in that through it I have found friends and with them created an imaginary Sanitarium that brings discussion and laughter, sparking a passion for writing, and learned that though the world may be huge, when given something in common it doesn't matter whether you live in the same city or on separate continents to be able to strike up a conversation that leads to more than just television. I give thanks for the creative team of writers, directors, actors, and crew that bring us the show Supernatural.

Blessings come. They are there whenever and where ever we need or want them - big or small - if we simply take the time to see them. On this day that is set aside, between the candy and the glitter, to give thanks ... I challenge you to look around and see the blessings in your life.

And give thanks for them.

Just A Guy and A Guitar

2008-11-22T10:57:00.006-06:00

Concert ... musical performance ... can be vocal or instrumental or both.

Over the years I have attended numerous concerts, walking away from them carrying the music I had heard in my head and my heart. Most of them were vocal/instrumental, many of them were church related, some of them more memorable than others.

It's weird, but, when asked the question,"who have you seen in concert?", my mind tends to respond immediately with concerts I have seen in a large forum - such as the Reunion Arena in Dallas. There was a period of time where I seemed to constantly be a part of the vast crowd - listening, watching and dancing as the music of various groups and individuals seemed to pump it's way into my bloodstream, as the rhythm seemed to take over the beat of my heart and the words would wrap around my mind and have me singing along.

The groups varied - everything from Neil Diamond & Barry Manilow to Tears for Fears t0 Journey & Foreigner. Each performance was spectacular with the lighting and the orchestration. There were laser light shows and back up singers, big screens for close ups of the band and, in the case of Journey, one spectacularly beautiful dark cherry red grand piano that I can still picture in my mind with crystal clarity. Everything was huge and, even today, hearing one of the songs can bring back to my mind the feeling of sitting/standing in the dark listening to it live and in person.

Still ... although the concerts of John Cougar Mellencamp or Powerstation may first come to mind when asked the question ... I have to say they are not my favorites.

Nope. As much as I love the back up musicians and singers, the lightshows, the dancers, and all the extras that make these concerts so huge, it is the intimate settings of listening ... simply listening to the musician and his instrument ... that are the "favorite" concert moments I look back on.

Listening live and in person seems to allow the music to take such a greater hold than if it is simply heard over the radio. There's something much more personal when music is heard live, when you are able to sit and watch the musician play - fingers rippling across the piano or strumming through the chords on a guitar. Watching the face of the singer as the song they are giving voice seems to come from somewhere deep inside them.

I grew up with a musician. Some of my favorite memories of my little brother is sitting in the den, listening to him play the piano and sing. The music would float through our house, filling the silent corners, accompanying us in our daily tasks. Sometimes he would be alone and other times he would be joined by a couple of friends, but always would his voice flow over and through me, even as I pretended to be the cool, uninvolved older sister just reading a book on the couch.

Although I really don't care for country music, per se, I have seen some really good concerts by country artists, both small and large, yet none of them truly captured me quite the same as the music of a young man who I loved for a time *mumblemumble* years ago. During our time together, I had the opportunity to see him perform on stage many times, yet the music was always best when it was played during the dark of the night ... when it was just us two and we would sit, knee to knee on the floor and he would play the guitar and sing. The music would light his face and come from his soul and fill my heart.

I recently was priviledged to attend two concerts by two very unique musicians in one weekend.

They weren't held in huge arenas with thousands of fans.

There wasn't any lightshow or back-up bands or singers.

There was simply a stage with a mike for a singer and his guitar placed in front of an appreciative audience.

Each man gave a performance which was filled with energy and heart. Each song told a story - whether in the lyrics on their own, or by the face and voice of the individual artist singing. The guitars were extensions of their bodies, their fingers at times caressing and other times beating the strings but always making the notes blend together with an artistry that was intriguing and enticing to watch.

Captivated, I sat on the edge of my seat. The lyrics and medleys singing inside my soul. Each concert so unique and different from the other and yet the same in that they were simply a musician ... playing his guitar and singing.

When the talent is real and the music is good ... lightshows and back-up may be awesome - but they are soooo incredibly not necessary. Just ask anyone who have attended concerts by either Steve Carlson or Jason Manns.

A concert with just a guy and his guitar, doing what they love to do ... sing the music they love.

It's Thursday, Therefore It Must Be Supernatural!

2008-10-09T09:16:00.004-05:00

You know that you have achieved a certain level of obsession when you are innocently asked the question, “Which season is your favorite?” and your reply is...

“It’s hard to narrow it down between Season One and Season Two because they each had such merit – Season One for it’s introductory value and Season Two for it’s emotional impact. I really liked what we had of Season Three, however, as of right now, even though we’ve only had 3 episodes, I’d have to say that Season Four is giving them all a run for their money in being my favorite.”

The true level of obsession is brought to light when the questioning individual looks at you with a puzzled expression and replies, “I was thinking more of the calendar seasons. You know … spring, summer, winter, and fall?”

Oh.

Ooops.

Of course, this is strictly a hypothetical conversation.

You know that … right?

It is definitely not a conversation that might have taken place a few days ago with a friend I had not seen for a while, as we were chatting after running into each other at a social engagement. Nope, definitely not. (Please don’t stand so close. I understand that a lightning strike can be fairly intense.)

Actually, I am one of those individuals who enjoys all four of the different seasons throughout the course of a year. Each one contains a beauty and a reason to be appreciated.

So, I reconsidered the hypothetical question and decided to rephrase my hypothetical response with my own little "Ode To The Seasons", so to speak.

Here goes:

I love the winter season!

The nights are long and dark, with cold winds blowing as I enjoy the warmth of a fireplace, the soft light of flickering candles, and the comfort of flannel jammies and wooly sweaters.

The leafless trees stand as twisting, shadowy shapes against the cloudy gray skies, sparking my imagination with haunting images.

The occasional snow falls softly, blanketing the landscape, blinding my eyes with glistening sparkles as the sun shines on it from a distance.

The sounds of the holidays spent joyously with family and friends, cause me to pause and give thanks for the blessing that I have received throughout the year.

The weeks pass by with a mingling of heartrending angst and breathtaking anticipation, as I endure and enjoy the winter season which brings dreaded weeks of hiatus, briefly broken by individual episodes designed to capture my attention and remind me that while I might have thought I knew what direction The Kripke was pointing me in, anything is possible and nothing is as it seems in the journey of the Winchesters.

I love the spring season!

The lengthening days filled with blustery winds as I enjoy opening the house, blowing out the stale air and replacing it with freshness throughout each room.
The slender leaves and buds on the ground and in the tree begin to grow, as I renew my love of gentle blossoms and soft leaves, their pastels blending and blurring like an impressionistic painting.

The rain that is alternately fierce and gentle, always followed by the sparkle crystal colors arching, alternately beats upon my roof and mists upon my face, but always ends up refreshing my soul with promises of renewal and growth and fantasy.

The sounds of children laughing and playing outside become the rhythm and musical background, serenading my lengthening evenings and weekends.

The weeks pass by with joy and hopefulness as each one brings a new episode continuing the saga of weaving the threads of storylines ever tighter, raising expectations and fears as the finale draws closer until it is released, leaving me to gasp in a mixture of delight and horror at the Winchester Boy’s situation and the knowledge that it will be months before the solution will even begin to commence.

I love the summer season!

The days are long and filled with blue skies and hot sun as my girlies revel in their freedom from the classroom and open themselves to the possibilities of learning from alternate and less traditional forms of teaching.

The bushes and grass deepen to a lush green and we begin our annual cycle of competition on how tall they can grow before I am able to trim and mow, taming them into submission for (hopefully) the coming week.

The heat and humidity continues to rise, causing me to pause and give continuing thanks for ceiling fans, light cotton tops, lemonade, barbeque grills, and icemakers as I attempt to remain cool as I go through the business of my daily routines.

The sounds of glittering fireworks bursting, hot classic music driving, laughing screams of children splashing in pools and sprinklers fill the air and bring a smile to my heart.

The weeks pass by both swiftly and slowly as free time is increasingly filled with diversions, tactics designed to distract and keep active a mind ever attempting to speculate on the plight of the Winchester Boys, knowing with dreaded expectancy that whatever ideas I could formulate will not come remotely close to the weaving of threads both old and new as The Kripke and his company begin writing and filming.

I love the fall season!

The autumn nights that begin to lengthen and the crisp feeling that is introduced into the air as I take pleasure in returning to routines of work and school, throwing a precautionary jacket in the car as I shuttle from activity to activity.

The bushes and trees turn shades of muted hues golden and bronze, of vivid shades crimson and scarlet, as I find my wardrobe turning from whites and pastels to the bolder jewels of greens and reds and blacks.

The shifting of lazy southern breezes to brisk northern winds begin to penetrate, bring frost to the harvest of corn and apples and pumpkins and the scent of soups and chili cooking in the crock pot and pies baking in the oven.

The sounds of music pervade the air as marching bands take the field, filling the stadium with the distinct harmonization of brass and woodwind instruments stepping in time to the beat of the drums, or, as choir members take their places on tiers of risers, filling the auditorium with a blending of voices high and low in a harmony seamless, as both band and choir fill my heart with pride for my girlies as they participate in the creation of the unique sounds that pervade my ears.

The weeks pass by as each Thursday becomes a beacon, lighting the way to another new episode, as each episode further entangles both my heart and my mind in the deftly woven storyline that intrigues and delights my imagination with a family saga of warmth, of love, of fierce desperation, and hope filled terror set in a back drop of suspense and horror brought to life by the talents of all involved – creator, writers, directors, producers, actors, and the multitude of crew members – creating a television program that is unlike any I have ever had the pleasure of viewing and making each season of the year something to which I look forward to with anticipation.

So, there you have it ... my "Ode to the Seasons". I suppose I should have added the disclaimer tag ... "Supernatural Style". That's what a good obsessive would have done, don't you think? :-)

What Kind of Rose?

2008-09-17T21:46:00.002-05:00

My sweet friend Whimsy put out this quiz on her LJ blog ... "What type of rose are you?".

Yeah ... cause with a name like mine I'm going to totally not take THAT one!

Figured I would share the results. :-)

Neskaya Quiz: What Type of Rose are You? [Red]
You are passionate and romantic. Your have such passion when it comes to love that you find it to be one of life's sweetest things. You believe in love at first sight and wish that there were more love in the world. You are a caring sweetheart.

Neskaya.Net Quizzes: The Rose Quiz

Needless to say ... I'm feeling very good about myself at the moment. (I'm also wondering how this would have gone if I were feeling a bit cynical tonight. Hmmmm.)

Life As I Know It Is Over

2008-09-13T18:11:00.004-05:00

Did you feel the shift in the balance today?

I certainly did.

Life changed today.

It will never be the same.

Today two girlies turned thirteen.

Today I officially have three teenagers in my life.

Today, The Bickersons have joined their older sister in that transition period of life from child to young adult.

Today, instead of one package of raging adolescent hormones, I have three.

Three girlies that stand tall and beautiful, with intelligence and talent, that will - with the flip of an inner switch that no one can see, no one can control - without warning, mutate before my very eyes into a raging, weeping, screeching, foot stomping, chest heaving creature of warped defiance.

Then, just as suddenly, the mutation resolves and the transformation back into the sweet and lovely girlies that have been the light of my life and delight of my soul.

Yep ... It's happened. Life has marched on and now I am living in the danger zone. I have increased my whiplash insurance and purchased stock in my favorite haircolor . I have purchased mass quantities of migraine relief and stocked up the first aid kit with antiseptic and gauze, not to mention bandaids. I have also stocked up on various assortments of chocolates, including various types of brownies and ice cream, and made the aquaintace of a friendly bail bondsman.

Other than continual praying for an increase in my patience level, I don't know of anything else I can actually add to my survival kit.

I'd like to believe that weathering the coming years will be a breeze, however I have this fear that niggles in the back of my mind.

I keep hearing my mother's voice.

"I hope you have a teenage girl JUST LIKE YOU!"

The voice vibrates in triplicate.

Could someone please pass the paper bag? I feel the need to hyperventilate.

Condiment Craziness

2008-09-12T09:47:00.004-05:00

Sometimes you simply have to shake your head and move on.

Sometimes you have to give in to the desire and rant.

Today I will be ranting. I've shaken my head, I've moved on time and again, but this morning I couldn't do it any longer.

Today I will be writing another of my sternly worded letters. Once again, I state up front that I realize I am a "lone voice in the wilderness". Perhaps some things get to me a bit more than they do others. That's okay. Sometimes I just have to speak my mind and this is the forum that I choose to do it in - my writing.

Because after you do something insane and drastic (and make people look at you like you've lost your everlovin' mind) ... it's nice to share it with friends ... right?

See ... once a week I treat myself to a fast food breakfast. I'm counting pennies alot lately and eating out is expensive when, for the cost of one dinner at my favorite little restaurant I can buy groceries that will fix atleast three, if not four meals. However, buying a couple of breakfast sandwiches or taquitos is relatively inexpensive and so I indulge myself.

Myself likes it. :-)

This morning's treat was two sausage, egg, and cheese taquitos from one of my favorite local fast food chains - Whataburger. These taquitos always come with a cheerful memory of living in Austin and being a Nanny. My girl and I would have them every other Friday morning. She loved them. So did I.

Now, I'm not a regular, but I have been doing this for the last few months and the same girl has been there running the window each time. She recognizes me, my car, and my order. Each time I place my order over the lovely box, I am asked if I want picante sauce with my order. Each time I reply "no thank you". I pull to the window and pass the girl my money along with my "Good morning". She replied, we smiled and she asked me again ... did I want picante sauce. Now, I would just like to say for the record that over the last few months I have replied to the negative each and every time. Nothing has changed. So, once again I shake my head to the negative and replied "No, thank you." She closed the window and I waited. She comes back to the window and asks AGAIN ... would I like picante sauce. I really tried to keep the look of total disbelief out of my face but I'm thinking I failed as the words "NO! THANK YOU." came from my lips. She hands me my bag and I proceed to pull out of the lane and towards the street. I set the bag to the side and something rattled. Now ... taquitos? They're fairly soft. Not so much with the rattling. So I opened the bag and looked and there sat two taquitos ... topped with four containers of picante sauce!

I could have just gone on.

I probably should have just gone on.

But I didn't.

I turned around and got back in the order lane. When the girl's voice came over the box I replied that I wasn't ordering, I was returning. Yeah ... that got her attention. I pulled up to the window and found, not just the order girl, but - surprise! - also her manager. I opened my bag. I pulled out the four containers. I handed them to the girl and told her that I would be really grateful if she would actually LISTEN to her customers. The I told the manager that his profit margin might increase if he would take a bit of time in training his people to first listen and then follow through. Over the last couple months I could have filled two jars of picante sauce from the packages I have refused and yet they still give me.

I'd like to point out here that I wasn't snippy and nasty, just frustrated at the waste because it just gets thrown away.

That was my morning and that is what has prompted my need to write a sternly worded letter ... in case anyone actually reads this blog, but more to just get it off my chest.

Ahem.

To the Presidents and CEOs of Drive Thru Food America -

Dear Sirs,

As one of the millions of people who have frequented your various establishments over the years I would simply like to say "Thank You".

Originally, I was only able to stock my refrigerator by filling my bottles of ketchup and mustard and mayonaise from the handfuls of condiments my bags would contain, whether I asked for them or not.

Over the years, I've been able to scratch butter and sour cream, picante sauce and cocktail sauce off of my grocery list, not to mention the barbeque sauce and the ranch dressing. Now, with the advent of offerings of items such as honey mustard, croutons, garlic butter, various hot sauces, etc. I am able to bypass the condiment aisle of my grocery store altogether! Awesome.

Plus, I cannot forget to give thanks to the pizza chains. Not only do I have an endless supply of grated parmesan cheese, but I also have more than enough red pepper flakes to give flaming heartburn to each pot of chili I prepare for the next 10 years.

Let us not forget the salt and pepper, those basic of condiments. I now have enough salt to protect my house from the most evil host of demons. (My apologies if you are not current on your demon lore. Might I suggest you turn to the CW show Supernatural on Thursday nights and find out how salt is more than just a seasoning?) As for pepper, well, let's just say that sneezing is never a problem around my household.

I would simply like to end this letter by saying thank you. Thank you for hiring people who do not listen. Thank you for training your employees that the customer gets it, whether they want it or not.

Oh! And thank you for raising the price of your menu items to cover your overhead losses caused by the handfuls of ketchup, of picante sauce, of ranch dressing, etc. over the years.

Sincerely yours,

A Condiment Customer

Now ... if you'll excuse me ... I'm heading out to get a hot dog for lunch. My relish jar was looking a bit low this morning.

Making Everything Better

2008-09-01T14:17:00.005-05:00

On the way to work the other morning, I passed a semi-truck that was pulling out of the parking lot of the local Braums. For those that don't know, Braums is a chain of small ice cream and dairy stores that began in Oklahoma and now have locations in Missouri, Arkansas, Kansas, and Texas. According to my mom, it's one of the best ice creams ever. I tend to agree. Anyhow, as I passed this truck that had obviously been making a product delivery, I was caught by the slogan on the side panel.

"Braums Ice Cream Makes Everything Better"

Now, for those who aren't familiar with Braums, you aren't hearing the jingle in your head, but trust me ... it's one of those catchy, once it's there it's never leaving your head type of jingles. To simply read the slogan sets the jingle singing in my mind ... over and over and over and over.

So it was, after passing the truck and having the jingle solidly planted in my head, that I began to try and distract myself with other thoughts in order to push it out. No such luck ... not even the radio helped - it was time for the news. Unwillingly, at first, I gave into the thoughts and let my mind wander. Does Braums make everything better? Is it really Braums, or is it the ice cream that is creating the feelings of everything being better? Cause, over the years, I've eaten alot of different ice creams, in alot of different places.

There was the ice cream at our birthday parties growing up. Usually the Krogers store brand that was always kept handy in the gallon buckets in our deep freezer when we were young. Sweet and creamy, it would melt into the cake and make it soggy but it was always so good - especially with chocolate syrup and candy sprinkles and frosting from a birthday cake. The sugar high was a blast and probably the reason why cake and ice cream was the last thing on the agenda, so that friends were sent home with their parents before the frenzy truly began.

There was the ice cream at Swensons in Minnesota where my church youth group would congregate after church on Sunday nights. Amidst laughter and fun, shakes and mountains of flavored ice creams were shared as the weekend fun was rehashed and the coming week was anticpated. The garish red wall paper and the gleaming wood and brass of the tables and fixtures remain firmly in my mind, along with the gigantic bowl of flavors that was sat in front of me the last time I was there ... the night of my 17th birthday ... the night before I left Minnesota to move to Texas. Although the night of laughter and fun was bittersweet, the sharing of ice cream and memories was sweet and lasting.

When I was living in Austin, the nanny of a precocious infant/toddler/preschooler, of all the places one could go for ice cream, it was the Dairy Queen that was the best. During those years, nothing fancy was necessary. Simply a sunny afternoon, a child next to me in her car seat, (this was over twenty years ago folks), a trip to the park and a swirled cone of soft serve creamy goodness. Or a gloomy rainy day brightened by a child's laughter when the soft serve swirl was dipped in chocolate to give it a crunchy sweet crust. Who needed fancy dishes and gourmet toppings when they had moments like that to cherish?

Through the years ice cream seems to be a common thread for me, which is kinda funny considering when asked what I want especially for a dessert, it is usually the last thing I think of eating. Yet it fills those moments ... those memories ...

... the pink divinity ice cream that was from Byerlys in Minnesota only at Christmas time ...

... the mini ice cream sandwiches that are passed out at Broken Arrow's Rooster Days parade byt the employees of our local Blue Bell creamery ...

... the Ben & Jerry's that keeps me company during new episodes of Supernatural on Thursday nights (Season Four premieres September 18th on the CW - Woot!) ...

... the rich and creamy dish of Schwann's ice cream as I enjoy a quiet evening at my parents house, watching television and talkng ...

... and tells me that it doesn't really matter what brand of ice cream is being eaten. It's the company, the memory, the moment that is really the most important, the most wonderful part.

The ice cream just makes everything better.

They Can Turn Me Off, But They Can't Shut Me Up!

2008-08-25T13:40:00.000-05:00

You know it’s definitely a Monday when you wake up two hours early only to fall back to sleep just before the alarm actually goes off, causing you to hit the snooze button more times than you technically should and the only thing that keeps you from blithely sleeping away the morning is not the sense of duty to get up and go to work but the nagging knowledge that there is a child who needs to go to school (not WANTS, just NEEDS – there is a difference).

You know it’s definitely a Monday when you arrive to work after having a been off the previous Thursday and Friday and your residents decide to not recognize the fact that you were not here and expect you to be completely omniscient to their situations (and immediately have the solutions) the exact minute that you rush through the front door of the office six minutes late because of the previous waking up early/hitting the snooze button situation.

(It should be noted here that while YOUR arrival to work was late – the child was early getting to school. Go figure.)

You know it’s definitely a Monday when your computer advises you that it is unable to display your connected webpage – the webpage that includes all the work that you need access to for the current day, as well as to get caught up from the vacation days that you are now wondering why you felt the need to take them.

You know it’s definitely a Monday when you are forced to speak to a machine when calling your internet provider – a machine which does not seem to catch the snarkastic way you reply to it’s automatic questions, nor catches the snide comments made under your breath and which reaffirms to your soul that while these businesses may claim to be customer friendly but they are in fact not, for if they were customer friendly they would spend the minimum wage necessary to allow you to speak to an actual person who actually may know something.

Then again.

You know it’s definitely a Monday when you are finally allowed to speak directly to an actual person at the number you dial for your internet provider and you find that the person to whom you are speaking is in a different country altogether and you try desperately to remain polite, because you really need assistance getting back online, as you turn up your volume and listen as intently as possible and still have to have everything repeated at least three times in order to understand through the accent what is being said, all the while trying to figure out whether the other person is just a genius at understanding your accent or are they just getting lucky at their attempts in interpreting what you are trying to get assistance with or are they simply helping you with a problem which is not actually your problem.

(At this point, the vote could go in any direction, however the odds were heavy in favor of selection number three.)

You definitely know it’s a Monday when the physical person on the other end of your phone call to your internet service provider finally advises you that your number is a part of a “group outage” that began at approximately 9:47am causing you to snort with the insane laughter of one who is beginning to feel the slide over into the land of Insane Monday because you have been attempting to get onto the internet since 8:30am and it is now 10:12am and you were on hold and talking to animated voice machines from other countries for the last 36 minutes of your morning before you even had the opportunity to attempt to decipher the accent from the other end of the planet.

You definitely know it’s a Monday when the physical person on the other end of your phone call to your internet service provider advises you that the “group outage” is expected to be corrected by 2pm and, if it is not connected back up at the time that your day is two-thirds over and you've yet to accomplish anything remotely resembling catching up from last week's vacation days, to please give them a call back and allow them the opportunity to help you further which finally snaps the small modicum of control that you still had in your grasp as you snidely question aloud to the individual around the earth in another country who may or may not be understanding a bit of what you are trying to say the fact that that means that you will not be able to complete any work on your internet based programming, thus causing a standstill in your work production for another four hours and the physical person’s response becomes suspiciously similar to that of the animated voice machine you originally spoke with at the beginning of your phone call when they reply “that is correct however please call us back if your service is not connected after 2pm and thank you so much for calling AT&T and we look forward to continuing to help you in the future.”

Yeah. Right.

You definitely know it’s a Monday when you decide that they may take away your internet for a time but that doesn’t stop the words from coming. You just have to be more creative in getting them down and saving them until they can be posted.

And with the posting of the words, the frustration can be released.

And with the release of the frustration, harmony can be restored.

And with harmony restored, the rest of Monday can be faced.

And you know it’s definitely a Monday when you decide to relax and “go with the flow”, attempting to get other work done that is not internet based but your first post insane conversation with internet provider phone call is from an individual wishing to come visit your building, to see about an apartment for their elderly parent, that is hopelessly lost and needing assistance and they don’t seem to understand the straightforward, simple directions that you have given out for the last 9-1/2 years to everyone else that has been able to follow them without trouble and you finally try to assist by looking up where they think they are located in relation to where you are at that exact moment in order to perhaps give even more specific directions, only to find that they are sitting in the parking lot on the west side of the same church you share a parking lot with on the east side.

You know it’s definitely a Monday when all you can do is lay your head on your desk and laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

Oh ... btw ... the internet came back online at 1:22pm, signifying that I should continue to laugh and accept the small blessings. I'm going to need them.

A Night at the Opera

2008-07-12T09:30:00.003-05:00

This blog entry is dedicated to my eldest girlie.

Band geek that she is, it's no surprise how much my girlie loves music. Our earliest Saturday mornings (and any other time) were spent in repetitious viewings of various Disney "Sing-a-Long" videos. Then came the Disney animated movie Lion King. She and I saw it in the theater atleast 3 times ... I'm thinking it might have been more. From the first moment the sun began to rise on the screen with the opening strains of music, until the very last note was sounded at the end of the credits (seriously - we would watch them to the final end), she would sit in her seat, face rapt, eyes glued to the giant screen, her whole body attuned to everything she saw. Her only movement was when the music would begin for the various songs, as though she were keeping time with the music with her little body.

Did I mention she was 3 years old when Lion King hit the theaters?

The purchase of the video when it later came out became a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it was a guaranteed 90 minutes that she would sit ... motionless ... in one spot ... allowing me the opportunity to accomplish something (cleaning, cooking, dressing, etc.) without a small child in my face "what 'cha doin'?" or "can I do that?" or "I wanna try!". The curse was that in a small apartment there was no place to evade the sound coming from the television and so, no only was every lyric of every song burned into my brain, but for years I could actually recite whole passages of dialogue when given a one word cue.

However, she loved it then ... and 14 years later, she loves it still.

As the years have passed, she has broadened past the Disney genre of musicals. Broadway musicals have since captured her attention. Being a catlover, the musical Cats was one of the first to catch her attention. Others have also struck a chord with her, such as Oklahoma! (naturally).

Recently, I was watching a repeat of Hello Dolly! (the Barbra Streisand movie) on PBS when my girl walked in. Catching the music, you could see it was almost like I had hooked a fish ... she was simply drawn ... eyes and focus totally on the television, she sat and watched ... visually taking in the sight of the costumes and the dancing ... her whole body reacting to the music.

One musical that has totally captured her is Phantom of the Opera. My dvd of the movie version was captured and lost to the realm of her bedroom and dvd player. My CD of the musical highlights was stolen and it's music was ripped and copied to computer and MP3 player. To say that she loved this musical would have been an understatement. So, when the Broadway Company brought the Phantom to our own Tulsa Performing Arts Center this summer, you can imagine the conversations that took place.

"I want to go."

"I know that sweetie."

"No, seriously ... I NEED to see it."

"I understand that darlin'."

"I'm going to die if I can't see it."

No ... there's no drama queen blood running through her veins. Nope. None at all.

For a month, she and I bounced the possibility back and forth, talking about it, trying to determine if it would be possible, scouting seats online and checking prices. Yet money is tight.

The decision came down to this ... do we spend the money to see Phantom of the Opera or do we save the money and spend it to take a day trip up to Kansas City in October and see the Broadway production of Lion King?

Yeah ... that was a tough one. I did mention, didn't I, that the child has adored Lion King since it's inception when she was THREE YEARS OLD?!

After grumbling and mumbling, and may I say a VERY nice moment of pouting (the child could win awards with the way she tucks that lip when she pouts) ... my girlie was the one to make the decision. We would save our money and try to see Lion King.

Then a local television show ... one of those "what's going on in Tulsa" type programs ... announced they were going to give away two tickets to Phantom of the Opera.

Got any ideas what might have happened next? To say that she was DETERMINED to win these tickets would ... again ... be an understatement. She WAS going to win. She and I were going to see Phantom of the Opera. That was the only thing she would accept. There would be no alternative. Failure was not an option, was not something she was going to even begin to think about.

Do you know that she did it? Yep. With the help of speed dial and some assistance from her mom, my girlie won two tickets to see her first Broadway musical live and in person. Her glee was simply infectious.

We went.

It was a warm Tuesday night, but there was a nice breeze. As Baby made her way on the highway towards downtown Tulsa, my girlie kept up a constant chatter. Excitement seemed to shimmer off of her face and thread it's way through her voice. Even when the conversation actually veered away from the upcoming musical, you could still see and hear her anticipation. It was like a cloak surrounding her and she was holding it close.

We parked. She picked the lot. There were actually a couple closer that cost the same amount but I think that one was picked because it was closest to where we were and she suddenly needed to be out of Baby and heading into the theater. It was her night, so I just laughed and parked and locked up my Baby as my girlie grabbed my hand and began tugging me towards the theater.

She skipped. It was only once but she did. It was as though all of her delight simply could not be contained in a simple walk as we approached the doors amidst the crowd of other theater goers. I swear her face was actually glowing and my only curse on the evening was for the fact that I failed to take a picture of her under the marquee proclaiming it was now showing "PHANTOM OF THE OPERA".

We stopped and I purchased programs for both of us. She clutched hers tight to her chest. It was so evident that she wanted to look at it right then, but knew we needed to get inside.

We made our way to our seats. They were actually really good ones, up on the mezzanine but the stage was clear and easy to view. The nosebleed section was still further above us.

As soon as we sat, the programs were devoured. Having seen the movie, my girlie knew the basic story. Her biggest concern was how they were going to do water on the stage for the scenes under the opera house. (I should point out here that I had actually already seen the Broadway production in Dallas. It was in March of 1993 but I remembered it still like it was yesterday.) I simply smiled at her and told her to watch and see.

As the musicians began to warm up, my young band geek emerged and she began to explain to me the number of musicians in an orchestra for something like this, letting me know it was a flute warming up, giving me tidbits on piccalo players needing earplugs when they practice because of the shrill notes, and so on. I recognized the nervous chatter for what it was - a passing of the time before THE EVENT. I enjoyed it.

After a brief introduction and some announcements by a theater official, the lights dimmed and the play began. From the first note of the Overture, I couldn't help but feel her exuberance. She practically trembled. Sitting forward in her seat, leaning slightly towards the stage, face rapt, eyes glued ... the soon-to-be 17 year old reflected all the intensity of that 3 year old watching Lion King, the movie, so many years ago.

Watching her became as much fun as watching the activity on the stage. When the fog began to flow and the shimmer of candles began their watery effect across the shining stage, it was easy to believe that they had flooded the stage with water for the scenes of the labyrinth under the opera house. The comic moments were enjoyed, the cacophony of the singers during the "Notes/Prima Donna" scene in the managers office was mind-boggling, the crashing of the beautiful chandelier was amazing, the breathtaking beauty of the masquerade ball was entrancing, the heart pounding of the Phantom's own heartbreak during "The Point of No Return" and the subsequent chase back underground was simply incredible. The word "timeless" is so apt for this musical.

It was ... simply put ... beautiful - both visually and musically. Words fail to convey what the eyes and ears witnessed.

My girlie's face said it all though. With shining eyes and glowing smile, she was able to convey what words would fail.

She loved it. It was an experience that will last for a very long time. The fact that I was witness to it was a blessing and a memory I will forever hold close in my heart.

Right next to the one of a 3 year old in a dark theater watching animated animals sing and dance about the Circle of Life.

Questions, Answers, and Bugs Dying Feet

2008-06-21T09:28:00.005-05:00

My house is a place were bugs come to die.

It's true.

What's more, it doesn't bother me in the least.

As much as I love my little house, I recognize it's faults. There are many. Yet, it is a rental house and there is only so much that I can do, and so much that I can seem to get my landlord to do. One such fault that I simply can't fix by myself and, evidently, is not deemed to be of great importance to the man who owns the house is the fact that there are multitudes of little cracks and crevices that allow the little many legged creatures access to my living space. It's an older house and it has settled, the windows and doors just aren't as tight as they used to be.

So I compensate as best I can by laying a trail, inside and out of "bug killer". I do it each spring, and generally follow it up in the summer and fall. Bugs don't bother me in their natural habitat. If those grasshoppers want to live in the field across the street, I say "more power to them!". If those ants and beetles and june bugs and spiders and crickets and other creepy crawlies want to live out in my yard or garden, well ... hey! Grass and plants are nature, insects are nature, I say let them live hand in hand.

O.U.T.S.I.D.E!!!

Inside my house is not where I want to find something more than a creature that stands on two legs. Unless I finally give into the growing temptation and add a small four legged canine creature to my household. I'm the one that pays the rent on this domicile, not them and therefore - since they won't leave when asked - I say, "Die Bug, Die!".

Does this make me a bad person?

Eh! Sorry. Not really caring.

So ... here's what happens ... bugs come in ... they cross, of their own choosing, the barrier that I have invisibly erected around the perimeter of my living room, my kitchen, my hallway, my bedrooms and they believe in their little insect minds that they have it made, that they have survived. But they don't. With the exception of a pesky slug that kept finding ways around my barrier of salt, they all tend to die fairly quickly.

Now there are the occasional crickets and "doodle bugs" that have, over the years, been rescued by some youthful girlies (The same ones who screech and jump up onto the couch, chairs, counters, etc. if a spider looks at them askance from the doorway 10 feet away, but we won't mention that now, will we?) and tossed back to their natural habitat of the outdoors. But these are few, and far between. Generally ... the bugs ... they die.

Nothing could make me happier.

Yet, here's where my mind has wandered this morning (yes, there is actually a reason, a thought behind these words I'm putting to paper - computer - whatever - this morning) and has me writing.

Why do bugs die with their feet in the air?

Seriously.

They're crawling along and their time is up and they somehow manage to flip themselves over onto their backs, sticking their tiny little legs up into the air. Crickets do it. "Doodle bugs" do it. Those little black "I don't know WHAT the heck they are but they annoy the crap out of me" bugs do it. They all do. Why?

I realize that this may seem like a childish question, but can someone tell me why?

Today we have the wonderful internet and we can "Ask Jeeves" these questions, or we can do a "Google Search" and look up these subjects and find the answers to our questions. Children are always asking the "why?" question ... "Why is the sky blue?" ... "Why is fire yellow?" ... "Why do feet smell, even when you've been walking in water puddles?" Yes, they are always looking for answers. It's what keeps them learning, keeps them searching - expanding their horizons. As much as we grownups dread the "why?" questions, children need to ask them and we need to respond with as much truth and information as we deem their youthful minds can accept, given their ages and maturity.

Yet we don't always have the answers. Hence falling back on the wonderful world of "Ask Jeeves", Google, and Wikipedia, et. al. Hopefully answers can be located there. However, we didn't always have the internet. What did parents do before the internet? Lie? Make up answers? Continually go to the library?

Play the chase game of "Go ask your father", which would, inevitably result in the "Go ask your mother" response?

Books were where the fountain of knowledge lay during those *mumblemumble* years ago. I remember when my parents got our first set of World Book Encyclopedias. This huge selection of green and white books that came filled with all this information. They also got the series of Childcraft books that went along with the encyclopedias - books filled with stories, music, poems, crafts, useful learning tools for children. The standard answer to our "why?" questions in our house for my brother and I became ... "Did you look it up?" Placed on the "easily reachable by childish hands" shelving in our family's den, the encyclopedias took their place with the dictionaries and other reference books that my parents had collected over the years. During the school year, these books would wander from those shelves to the couch or the bedroom or the table ... where ever homework was being done or answers were being seeked.

A couple years after the arrival of the encyclopedias came four books that were truly fun and amazing ... they were the "Tell Me Why" books. These books were great. You could literally look up questions and find answers. At the time, I accepted them for what they were - something fun and interesting to read or to find answers. I was a kid. I didn't realize what a book such as that entailed - the formatting of questions into sections to find easier, the compilation of thousands of childish questions and their answers written for youthful understanding.

For me, and my little brother, they were just really cool books - paper and words bound together. From our earliest days, we both loved to read and these books were not only interesting and entertaining, but also filled with facts and knowledge and information. How wonderfully sneaky were our parents to provide something to teach us while we were entertained, yet be safe and secure in the fact that the information we were receiving was not something damaging, something that was not wholesome, was not bad for us?

Today, children have questions and are sent to the computer, to the internet, to these websites that may contain the information that they need but may also provide further information that youthful minds simply don't need to have. This frightens me in so many ways for our children of today. Make no mistake, I love the world of the internet and I make use of it daily. I love the quick access to the information that I desire. During times of homework, projects (gotta LOVE those science projects, history projects, geography projects), and just plain questions - the internet has provided a source of answers for my girlies when all my brain could come up with is "I don't know". However, it is my responsibility as the adult to make certain that they are accessing sites that provide only the information that they need and not something that young eyes, minds, and hearts do not need to witness or read.

That's a responsibility I don't take lightly. I just wish that more adults would think the same way because it breaks my heart when I hear a five year old discussing topics in graphic fashion. A five year old should not know the complete details of how a baby is made and how it arrives to this world. A seven year old does not need to learn the details of how sex is performed. An eight year old should not have access to information on how to construct a weapon or bomb.

What's my point about this, you ask? Simply this ... even though it is easier to just send a child to the computer when they ask the "why?" question, we can't just allow them to do that. We, as adults, need to know what they are reading is appropriate for the ages and maturity level that they have acheived. We need to allow our children to remain children and not allow them to become tiny grown ups. We need to remember that children should be playing outside with a rubber ball, with an umbrella in the rain - making their feet stinky in the puddles.

Of course, this is just my viewpoint. Children are going to ask questions ... it's just a natural part of childhood. It's up to us to determine the response that they receive, the amount of information that they need to have to satisfy their curiosity. Shouldn't we know where the answers to our children's questions are coming from?

Personally, I'd rather answer the question of "why do bugs die with their feet in the air?" than "why did Timmy shoot our teacher?".

Maybe because there the answers to some questions don't come in a book, or the internet because they are questions that children simply shouldn't have to ask. But then, maybe that's just me.

Oh ... btw ... according to John Meyer, entomolgy professor at North Carolina State University, it is believed that bugs die with their feet in the air is not intended but rather, a result of the fact that the insecticide affects their nervous system and so their coordination declines and they are unable to right themselves if they get turned over due to a breeze, a fall, a bump from another bug, etc. I should probably feel sorry for them that I am affecting their nervous system ... but ... I'm not.

Mind Numbing or Something More

2008-06-13T11:33:00.005-05:00

We don't have a postage machine in my office.

Normally, it's no big deal. We only average 3 or 4 outgoing letters a day, usually. However there is one week a month that we not only send out an average of 20+ letters a day, but each of those letters is enclosed with a self-addressed stamped envelope. So, technically the 20+ is, actually, 40+.

Why am I telling you this?

So you will understand when every once in awhile I have the job of restocking my supply of self-addressed stamped envelopes. Every few months I spend a mindless hour, labeling and stamping 100+ envelopes. It's not my favorite job ... in fact, it's rather mind numbing. I try to do it when I'm alone in the office and I can either play some music or set my computer to view a Supernatural episode on http://www.cwtv.com/. It's not like I'm not working ... my hands are continually busy ... I simply need something to concentrate on before I fall asleep. Did I mention this is a mind numbing task.

Unfortunately, there are days when my computer speakers decide they don't want to work. Call the Winchester boys and get the holy water and rock salt shotguns, because there's an evil spirit in my speakers which decides at the most inopportune times when it thinks I don't need to listen to something.

Today was just such a day.

No speakers mean no music to while away the dreary. No speakers mean no Supernatural episode dialogue to take away the boredom. *sigh*

Wouldn't you know this would happen on the day when I need to do double the amount of return envelopes because this is the month that I have double the normal amount of letters to send out??

Have I mentioned before that me and Murphy's Law ... we are just THAT tight??

After affixing the address labels to 200 envelopes, my wrist and elbow have begun screaming with the repetitive motion and my mind has wandered from emails that I need to write, to blogs I want to start, to cards I need to send, to lists I need to make. Unfortunately, I can't stop to write these things down as that simply prolongs the amount of time I have to spend sitting here ... at my desk ... peeling a label from the printed sheet ... placing the label on the top envelope on the stack ... taking the top envelope off the stack and moving to another "completed" stack ... going back to the printed sheet ... peeling a label ... well ... you get the idea.

See what I mean about mind-numbing??

Once the labels are attached and I have spent 15 minutes frantically trying to figure out which latin exorcism will remove the evil spirit from my computer speaker system to no avail, I restack my 200 envelopes and begin applying stamps.

I open up my new rolls of .42 cent stamps and begin applying. After the first 25 envelopes, I began to actually look at these new stamps. After the next 25 envelopes, I begin to actually realize what I'm seeing when I look at these new stamps. After the next 25 stamps, I have the pattern of these new stamps going through my mind. After the next 25 stamps I have begun to fully understand the meaning of these new stamps.

Did the postal system truly create these new stamps in the vision that I was seeing them or was it just my numbed mind latching onto something? I can't tell you that, cause I'm not employed by the U.S. Postal System. What I can share with you is what I saw as I repeatedly affixed 200 stamps to 200 envelopes.

I saw a stamp with the flag of our nation flying high in the morning's first light.

I saw a stamp with the flag of our nation flying high in the bright blue of the afternoon sky.

I saw a stamp with the flag of our nation flying high in the glow of the evening's setting sun.

I saw a stamp with the flag of our nation flying high in the shine of the moon overhead during the night.

The flag of our nation ... flying high ... over and over through countless mornings, afternoons, evenings and nights as depicted on these new stamps, just as it does in life.

Each morning that we wake up, free to determine the path of our day, our nation's flag is flying high.

Each afternoon that we go about our business, free to make choices, our nation's flag is flying high.

Each evening that we return to our homes, free to decide how to spend our time, our nation's flag is flying high.

Each night that we tuck our children in their beds, free to plan their futures, our nation's flag is flying high.

Continuously flying day and night, never ceasing, it can be seen leading troops into battle, it can be seen high atop our capital buildings, it can be seen on flagpoles scattered throughout the nation in front of businesses and private homes. It is our nation's flag and it represents the continual freedoms that we, as United States citizens, so often take for granted.

June 14th is Flag Day ... the day we celebrate the flag of the United States of America as adopted by resolution of the Second Continental Congress in 1777.

We see it every day in countless ways ... postage stamps, flying from a flag pole, on bumper stickers, emblems on t-shirts, emblazoned on buildings, and so on ... and sometimes we forget.

June 14th is Flag Day ... the day we need to remember ...

I pledge alligence to the flag

Of the United States of America

And to the Republic, for which it stands,

One Nation,

Under God,

Indivisible,

With liberty and justice for all.

While Driving

2008-06-12T10:43:00.004-05:00

I was driving in to the office this morning and when I halted at a stoplight at a busy intersection, I did my normal glance around at the other drivers next to me. To my left was a man - not a young man, not an older man, just an average aged man - sitting in his white Lexus ... reading. Not a map or glancing at a little note ... he was full-on reading an actual book, propped on the steering wheel, balanced between his two hands that were (ironically) placed in the "10 & 2" positions. While this stoplight is known to be kinda long, it's not "read a whole page and make it worthwhile to pull out the book" long, if you know what I mean.

So I continued to watch.

The light for our lanes turned green.

The cars began to move.

His car began to move.

He didn't put down the book!!!

Seriously. He was driving while reading his book.

I'm not sure about anyone else, but I'm pretty sure (actually, I'm REALLY pretty sure) that when I took driver's education *mumblemumble* years ago, they were fairly strict on the "Don't read while driving" policy.

I knew that I didn't want Baby anywhere near him if he came to an exciting or dramatic part, or any part for that matter, so I quickly sped her up, got around him and put him far into my rearview mirror. (I'd like to point out here that Baby only went over the speed limit briefly to insure her safety and if we had been caught, I would have been certain to point out to the officer the reason for doing so ... white guy, white Lexus, reading a book while driving ... that should have gotten me out of the ticket ... right?

However, here's the thing that got me thinking.

As drivers ... we are technically reading all the time. Our roads and highways are littered with stuff to read. I'm not talking about the road signs, the highway signs, the information signs. Those are necessary for safe driving and can be grasped in a glance. I'm talking about bill boards, advertisements, information painted on the sides of buildings.

When you stop and really think about it ... it's crazy!!

Remember the old Burma Shave signs? Okay ... no, I'm not old enough to remember them originally, but my grandparents lived in the country and riding in the backseat during those family trips, I still saw many of these signs. They really weren't very big ... just big enough for a few words. The gimmick was the fact that six (6) of these signs, placed consecutively along the road, read as a quick little poem.

Sign #1 - Don't loose

Sign #2 - your head

Sign #3 - to gain a minute.

Sign #4 - You need your head

Sign #5 - your brains are in it.

Sign #6 - Burma Shave

Quick and entertaining, these signs did what they were supposed to do - they got people driving by to think about their product. Isn't that what advertising is all about? Getting people to think about the product being offered?

Now the billboards are huge ... and many of them are now changeable - flipping between two different advertisers. Cause as I'm whipping along the highway at 65 miles per hour, I can certainly keep my eyes posted to one billboard to read, not just one advertisement but two (often having to also make note of the corresponding telephone number). Who needs to watch out for the other vehicles going the same speed, if not faster, trying to read the same billboards.

Not to mention the companies that paint their information on the side of buildings.

Especially fun are the billboards that come in levels ... some of them stacked three billboards high. There are many of these around the Branson, Missouri area - hawking the various shows, hotels, restaurants, etc. With little space between the billboard poles, maneuvering the twists and turns for the hill country roads becomes a bit treacherous as you try to read each and every sign. Heaven forbid you miss one and don't eat at the most scrumptious restaurant available. I wonder if you can have a comp ticket if you tell the the ticket office that you broke your collar bone in an vehicular accident as you were trying to read the billboard advertising their show?

It's crazy!!

*mumblemumble* years ago I had the opportunity to travel to Hawaii. As I traveled along the roads of three of the islands, I was amazed at the beauty all around me. I also felt that I was missing something, when it dawned on me ... there were no billboards or advertisements anywhere along the roads. Hawaii, valuing the beauty nature has bestowed, does not allow their roads to be littered with advertising billboards and signs.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if the other states of our nation valued their natural beauty as well? Books wouldn't be needed to entertain while driving if people simply gazed upon and appreciated the natural beauty around them. More importantly, wouldn't it be interesting to find out the statistics on the number of accidents/injuries that are advertising related?

Perhaps hospitals could put that question on their admittance forms ...

How did these accident injuries occur? (check all that apply)

Box #1 - reading book while driving

Box #2 - reading billboard while driving

Box #3 - writing number down from advertisement while driving

Box #4 - reading and writing while driving

Down Main St. in Small Town USA

2008-06-04T07:14:00.000-05:00

It was Osceola, Iowa.

I don't remember the year, but trust me when I tell you that it was *mumblemumble* years ago, that I saw my first small town parade.

I'd been to a big city parade. At the age of 5, my parents took me into New York City early one Thanksgiving morning and I got to see the Macy's Christmas parade live. My biggest memory of the parade? Nope, it wasn't seeing Tom Turkey, the balloons, the bands or Santa Claus himself. My memory is of the fact that since I was shorter than those around, I couldn't see, so my dad lifted me up to sit on a mailbox next to them. This was followed by the arrival of a policeman on a giant brown horse (I was short AND I was a city girl, you do the size math!) telling my parents that I was not allowed to sit on federal property.

So much for the parade memories from that year. I'm sure I was fascinated as only a wide eyed child could be at the time, I simply can't access those memories.

I can remember my first small town parade. Okay, it may not be the very first one I saw, but it's the first parade I truly have memories of being there, seeing the bands and the floats and the cars and the people. I remember the sounds, the smells, the way the sun shone down on everything - people smiling, laughing, waving with pride the little American Flags. It was over the Fourth of July holiday and it was in Osceola, Iowa, home of my mom's parents - my Nanny & Papa.

Osceola is one of those wonderful small towns built around an open city square and it was around that square that the parade wove it's way. My Papa was a member of the Osceola Volunteer Fire Department and I clearly remember him in his crisp white shirt and his dark blue pants with the dark blue cap firmly on his head as he rode in the big fire engine. I remember a float that was shaped like the world as it rested in the back of an old red pick up truck. I remember the bands and the horses. The sights and smells, the sounds as they wove through the day. My Nanny worked in a booth that sold pies and other baked goods. I don't clearly remember if it was for her church group or because she was a fireman's wife but I do remember being sneaked a cookie if I would go on and not just hang around. There were carnival rides set up in the square and that night the square became a magical world of bright lights and carny music and cotton candy.

However, it was the parade that started the day.

I think those memories are part of the reason I love living in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. We are a part of the Tulsa area and therefore we are part of a metropolitan community, but there are times when Broken Arrow is simply a good, old fashioned small town. The second weekend of May is one of those times. Each year, on the second weekend of May, the town celebrates Rooster Days, a spring time festival. There is a Miss Chick pageant, a carnival, a craft show, music and lights and on Saturday morning, there is a parade.
A good old fashioned hometown parade.

Leading the parade is the high school marching band, fittingly named, The Pride of Broken Arrow. These kids, grades 9 through 12, are amazing musicians and Grand National Champion winning marchers. There's one that I'm particularly proud of myself ... a sixteen year old sax playing junior.

Yeah. It was a nice way to start the parade. Although, this year the parade was started even sweeter as one of the main sponsors for the Broken Arrow parade is our own local Blue Bell Ice Cream Creamery and while their big brown truck slowly made it's way down the street, it's various employees came down each side with large ice cream buckets handing out mini ice cream sandwiches. One, two, three ... some had four and five ... didn't matter, they were free and they were yummy and there was no shortage of smiles after that.

Mixed between the various middle school bands were various floats from area businesses and churches, groups of cheerleaders and dancers. There were old cars and new ones, including the new unmarked police car contrasting with one of the original Oklahoma Highway Patrol cars. There were Shriners ... the spinning car, the clowns chasing each other, the mini speed cars racing up and down and around, the dune buggies. There were politicians (what's a small town parade without them?) and there were representatives of the local television station.

The parade began to wind down, having saved the best middle school band for last. Okay, probably not completely true since they actually marched the middle school bands in alphabetical order, but in MY opinion it was the best middle school band. You see, making her debut marching performance was yet another of my girlies, also playing sax. After years of watching her and her sisters in this parade or the winter Christmas parade, either as band members or Girl Scout troop members, the thrill of pride never fades in seeing the flushed face of the young person I adore, who has been a part of something fun and hometown wholesome. They may fuss about walking the distance, but in the end - they're always smiling.

Of course, after the parade came the craft show and a day spent at the carnival. Later that night would come the tired, sweaty, children recounting the twisting, twirling, plummeting fun of rides as they count their loot of plush animals - the magic of colorful lights still shining in their eyes.

However, before that, still seated on the concrete sidewalk, feeling the breeze, listening to the music of the bands and the people, watching the amazing sight of a small town community, I remembered back to those days *mumblemumble* years ago and the fond memories of sharing a fun time with family and I hoped. I hoped to myself that my girlies were stockpiling those memories to recount in future years.

Memories of Good Days

2008-06-02T08:51:00.004-05:00

I miss the good old days.

This saying takes on so many meanings for me. Working with seniors on a daily basis, it takes on a historical meaning of when times were “simpler”. There’s also the fact that with today’s rising prices in gas, groceries and daily life, missing the good old days simply means missing the fact that my paycheck wasn’t spent before I actually received it.

However that’s not the meaning that has seemed to hit home for me this weekend. I don’t know why the nostalgia bug hit me, but it did and so I indulged myself with a few pictures and thoughts.

I miss the good old days …

Those days when Saturday mornings were spent with me and a three year old watching The Lion King for the 50 bajillianth (it’s a word … I just used it) time after eating pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse heads swimming in maple syrup.

Those days when my alarm clock was two little girls calling from their cribs or playpens with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”, which were followed by days when my alarm clock was two little girls (one in particular) who had discovered that she could get out of her “big girl” bed by herself and come into my room and stand there quietly, staring at me in the face, startling me awake by either pressing my nose or … my favorite (she says sarcastically) … sticking a finger in my ear … and waking me with the words “I hun-gy, Cinny!”.

Those days when reading with the girlies meant cuddling up in my big chair with a girlie on each arm rest and a pile of books between us.

Those days when an umbrella was a fashion accessory.

Those days when I could a few quiet moments with one of the girlies, simply sitting with her in front of me on the floor as I brushed out her long hair.

Those days when manuevering around my kitchen meant stepping around the step stools used by my budding assistants, as they helped me with cookie dough and other goodies to be baked.

Those days when it was so easy to read and understand the expression on my girlies faces.

Those days when picnics in the park, decorating the driveway with chalk drawings, and the simple words “let’s play outside”, brought smiles and giggles to the faces of three girls and lightened my mood from whatever had transpired during the week.

Those days when a simple smile and a tight hug around the neck said more than any glittery gift or expressive sonnet ever could.

My girlies are growing up. Fast becoming independent, young women with their own thoughts and decisions, instead of the babies and children they once were in those good old days. What is left of those childhood moments now are a handful of pictures and a heart full of memories,

However … these modern days still hold something wondrous and true. Perhaps the cost of gas has increased dramatically, yet the value of the smile and hug has grown to be even more precious than gold and it still costs nothing to give or receive.

And that works for me on any day.

Berry Good

2008-06-01T16:59:00.003-05:00

I wasn’t always a berry eater. Actually, I’ve never been much of an overall fruit eater. I enjoy an occasional apple, especially in the fall. Oranges belong in the toe of a Christmas stocking and it is during those wintery months when they simply seem sweeter. Summer wouldn’t be summer without a watermelon or a cantelope (please don’t ask me about the honeydew melon – the taste just never has appealed to me) juices running down a chin and giving a refreshing punch on a hot day. There’s also the black plum, whose skin is so tart it’s as though you have bitten into a giant sour sweettart candy, yet it’s inside is so juicy and sweet that the tart is quickly forgotten.

I don’t really like pineapple, although when I had the opportunity to spend 11 days in Hawaii *mumblemumble* years ago, I don’t recall snacking on anything more than the local pineapple, as well as fresh mango and papaya. I do enjoy a kiwi on occasion. Their tart sweetness is rich and good when mixed with the melons of summer.

I’ll state right now that I have never cared for grapes, peaches or nectarines. Raise your eyebrow, scoff and laugh, it doesn’t matter. I have tried. I can’t … I don’t … I just won’t.

Yet I can’t say never.

Because there’s my growing attraction to berries.

It’s been slow to grow over the years. As a kid/teen/young adult, I would watch as my family and friends would relish in the goodness of berries … strawberries, red raspberries, black raspberries, blueberries, gooseberries. You name them, my family ate them … fresh, sliced with sugar, baked in cobblers, pureed into jams and jellys. It was a regular berry fest. One that I simply didn’t care for trying. Well … I tried … I just didn’t like.

Oh … I did eat the occasional strawberries … but they had to be whole and there had to be a good amount of powdered sugar to dip them in.

Over the years my enjoyment of strawberries has gradually increased to more than just an occasional whole berry. Perhaps it was when my mother began making her own strawberry jam and the sweet goodness, spread out on a fresh, warm slice of homemade bread was one of the finest treats I could imagine.

Recently, I’ve discovered that my distaste for blueberries has also seemed to have turned a corner. First it was cooked blueberries in a muffin or coffeecake that made me rethink my previous dislike. Who couldn’t resist a blueberry muffin with all that intoxicating crumbly coating on the top? But then, after a bit, the crumbly coating wasn’t necessary … just a straight muffin with blueberries please. Last year I discovered blueberry tea. I honestly can’t tell you why I tried it, I can only tell you that it is some of the best stuff I’ve had the pleasure of sipping on a cold winter morning as I check my emails and read my friends words before starting my day. When that warm mug of blueberry tea is joined with a toasty slice of blueberry bread … well, raptures have been sung for less. Imagine my delight when I found a place that sells homemade blueberry jelly?? Suddenly my mornings were a matter of blueberry tea and the dilemma of whether to enjoy a slice of blueberry toast or an english muffin with blueberry jelly.

I’m not stupid … I had the blueberry tea, the blueberry toast and made a peanut butter and blueberry jelly sandwich for my lunch.

Ha!

I have been enjoying learning to try new recipes, cooking with the fresh blueberries. There’s a recipe for a blueberry angel food cake that keeps catching my eye and don’t get me started on this lemon blueberry muffin recipe that looks and sounds scrumptious. I’m excited for the season’s fresh blueberries because I’ve found a wonderful way to freeze them so that I can enjoy them again come winter.

For now though, we’re back to summer and those sunny days and warm breezes. It is once again the season for my local fruit stand and the local strawberries. I may eventually broaden my horizons to once again try the other berries, but right now I don’t need to. Right now the strawberries are fresh, sweet and intoxicating – with or without sugar.

Yesterday I made a pitcher of strawberry iced tea. I ate my muffin with homemade strawberry jam. And I found a recipe for strawberry bread. Yep … I’m a singleminded creature at times and in my mind …
that’s berry good.

Stupid People Make Me Crazy

2008-05-23T19:10:00.003-05:00

Okay ... I realize it's been almost a month since I've written anything.

Well ... that's not exactly true. I've written a few things that just haven't made it to the posting stage. I'm working on it ... I'm working on it.

Still ... I feel the need to get this written and get it out there because that's what I do when I'm really and truly angry.

It has been one of those wonderful, pre-holiday weekend Fridays where it's quiet enough in the office that I was actually allowed to get all of my work done early. Early enough that I was able to get a few extra tid-bitty things completed that just always make me nutty to come into on Monday. Then, I left the office early. That, in itself, was a definite cause to celebrate but on the way home, I stopped at my favorite fruit stand and was, once again, gifted by the owner (we've been doing this now for a good 7 or 8 years ) with a small, sweet, seedless watermelon. Yum!!!

After I paid for my other things, I went by the laundromat (yep, the washer still hasn't been replaced but I've still got my Supernatural Convention tickets ... woot!!!) to wash up a few loads and the front washers that are next to the chairs are open. Yay!! I throw in the clothes and then take a seat and read for 25 minutes, relaxing while they get clean. Loading them back in the car to take home to dry, I decide that I want to pick up some last minute things at the grocery store.

I run across the street ... okay, that's not entirely correct ... I drove Baby across the street and we found a parking spot right up close to the door. Yay, again! I go in and quickly get the few things I wanted and walk right up to the register and check out without waiting. Yay, yet again!!

So ... why ... you ask am I now cranky???

Here's what happened next:

I took may bags out to my car in my basket. I could have carried them, but ... well, I didn't. So, I pull the basket up next to Baby and open her up to put the bags in the back seat. While I'm doing this, I'm humming and enjoying the afternoon/evening breeze and I watch a car pull in right in front of mine. No biggie. I see a lady in the front seat look at me with kinda a strange look, but I just went on with my business of unloading and then throwing my purse into the front seat.

The lady gets out of the car, giving me yet another interesting look and heads into the store.

And I realize that she has left the car running.

I glance in the front window as I walk by to put my car in the lot's cart catcher and notice that no one seems to be in the vehicle. Not in the front or the back.

But the car is running.

And I realize that there is a baby carrier in the middle of the back seat ... facing backwards.

I walk on towards the cart catcher with my mind racing ... surely no one is that stupid as to intentionally leave a child that would be small enough to be in a carrier backwards alone in a car in a parking lot? Right??? Right???

Wrong.

As I walked back, I intentionally looked in the back window. I didn't care. I prayed that there would be someone's face pop up at me asking me to mind my own business.

They didn't.

Instead, I see a little pink foot wiggle inside a car seat. From the size of that foot I would guess the infant to be perhaps 4 to6 months.

I couldn't believe it!! I looked to the store and back to the car. The doors were obviously locked and the car was running, therefore it was "cool".

Doesn't matter!! That is an infant! A gift. Something precious and small and should be cared for and looked after, not left alone in a car that is locked and running.

I went to Baby and got in and simply sat there ... and watched.

While I watched over this little one, my mind thought of all the things that could happen ... aspiration on a bit of spit up, a car loosing control in the parking lot and ramming into this metal box holding this baby, the car overheating, something going wrong and the exhaust running into the car instead of out. By the end of five minutes, my imagination had the car blowing up from overheating and I was trying to figure out if the toilet brush I had purchased could be used as a slim jim to open that car.

Five minutes. I got out my notepad and pen and wrote a note.

Ten minutes. I got out of my car and put the not on the windshield.

Thirteen minutes and the woman returned.

She stopped and looked at me when she saw my Baby and I were still sitting there.

I looked back. I didn't care.

She opened the door and started to get in when she noticed the note. She looked at me again, and I watched as she got out of her car and reached for it. She glanced at it and then looked back at me and I met her eye one last time with a sad look on my face, shook my head, and put Baby in reverse and left.

My note?

"Shame on you. You've been given a gift to watch over and protect. You have failed in this moment. It may sound strong, but I don't care. I understand that it's not easy to get a small one in and out of a car. I understand that you think that just a couple of minutes will be fine. But it's not. Please, please, please ... don't ever do it again. The next person to notice you left the little one unprotected might not watch over it ... they might decide to take it."

Children are gifts. Their well being should never be taken for granted.

The Special Ingredient

2008-04-27T14:27:00.003-05:00

I've been thinking about my grandparents this weekend. I do that on occasion, such as at dinnertime when I use the bowls that came from my Grandma's own kitchen, mismatched but full of memories of family meals and good cooking. One memory always links to another and gives me brief moments of nostalgia. This weekend, it's not Grandma though ... it's my mom's mom, the one I called Nanny, because this weekend I've given in to a craving I had and I am making oatmeal raisin cookies, using my Nanny's recipe.

Growing up, my grandparents (either set) didn't live in the same city as we did, no matter how many times we moved. Yet, each year, time was spent with them at our house and us at their house. No, I didn't get to see them every day, but that is what made visiting with them special. Each visit like Christmas - filled with presents, good food, and lots of love. I was lucky. My grandparents didn't have to become second parents to me and my little brother like so many have had to step in and do so today. Instead, we were able to enjoy our time with them as we should - to be spoiled and then returned to our parents. Atleast that was the theory.

For me, my Nanny's raisin cookies were a staple. Even better than chocolate chip ... and I have had my love affair with the chip of chocolate for *mumblemumble* years, so this isn't just a changing declaration. When Nanny and Papa would come to our house for a visit, there would always be a box of oatmeal cookies that made the trip with them. When we would visit their house, there would always be plenty of cookies while we were there - but still enough to take a box home with us. The perfect cookie in my childhood, they were always soft inside, with that sweet goodness provided from plump & juicy raisins.

As I grew older and moved off on my own, I would often try making them but they never seemed to be quite right. They were too crisp. The raisins were chewy. They dried out too easily. They just never seemed to taste like my Nanny's cookies. I finally dispaired, thinking that it must have been from my Nanny licking her fingers and putting them in the batter. But that so wasn't right because that is something that my Nanny would NEVER have done ... got my fingers smacked enough to know that to be fact! Still I was puzzled ... what was the secret??

There ended up being a couple of them, but the one that struck me the most was not a complicated step at all. It wasn't a technique or a timing ... it was simply a step of proven love. You see, my Nanny always made the cookies ahead of time and froze them in her big old deep freezer. Taken fresh, wrapped with wax paper and put into boxes or big old coffee cans, they were frozen until the trip was made to visit our house or our arrival on their doorstep. That time in the freezer, waiting, did something to those cookies and made them seem even better - making them even softer and tastier than could ever be fresh out of the oven. The step of love meant that these cookies were being prepared special, as a treat for whenever the time would be for us to be together. They weren't thrown together at the last minute. They were thoughtfully baked ahead of time ... and then frozen ... waiting for that moment to share the love of being together with the people that meant the most.

I'm baking these cookies this weekend and while I'm sharing (and munching on) a few right now ... the majority are being nestled between sheets of wax paper and placed in a box in my own deep freezer to be shared in a month or so with those that I love. No ... I'm not a grandmother, but there are people who mean the world to me ... and when I share my Nanny's oatmeal raisin cookies - it will be with them.

Observations From A Trip Up The Road

2008-04-15T11:26:00.004-05:00

Baby and I took another road trip last week. It was just a quickie ... up one morning early and back the next afternoon. So ... of course ... I had to make some observations and what fun would observations be, unless they are shared?

Now ... this trip, I must admit, was a true test of how much Baby and I have bonded. It was a true test of how well I've learned to handle her and how well she is able to protect me. You see, this trip was taken during a flooding thunderstorm of blinding rain, ear-shattering thunder and sky-splitting lightning. Traveling down the 75 mph turnpike at a scary 35 mph, it was definitely a test of Baby's tire traction and my nerves for it was note exactly optimum traveling weather.

My plan was to begin the trip at 4 am, however the meteorologist on my television was telling me about the possible twisters in the area and the hail using my house as a drum was the size of a hen egg.

I decided it would be best to wait.

Instead, my trip began at 6 am. It probably should have waited another hour, but I was already late and antsy to get to my destination. My first clue should have been the fact that getting out of my neighborhood included going through "puddles" that completely covered the street from side to side and were actually deep enough to hide part of the curb on each side. Once out on the main streets, the going was a bit easier as long as I managed to stay on the inside lanes and away from the sides. With windshield wipers going non-stop and rain beating a staccato beat on the sunroof, I made it to the turnpike entrance.

Did I mention that the toll booth doesn't have a covering? Yes ... it's always fun to roll down a window to face the elements of wind and rain in order to throw .50 cents to the toll booth basket and pray that one of the quarters isn't blown away. I almost opted to let caution go to the wind and run it, but knew that, as sure as I did, the toll booth cameras would snap Baby's picture and list her on the "Most Wanted" board. (Although, she would look pretty up there, next to that picture of the sleek black '67 Impala ...)

After a knuckle whitening hour of pushing against the northwest wind that was slamming my Baby with it's force, hurtling rain from all sides at us, the storm finally seemed to slow down. I wasn't sure if I had gotten ahead of it or if it had passed on by. All I knew is that the sky began to lighten from black and charcoal gray to a lighter, more dull metallic gray and the wind and the rain began to taper back to a manageable gust and patter. Picking up speed, I was finally able to begin to feel more like a car and driver, instead of a fish in a row boat.

Of course, then I began to check out my surroundings ... noting the water swollen fields, the overflowing ponds and creeks, and the man who was trying to get a load of wet hay unloaded from the back of a truck in order to feed the cows that were lining up at the trough, despite the lightning in the background and the miserable cold rain that continued to pelt out of the sky.

Observation number 1:
Farmers deserve much more thanks than they are given ... more dedicated than a postman because despite the elements ... wind, rain, hail, snow, ice, heat ... the animals must be fed.

Continuing down the turnpike, feeling calmer and more relaxed, releasing the clench that I'm sure Baby had to be feeling on her steering wheel, I turned up the music on my radio and listened to the sounds of Steve Carlson, CCR, BTO, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and others as they played from my Baby's speakers. The wind had died further to occasional gusts and the rain wandered between drops and drizzle. The most difficult part now was working to stay away from the 18-wheelers as they kicked up the water, throwing a fine, and very blinding, mist up onto my windshields.

Now ... in my old car, the windshield wipers were controlled by my left hand, as they were attached to the part that operated my blinkers. Baby's windshield wipers are a bit more complex, with varying levels of delay and they are located on the right side of the steering wheel. While I've used them before, this trip gave me ample opportunity of practice in adjusting the settings that would set the wipers beating from right to left and back again regularly, swiftly or delayed, or, if I so chose, manually.

Observation number 2:
It's a fascinating way to pass the time when one finds themselves attempting to match the rhythm of the windshield wipers to the rhythm of the music coming from the speakers. Best song to work with? Dude! Asia's ... "Heat of the Moment" makes for hysterical laughter and can only be done with the manual wipers.

Observation number 3:
By this point, I might be a bit slap happy with dealing with little sleep, worry for my mom's upcoming surgery, trying to get to the hospital before they took her and driving through torrential storms and floods.

In case you hadn't figured that out yet.

With the rain finally having abated two hours after beginning the journey, my stomach told me that it required more than just the large thermos mug of tea (RoT's Earl Greyer ... really really good!), plus I needed to simply stretch for just a moment. So, I pulled off at a truck stop that I have frequented before and knew to be clean and prepared to go inside for a moment.

Observation number 4:
It's when you're pulled over and ready to get out of the car that you find you haven't completely gotten out of the path of the storm.

I literally opened the door, got out, closed the door and took a step towards the entrance of the little shop when the heavens opened up and sent forth the gale force winds and the blinding rain, shattering my hearing and sight with the subsequent thunder and lightning.

Yep ... me and Murphy's Law ... we're just THAT tight.

Making a quick stop, grabbing a bottle of water, a bag of chex mix, a bag of dark chocolate M&M's and saying a prayer that the "looked like fresh" danish really was fresh, I took the bag - after giving the clerk a raised eyebrow and glancing at the rain outside when she asked me "Paper or plastic" ... seriously ... and dashed to Baby's door, pulling it open and jumping inside as fast as possible to avoid minimum wetness both on me and in her.

Fixing up my little nest of goodies, starting her engine and heading Baby back onto the highway, I took a bite of my danish. It wasn't bad ... not completely fresh, but not bad. I thought to myself that I should have let it be zapped a moment in the microwave and of course, then, in the back of my mind, I'm hearing Dean from Supernatural's episode, "Simon Said", saying just once he'd like to eat something that didn't need to be microwaved at a mini mart.

Did I mention that I might be a bit slap happy?

Did I mention that it wasn't 10 minutes after leaving the truck stop that the rain once again slowed to a light, occasional mist?

Yeah ... not kidding ... me and Murphy ... we're that tight.

Heading on up the turnpike, breakfast, such as it was, is completed. The M&Ms are stowed in my bag for later snacking and the chex mix is open and occasionally being munched. I'm getting closer to my destination and, I'll be honest, I'm beginning to get a bit more anxious to get there. Still, conditions that they are, I keep Baby set on a cruise control of the speed limit. No need in Murphy letting the highway patrolmen have fun with me.

To occupy my mind, since it's way to early to be calling my friends and passing the time with my cell phone, I begin to let my gaze wander around the countryside. Now ... I know that they've been there ... I've traveled this road dozens of times over the last 18 years ... but it was on this trip that it simply amazed me as I realized the number of adult video shops that are located along the highway. I'm serious. Big signs advertising "XXX Videos" and "Adults Only" flashing neon in the pale gray light of morning. There aren't any other businesses. The towns are located back and away from the turnpike. These places have been opened in the abandoned buildings left from previous occupants such as Stuckeys, Nickerson Farms, etc. Those family friendly places that I remember stopping at as we traveled from Texas to Iowa and Kansas City to Minneapolis to visit family and friends during my childhood. The bright red roof or the pale blue trimming has been replaced with black and white and the rooms that held the restaurants serving homestyle food and offering tourist trinkets of t-shirts, tumblers, bells, & spoons have been replaced with ... well, I don't know and I don't want to know what the inside looks like now.

Observation number 5:
How can things be changing for the better when those places where parents felt safe to let their children roam, searching out candy and treats while they stretched their legs, have been replaced for places that are dark and advertise and cater towards the baser, primal instincts of our species?

Plus ... what the heck! These places are 24 hour and I'm here to tell you that many of them had cars and trucks parked in their lots as I passed and it was barely 8:30 in the morning!

That's. Just. WRONG.

Moving onward, I approached my destination. The rain was beginning to pick up and I was needing to pay closer attention. Keeping a close eye, I made the right exit and Baby hurtled towards the hospital where my Mom & Dad were waiting. Startled when my cell phone rang, I heard a family friend's voice telling me that they were taking my mom to surgery and wanting to know how much longer I would be. Checking the signs, I knew that I still had atleast 10 minutes to get to the hospital and then it would be a matter of the time it took to find a parking spot and get inside to the surgical area. Luckily we've been through this before and I knew in my mind exactly where I needed to go and how to get there.

Pulling into a parking spot, I gave a quick and silent thanks ... for the traveling mercies, the safety from the elements, for having Baby handle the roads like a champ ... and I ran into the hospital, stopping briefly at the door to close my umbrella and drop it into one of the handy dandy umbrella shaped plastic bags that the hospital provided at their entrance.

Arriving to the surgical waiting room, I found my family's friends but noticed the absence of my father. Finding out that he had gone with my mom to the prep area, I dumped my stuff and went to the large information desk I passed as I entered the room. Using my best "I've been delayed by the storms and I'm her daughter and she truly needs to see me before she goes" voice, I pled my case to the volunteers stationed there. Locating my mom in the computer, they glanced at each other and then back at me and one nodded to the other who rose and told me to follow her, that she would take me to see my mom.

And I did.

Despite the elements, the lack of sleep, and the slap happiness, I had made it in time to give my mom the hug and encouragement that she needed from her eldest child and, as I posted earlier, make it to the doctor's smile on the other side of the hours of waiting.

Final observation:

When it's really important, we do the things we need to do. We face the finger clenching elements and feed the cows or travel the turnpike and we do it with a rhythm that matches the music of our lives, with a giggle and a grin. Dry or wet, we take the sustenance when and where we can and we hurtle on, mindful of the past that is rich in memories, passing by the evil that surrounds us as we make our way to the ones who need us and love us.

But then ... those are just my observations on this trip. We'll see what happens next time Baby and I decide to go somewhere.

Watching, Weaving, Waiting and Wondering

2008-04-15T09:55:00.006-05:00

I love to watch people.

It began when I was in high school and living in Minnesota. In the winter there wasn't a whole lot of things to do on a little amount of money, so my friends and I would go to the mall to simply window shop. Soon we would end up with a cold drink and a comfortable bench and we would watch the people as they would make their way through the mall. Busy shoppers, some hustling and bustling, some meandering their way along ... each one with a purpose, each one with a story.

My friends and I would amuse ourselves making up stories and dialogue to fit the people that we would see, weaving fantasies and spy mysteries around the individuals, couples and groups of our unknowing cast of characters. In the span of minutes, my imagination could take an individual on a quest for the perfect outfit for a romantic interlude, place them in an alternate reality, or have them be spied upon by the agents from a foreign government. Watching people became a habit to indulge in whenever I find myself alone in a crowd.

Over the years I have watched people in company meetings, restaurants, theater lobbies, airports. Being single, there are many times that I find myself in situations alone and, although I usually have a trusty book to keep me occupied, I still tend to keep an eye on my surroundings and the people who move around where I am sitting. Occasionally I still make up the stories and dialogue in my mind to amuse myself, however I mostly just watch.

Last week I found myself in a hospital surgical waiting room. I knew that I would be spending a long amount of time simply sitting and so I had prepared my little bag with a couple of different books, my notebook to do some writing of my own, snacks and other little odds and ends. Yet, after a time of reading, I found myself falling back to my little habit. I watched.

Surgical waiting rooms don't gather people like malls or restaurants or airports or theaters. There isn't a hustle or bustle. While there is a steady flow of people, the air that surrounds is differently charged. There isn't the excitement of a deal found, a trip to be taken, a show to be seen. As good as I am at weaving stories out of the individuals I see, I found that fantasies and dialogues just don't work when watching someone in a surgical waiting room.

This particular hospital's waiting was very large and was sectioned nicely for large and small groups to be able to gather. In the center, positioned in front of the main entry was a large information desk staffed by a couple of volunteers who were quiet, friendly and quick to respond to any question. Over to the side was an area for people who had children, stocked with books and television and toys to amuse.

It was a noisy room, and yet it wasn't. It was a room filled with strangers, and yet everyone there had something in common - concern for a friend or loved one that was currently undergoing surgery.

Waiting ... hoping ... wondering ... praying ... anticipating ...

Husbands ... wives ... children ... parents ... brothers ... sisters ... family ... friends ...

Clusters of people chattering about nothing consequential, simply filling the time with words to chase away the anxieties of waiting until the name was called by one of the volunteers and the time came to meet with the physician in the surgical scrubs. In the hours I watched I found myself smiling for those who were met by the doctor at the information desk. Hands would be shaken, heads would nod, words would be exchanged quietly as the doctor gave the information that brought smiles to the waiting faces. I found myself offering silent prayers for strangers when they were directed to meet with the surgeon in one of the private little rooms off to the side of the main waiting room. Door closed, voices muted, faces emerging grave, some silent, some with tears and tissues, my heart would go out to those individuals and the patient for whom they were waiting.

I found that, unlike the mall or the theater or the airport, I wasn't able to "watch", I was only able to glance from time to time as people came and went - alone or in groups of two or more. Hospital surgical waiting rooms are not places of fantasy and spy mysteries, of intrigue and romance. They are places of reality where strangers come together for an hour or a day with a common goal of passing the limbo time waiting ... and wondering ... and praying ... and hoping.

Oh ... and in case you might be wondering, when my wait was over, when my name was called, I met the surgeon at the information desk with a handshake ... and a smile.

Holey Moley! It's A Supernatural Thursday!

2008-04-03T07:31:00.004-05:00

This morning I got up a bit extra early. (I have no clue as to why) I've been doing laundry and I'm thinking about holes and decided to write about them.

Yep. Holes.

What kind of holes, you might ask? (and even if you don't)

Well ... I can tell you that I'm not thinking of the holes in the ozone right now, I've only had my one cup of tea yet this morning and right now it's easier to contemplate the holes in my Rice Krispies and what about them makes that inviting little "Snap" "Crackle" and "Pop".

I would give thought to those black holes in space, however I'm still trying to figure out how cyberspace opened a hole and swallowed the last three pages of my DaLDoM blog I have been suffering through for the last month when all I did was click the "Save" button on Microsoft Word. (If anyone has a number for Bill Gates ... I'd like to give him a "word")

No ... I'm not thinking deep philosophical thoughts ...

I'm not wondering about the fact that kids of all ages find a donut hole much more fun to eat than a regular donut.

I'm really not thinking about golfers and their intense passion to find that elusive "hole in one". (Although I was thinking of a particular friend this morning who truly does love the game of golf and hope she's doing alright ... "Hi Friend!" *waves*)

I'm actually not even giving a moment to thinking about that mysterious hole in the bottom of my lip that only opens when I am eating red sauce pasta and wearing a white shirt.

It's a bit more basic than that ... I'm folding laundry and I'm thinking about the holes I have found in clothing. You see, I just plucked from the basket this pink t-shirt with a daisy on the front. It's a nightshirt that was originally a regular shirt of my oldest girlie and passed to the twinks when they were smaller to be used as a nightshirt. It's been a favorite ... there was a struggle to have the oldest relinquish it even though it had grown entirely too small to wear (yes I know ... shirts don't grow, children do ... *sigh* ... work with me here ... it's early) and then when it was passed to the twinks, there occurred regular arguments between The Bickersons on whose turn it was to wear it. At one point the disagreements grew so large, we had to keep a chart of who wore it and when.

Needless to say ... it is one of those loved items. It is also an item that could be worn on Sunday, it is so holey. :-) Seriously.

When my girlie came out, dressed for bedtime, wearing this faded (yet still incredibly bright pink) shirt last weekend, I had to do a double-take and contemplate how best to retire said shirt. I had already fought the battle of the beloved Pinnochio shirt that was barely being held together at the top by the rim, one sleeve hanging down - anchored only by the stiches of thread under the arm. The hem had been ripped and a hole had emerged around the belly button area that a knee could easily fit through from underneath. In comparison, with three worn tears across the left side of the chest and three fingersized holes at the base near the non-existent hem, the pink daisy shirt seems to be all in one solid piece. I realized that retirement is still several wearings & washings & dryings & foldings away for this article of nightshirt bliss.

I'm not sure what it is about these holey t-shirts that makes them so comfortable and sought after to be worn. Yet, if I look in my own closet ... there is a purple and black flannel shirt that has been stitched back together so many times that I'm not exactly sure where the original thread stops and the new thread begins. With a hole in the side, and one at the cuff ... it is not a shirt that sees the public light of day. Yet on a cold, rainy Saturday, combined with a pair of grey sweats (or red and blue plaid flannels, whichever is handiest) it is my favorite thing to wear.

I don't know the reason, and at this point in the morning, I don't believe I really care. It was just something that struck my mind and gave me a thought to think for a moment.

Besides, here's the real conundrum ... why is it I just folded and put away 3 t-shirts with the size of holes that another arm or head could be inserted in my girlies jammie drawer and yet I threw away 1 sock because it had a hole about the size of my pinkie in it?

Oh ... and why would this have anything to do with Supernatural, besides the fact that I wrote this on a Thursday morning?

Well ... I am a true obsessive and I can turn just about anything around to reflect my favorite show and the Winchesterboys. Afterall, as any fan can tell you ...

"Driver picks the music ... shotgun shuts his pieHOLE"

Thoughts from Tripping on the Road

2008-03-27T13:05:00.007-05:00

Baby took a road trip last weekend to visit her grandparents for Easter and to have her first check up. Everything went well. She had her fluids checked and changed, tires balanced, and a couple of things checked that had drawn her mama’s attention. She was given a good bill of health, which pleased us all.

Needless to say … being out on the highway where she and I could open her up and let her go was a happy time for both Baby and her mama. With the sun shining down on us, the sunroof open, the windows down, and some awesome classic rock flowing from the speakers, we traveled the highway to and from with smiles and speed. (I would like to point out that while Baby is a speedy little girl, she was held tightly by the cruise control to the posted speed limits.)

Of course, I have been making this journey several times a year for the last 18 years, so there were moments of boredom. Normally, driving and traveling are great fun for me, getting out on the road is time to myself to plan, to dream, or to simply wander in my thoughts. This trip is no exception however this trip is more about “getting there” and then “getting home”. This trip is about spending time with my parents and then returning to my little home.

Yet, once on the road with my hair blowing and the music rocking, I couldn’t help but have a few thoughts, particularly on the drive homeward. I’ll be honest, I didn’t have much time for personal thoughts on the drive northward as I spent the better time of the three and a half hours on the cell phone chatting with a couple of friends. Cell phones are awesome for times like that and, as long as the battery is charged (note to self: need to get car charger for cell phone) and friends are home. Of course, there are drawbacks. Getting involved in a conversation can lead a person to missing their intended exit, causing them to drive an extra couple miles before turning around and going back.

The way I look at it … my life is so full of detours, what’s one more when the conversation is that good? Detours are the spice in life that keep us from becoming complacent. Goodness knows, my life is anything but complacent!

The drive homeward, though, was full of music and sunshine and wandering thoughts.

I made a new CD mix for the trip and got the opportunity to fully enjoy it on the way home. I am now full-on committed to my friend Rap’s delight in the music of Steve Carlson. Awesome, AWESOME stuff! Thank you, Rap, my Rap! Talk about an artist that can make you smile … let’s just say that he sounded really good in Baby’s speakers ... can't wait to hear him live and in person. (No Rap ... it's not June yet.)

Also sounding really good … Three Dog Night’s “Shambala”. There’s something about that song that just makes me smile … always has, even before I was given the mental picture of the Metallicar being worked on by a sweaty Dean. Yep. The song just has that kind of mood attached to it.

During our wanderings (ie.shopping excursion), Mom helped me pick out a new pair of sunglasses. I don’t wear them often – only when I am wearing my contacts which I did on Sunday driving homeward, which means the car was pointed towards the west. Did I mention the fact that I left my parents house at 5:30pm? Despite the fact I had on polarized sunglasses, a tinted top part of my windshield and the visor down as far as I could get it and still be able to see the vehicles in front of me, I STILL felt as though my eyeballs were still being branded with bright circles. I can only imagine the plight I would have had if I had simply worn my regular glasses.

I’ve decided that truckers have put way, way, WAY too many orange lights on their trucks. Used to be there was a light at the top and one on each side, in addition to the regular brake lights in the back. In the front it used to be a light at the top in each corner, and then, of course, the headlights that fill your entire rear window causing blindness of a different type. As the sun went down Sunday evening and the lights began to come on, it was as though there were houses of orange Christmas lights barreling down the turnpike. Seriously, do they truly need to outline the ENTIRE FRAMEWORK of the truck, the cab, the windows, the back door, the side doors, etc? One thing is certain … you can’t say that you don’t see them as they swoop down upon you making you feel as though you are a snail on the sidewalk, even when you are doing 75 mph on a turnpike. Bigger isn’t always better. Bigger can simply mean obnoxious. But that is simply my opinion.

Fire is very interesting as you are driving down a highway after dark. The glow of it up ahead, filling the night sky has you wondering what you are coming up on. Seeing as I’ve driven this highway once or twice, I knew right off the bat that it wasn’t a small town or rest stop. There’s nothing on this stretch except pastures dotted with the occasional house. Finally reaching the actual area of flames, it was a grass fire on the other side of the road. Spanning a good couple miles of the road, it was a bit eerie to drive by. It wasn’t one complete line of fire, but rather continuous pockets of flames reaching upward. What’s truly amazing is the fact that I was able to capture it on my little cell phone camera without braking the cruise control or moving from my lane of traffic. What was lucky was the fact that at this point I was driving southward and the wind was coming from the northwest, therefore it was blowing away from the highway instead of over it. What was interesting was that instead of fire trucks being on hand, there were only a couple of highway patrol cruisers on each end of the blazing area, keeping an eye on things.

I stopped to pick up something to eat on the way. I’ve been avoiding the hamburgers and fries from fast food stops lately, but let’s face it … eating a baked potato or a salad is simply not something that can be accomplished while driving. Since I wouldn’t be arriving home until late, I didn’t want to wait to eat and the chex mix I had with me wasn’t satisfying. So I stopped and got a burger and some fries – but no pop, I stuck to my water. Now … my oldest girlie is now working for a fast food chain and here is the thought that I came away with after I gave my order, paid my money, and was given my food: I pray that my girlie never looses her politeness towards people. As the voice over the box and the person who takes the money, I am pleased to report that she is pleasant, has a smile in her voice and is polite … atleast as far as I have witnessed. When placing my order on Sunday I was told three times to “hold on” … never once with a please, thank you for waiting, or apology for interrupting. When giving my money, the entire transaction consisted of being told $6.42 and the young woman took my money and gave my change without anything further … such as a thank you. When arriving to the window to pick up my food the bag was thrust through the window with a “here’s your meal” and another thrust through the window with a “here’s your water”. The young girl then turned around to talk to a friend. There was no thank you. There was no have a nice day. There was nothing. I’ll be honest, such blatant rudeness has a way of not just grating a nerve but also causes me to have to say something … usually something snide. So, I waited. When the girl returned to the window, it was with surprise to find me still there, yet did she ask if she could help me? Did she wonder if she had forgotten something? Did she question if there was something further I needed? No. She simply asked “What?” which sent me to the edge. I looked her steadily in the eye and said “You’re welcome, I WILL have a nice day, and I would like to speak to your manager about the quality of his help.” Yes. I did. I held up the drive thru line as the manager came to the window and I advised that as a national chain that purports in having such friendly people, he might want to rethink the placement of the people at his drive through windows. I then told him that next time, I’ll drive the extra mile to get my dinner from his competitor. I thanked him and I departed.

Let’s just say, I’m glad my girlie works for Wendy’s and not “the other place”. Like our Sammy, I suddenly don’t care for clowns.

I won’t go into my other thoughts … for they were many and varied and probably will only make sense to me, and my Baby of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me … I need to find a highway … CCR’s “Run Through the Jungle” is fixing to come on and it truly sounds best with the sunroof open, the wind blowing, and the stereo blaring as Baby and I travel down the road.

Oh … by the way … thank you for stopping by and have a nice day … you’re always welcome here!

Writer's Block or E.D.S. - You Decide

2008-03-24T23:34:00.006-05:00

It's been awhile since I've written anything.

Seriously.

With the exception of a blogparty I threw on TVGuide on March 1st, and the subsequent "answers" post, I haven't posted anything new in over a month.

I can't give a really reason as to why ... it's not as though I've been sick, traveling, extremely busy at work, bailing water from my living room after flooding waters, or anything like that. Actually, I seem to write just fine as I make my way through those chaotic parts of my life. Were things too calm? Nope. That wasn't it either.

I'm not sure how it happened, but I think I came down with a case of "Writer's Block" and let me tell you, it sucks.

Totally.

I write all day long for work. What is so difficult about this? This should be easy ... it's personal. It's fun. There's no pressure and it's not like I don't get ideas all through the day ... I now have a folder and a notebook that I keep jotting little ideas down in, planning to write. I come home eager ... tonight will be the night I will break the block and get back to the business of putting thought to words in a co-herent and hopefully pleasing manner.

Car pulls into driveway and I'm out. Thoughts are rambling through my head. I'm ready.

Computer boots up while I check out the kitchen to forage for something edible to curb the appetite.

AVG runs it's scans, AIM tries unsuccessfully to log me in, and Messenger logs me in and tells me whether my friends are online and how much mail has accumulated during the day. Meanwhile, I'm in the back of the house not listening to my computer as I change my clothes and once again give praise for the comfort of sweats and t-shirts and try to locate a pair of socks that no longer have a hole in them.

Back to the computer, I close all these little informative windows and pull up the internet, checking email and responding to the messages that have come into my mailbox during the last couple hours. Then I check my "junk mail" in case something has been caught in my filters besides the various TVG playrooms, alerting me to the hi-jinx of the inmates who wander about there. When I open the junkmail to over 100 messages from these playrooms, all from the one day, I figure it wouldn't be a bad thing to run over and see what is now burning down, or being blasted by fireworks. (And if this sentence makes no sense whatsoever, I invite you over to my sanitarium at TVGuide. People laugh and think I'm kidding when I talk about my inmates and their mischief.)

Worn out from reading the insanity in my sanitarium, I feel the need to wander back to my kitchen and warm some water for a little pot of tea to calm my nerves, to help me compose myself to write.

Back I come to the computer with my grandmother's pot full of some evening tea. I'm ready. I have thoughts brimming. I am good to go.

Oh. Look. The remote. Is there something on television that I feel the need to watch? I better check ... heaven forbid I miss something. There might be a game show or a reality show that I need to flip the channel past. There might be an episode of David Caruso posing with hand on hip as he pulls off his sunglasses and utters "Ma'm ... Ma'm, here's what we're going to do, Ma'm" while the producers of this highly rated monstrosity let it spin off into yet another montage of speedboats and other actors wasting their talents by posing in ridiculously expensive clothing.

Nope. I'm not bitter about this waste of airtime being lauded and the fact that Supernatural has to fight for every fan it gains when it has more talent, good writing, and overall production quality in 10 minutes than the other show has in a month of episodes. Nope. Not bitter at all. Huh-uh.

What was I talking about?

Oh. Yeah. Writer's block.

Well, it's getting late but I'm in the mood to write. I'm wanting to write. I have words that are ready to burst out. I pull up a new sheet of Word, I begin to get started. I've typed a sentence. Woohoo! Oh, wait. That sentence isn't how I wanted to start this. I'm sure that I can do better.

Let me think on it.

Is that the book I was looking for last week sitting underneath the table by the couch?

It is! I've been looking for that. I wonder what happens next? Hmm. Maybe I could read for just a bit and then I'll be ready to do a bit of writing. Though not as much as I'd planned, but still ... a little is better than nothing, right?

... 2 hours later ...

Crap! I was supposed to be in bed an hour ago! But wait! I'm having an epiphany. Let me just get these dishes washed up and I'll just sacrifice some sleep and get this thought written down. Who messed up all these dishes? *sigh* I should go ahead and fix my lunch for tomorrow, otherwise I'll be running late in the morning again. Then I'm going to finish a bit of computer time.

Open up document again. Erase starting line. Compose another one. No ... that doesn't sound right. Maybe I'm just not in the right mood tonight. Guess I'll try again tomorrow night.

Writer's block.

I don't think I have writer's block. I have EDS ... Easily Distracted Syndrome.

Does anyone know if there's a medication for this? I'd contact my doctor about it, but I'm afraid she's going to want me to write down the symptoms and who knows where that could lead.

Thpppt!

2008-02-19T10:26:00.003-06:00

Some mornings all you can do is say “what the …?”

Last week I was sick. Getting up and physically getting to work took everything I had on the days that I made it to the office. I was late each one. I knew this. I've never been the best at it, usually skating in at the very last minute. I knew I needed to do better. That was my mindset I took on over the weekend. I was going to do better! I did good on Monday (which we all know is the WORST day of the week AND it was a holiday, so I totally didn't want to be working anyway) … I even had time to splurge and stop on the way in for my favorite egg & sausage taquito, still making it to work on time.

Then came today - Tuesday. I swear … Murphy doesn’t have anything on “Cindy’s Law”.

Actual line of events:

Woke up late … instead of being dressed before taking my girlie to school, I barely had time to put a coat over my jammies … fortunately I slept in my flannel bottoms and shirt last night.

Got home from taking girlie to school and decided to go ahead and take trash to curb. Bag caught on stupid broken car in garage … broke … trash & garbage all over front of garage and driveway. Must be cleaned up.

Toast burnt. Set off smoke alarm.

Milk spilled on counter and floor.

Skipped my morning tea because of running late, therefore, also missed my morning quiet time.

Lunch bag fell behind dryer and had to get step stool to reach over the back and retrieve.

Found hole in original pair of black pants to wear. Changed to another pair of black pants.

Toilet over flowed – not from the front but from the back. Had to turn water off at base of toilet. Mop up floor. Will wait to fix till get home at night.

Black pants now drenched. Change to blue pair of pants.

No shirt clean to go with blue pair of pants.

Change to only remaining pair of pants … grey wool. Remember that today is going to be warmest of the week … in the 60s. Wear sleeveless shirt under jacket hoping to offset sweat from wool pants.

Pack lunch without incident. Feeling lucky.

Pull up to stoplight to exit neighborhood. Already running late. Wait for green light. Green light switches on … just as siren sounds from firehouse at the corner. Have to wait for firetruck and EMT bus to clear intersection. Just as they clear the intersection, my green light turns red and I must wait again. Since I happened to glance at the clock when I arrived at the intersection because I wanted to see how late I was running, I know that I got to enjoy sitting at that intersection for a full 7 minutes. Joy.

Race down the road, paranoid, watching for cops as my little red car flies down the road. Notice that gas gauge is low. Decide to wait until after work and hope.

Highway traffic moving good. Feeling hopeful.

Exit ramp to second highway blocked due to construction. Have to detour.

Manage to get off at next exit but need to deal with more stoplights with this street. Give up in frustration.

Slam into parking lot, grab stuff, walk quickly to door.

First words out of manager’s mouth are not “Good morning” or “hello”. They are “Cindy, I really need you to be here on time.”

Frustration doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs … THIS DAY SUCKS!!!!!!

Deep breath.

Okay.

It is my choice. I can have a good day or I can have a bad day. It’s a matter of perspective. It is a matter of how I choose to go forward.

I’ve made a cup of tea (blackberry sage, a gift from a friend who loves me) and I’ve had a moment to write out my frustration.

I’m going to choose to have a good day.

However my choice is coming with an addendum. One more thing does not go right … I’m heading home and going back to bed.

Seriously.

Iridescent Magic

2008-02-17T12:29:00.006-06:00

Water

Soap

A stick with an open shape on the end.

A soft puff of air.

Four ordinary things.

Yet when they are combined, they create magic. The stick with an open shape on the end becomes a wand, wielding the soft puffs of air to create floating balls, glittering in the light with the colors of the rainbow.

Four ordinary things.

Yet when they are combined they light the eyes of imagination in children ... whether it is the infant who gazes with wide and wondering eyes at the mysterious globes floating through the air, the preschooler who giggles with gleeful joy as they run through the cascade of iridescent balls, or the older child who delights in their accomplishment at creating the smallest or the largest of spheres to bounce and weave through the breeze.

Four ordinary things.

Yet even adults find delight in them ... willing to deplete their oxygen again and again to keep a crying babe happy, watching the joy that is brought by such a simple act, finding the pleasure in watching small ones wonder at the disappearance and older ones catching and bursting each one before it lands on the earth.

Years ago, I attended a street festival and one of the booths was demonstrating the use of enlarged wands ... using pans of soapy water ... the magical globes were huge as the were twirled through the air. I watched as the youngest attendees laughed and clapped and ran through the enormous spheres, bursting them. I watched as the oldest attendees watched from the sidelines, indulgently smiling while their own hands twitched to be the ones to wield the wands to create the magic.

The simple, yet intoxicating magic of bubbles.

Valentine's Shopping

2008-02-14T19:42:00.004-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day!

Or ...

As a friend of mine says ... Happy Single Awareness Day!

Some people spend the evening cuddled with a honey or out for a nice dinner or some other romantic/fun activity.

Me?

I was at the grocery store. Oh. Yeah. It was me and my paycheck romancing in the frozen food section over which Ben & Jerry's flavor was going to be for tonight's episode of Supernatural. (I went with Phish Food. It's a quirky little flavor and tonight's ep, Mystery Spot is supposed to be a quirky fun episode.)

Actually ... I indulged myself and went to my favorite local grocery store instead of the low price national chain store that I usually go to when I need to get more than just a few things. I thought I'd be okay. I had a list. I'd made a list of everything I want to prepare this next weekend/week and I could stick to my list. Right??? Yeah ... so ... needless to say, I succumbed to the impulse buy ... more than once.

Is it my fault that the bananas looked so beautifully yellow and yummy, even though my kitchen is stocked with grapes and apples already?

Is it my fault that it is supposed to be a lovely 31 degrees tomorrow after enjoying the tropical breezes of 68 degrees today - therefore enhancing my craving for homemade chicken noodles ... meaning I had to get the ingredients to create the object of my craving?

Is it my fault that after how many weeks (4 to be exact) they finally decided to stock my favorite sourdough english muffins, necessitating the purchase of two packages (one to have out and one for the deep freeze)?

Is it my fault that this is the store that carries one of my favorite brands of tea and they just HAPPENED to have my favorite blueberry flavor that I only had one more bag of left?

I'm telling you ... impulse buys ... they could really hurt a girl's budget. So ... when indulging in the impulse buying, it is wise to keep an eye on the bottom line. For instance ... the item I got that was 2 for $2.00 that rang up at $1.52 each. Hey!! That's my $1.04! You can't have it. Took them 10 minutes to track down that price check, but that $1.04 paid for ... ummm ... half of the bananas I bought impulsively!

sigh.

I'm hopeless.

No ... actually ... this is where the hopeless person part comes in ... I have just spent an hour at the grocery store. I have re-stocked my kitchen and have the supplies to prepare just about anything I want to eat.

So, of course you know what I did for dinner? I stopped on the way home and picked up a Subway sandwich.

To go with my Phish Food ice cream.

Happy Single Awareness Day, indeed.

Thank goodness it's Thursday ... atleast I can honestly say that I spent Valentine's day with a couple of good looking men. Of course I'm on my couch in my flannel jammies and they're on my television screen ... but hey!

We all know I've got a great imagination.