Don't ask me to pick you up at the airport

I've had two visitors arrive and stay for about a week this month; my cousin Lori and my oldest daughter, Bonnet. I was responsible for picking them both up at the airport.

Lori
After sending me the itinerary for her flight 3-weeks before her visit, I never heard from Lori again. She posted a few days later saying she'd had a very difficult time getting the days off. Then nothing. No emails. No other posts. No activity on Messenger.

Oddly, we had never exchanged phone numbers so I had no way to contact her. I kept sending emails asking if she was still coming. No response. I finally sent one saying that I'd meet her at the luggage carousel. No response.

I pretty much decided that she was not coming and was to heart broken to contact me.

Regardless, I showed up at the airport a quarter hour early with Will in tow. You can imagine how much fun hanging around in an airport with an active 5-year old boy can be. When we got there all the seats were taken so we sit next to a column and faced the luggage area. We sit there for half an hour. No Lori. We sit in some seats. Luggage came and luggage went. No Lori. At an hour, I had her paiged. No Lori. At an hour and fifteen minutes, a full hour after she should have arrived, we left.

At this point we are late to a birthday party Will was suppose to attend and in the middle of Friday evening rush hour. Oh, joy.

When we get home there is phone message from a pissed sounding Lori saying, "I'm sitting in a hotel in Austin. Where the hell are you?"

She didn't bring luggage, so never went to the luggage area. Her computer crashed weeks ago and she knew that I probably had been trying to contact her and was convinced she was not coming. She stood around the info desk 5-10 minutes and then took a taxi to the hotel ($45 ride).

Bonnet
Bonnet was suppose to arrive in Austin on Tuesday night; 10:30. I get a call from her at 8:45 saying that after a 3 hour drive in blizzard conditions to the airport in Grand Junction her flight was cancelled indefinitely. Her options were to come back the following day - which involved driving in pitch dark during a worsening storm - or stay in case a flight could be made out. She elected to stay.

She called around 11:00 that night to let me know she made it to Denver but missed her connection. No flights were available out until the following morning. So her little pregnant self had to sleep under a desk draped in clothing to shelter her. Nothing was open to serve food. She was to fly out at 8:00 the next morning and would be in Austin at 10:30. She gave me the 800 number to check the flight for updates.

Tori drives over to the house to go with me to pick Tori up. Right before Tori's arrival, I try the number to find out Bonnet's flight has been delayed an hour. So we decide to go ahead and drive that direction, just stop and check out some shops on the way. An hour later we call the 800 number to find the flight has been set back another hour.

We mess around and finally head to the airport. Early, but we don't have any where else to go and there isn't time to go home.

We park and go in to find her flight has been moved back again. She is now arriving at 1:00. We skipped breakfast and planned on eating an early lunch with Bonnet . . . so none of us had anything to eat. We're starving, bored, and just about crazy from dealing with Will.

That's it. She arrived. We had a great visit. She left -- and made it home without incident. It just makes me a little leery about picking up any more guests.

Steve's brother, Dave, and his family arrived in San Antonio tonight for a visit and I made Steve go get them. Oddly, they arrived in time and found him immediately.

It must just be me. So for your own good, and mine, please don't ask me to pick you up at the airport.

The Loss of a Grandmother

I received a phone call from my ex-husband, the girl's dad, tonight. His step-mom is dying. Ella, who has been the only real grandmother the girls have ever known, has only days left. Her liver has given out.

Although she has been in the hospital for weeks they are releasing her to die. She will be going home tomorrow afternoon. With Bonnet in town and the holidays near, the girls and I are hoping to be able to drive down and see Ella one last time.

She was a caring and supportive mother-in-law. My first true experience of what having a mother was like. She is the girl's grandmother. Someone that loves them unconditionally. A person can never have to many people that love them that way, and you never get over the loss of the ones that did.

My grandmother died when I was six. She was far from perfect, but I felt such love and acceptance from her it warms me still . . . 37 years later.

They will not be holding a funeral for Ella. She wishes to be cremated and buried in a small cemetery without any fanfare.

Ella has been ill for years and is in her 80s. She's lived a varied and filled life. Granted the right, I would ask only that she suffer no more than necessary in her passing.

It's her grandchildren and their loss that I morn tonight.

Travel

Going places has been harder than normal lately, and I'm not just referring to increased security or traffic. There have been lots of little and unexpected things happering my trips or the arrival of my guests.

I was going to meet a half-sister I've never met, only to find out I wrote the wrong weekend down and it was past before I was ready.

I was all set to go visit my sister, Byjo, when something came up and I had to cancel at the last moment.

My sister, Byjo, was coming down to visit for Will's b-day and a freak snow storm was predicted.

My cousin Lori came to visit and while Will and I set at the airport for close to 1-1/2 hours, she walked right by us and paid $45 for a cab to take her to the hotel -- cussing my name the whole way I'm sure.

I've been trying to schedule a time when Bonnet and I can drive to Ft. Worth to see my sister during Bonnet's visit. This day didn't work, that day didn't work. It's taken us a week to decide on a date.

Bonnet was to arrive at the airport at 10:45 (the exact time I'm writing this post). She called me from the airport she was leaving from - snowed in. She finally got a flight into Denver. The next flight to Austin doesn't leave until nearly 9:00 in the morning. She'll be spending a long night in the airport.

Bonnet flies home the morning that Dave, Steve's brother, and his family fly in. Luckily they fly in that night. Unfortunately, they fly in at close to 10 at night in San Antonio. LOL

The following day we all drive to the coast for a family get together.

I have to admit to being more than a little worried about the upcoming trips. Maybe I'll throw some salt over my shoulder before we leave.

Or, buy a rabbits foot.

Animal Shoes for Will

Last spring, I designed twenty six different pairs of shoes to be shaped like animals. Some of the designs were tested by customers, some I tested. Tonight I completed two more sets of those designs; the giraffs and pirate pigs.

The photo shows them completed except for elastic, which I will do later. I was just so excited I had to share. Overall, I like the design. I will probably make the snout and nose section smaller on both.



Here is another set I made up this month for Will's birthday, sheep. When I went to Will's room to retrieve the sheep shoes I could only find one. You know how those damn sheep are, they never stay where you put them.



All the shoe designs have cute legs and/or tail designs on the back of them too. So, without further adue, here is animal butt.

A Toast to Becky

Today was my sister's birthday, she would have been 38. Becky committed suicide in October of 2008.

Last year I was so entrenched in my grief that it was hard to attribute any new, additional, or different pain to the occasion of her birthday. It all hurt; her funeral, Halloween, Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas, the New Year.

Thankfully, time has dulled the pain and allowed me to begin to live again, but there are still stumbling blocks. Mothers day, my birthday, Thanksgiving . . . her birthday. Days when I think of her more than others. Days when I feel her loss, and the continual loss of her, more than others.

Like most families that don't live in the same town, we tended to have more to do with each other during holidays or on vacations. So it is those occasions that I miss her most.

Every year I've made a point to send her two presents in the month of December, knowing how often she got overlooked due to having a birthday so close to Christmas. This year I didn't. I told myself I'd go visit her grave site for her birthday. I didn't. I wanted to buy her a concrete angel to sit beside her grave this year - she had a fascination with angels. I didn't.

In fact, I've been so wrapped up in the upcoming holidays, finishing off presents, Bonnet's upcoming visit, Will getting out of school . . .

It wasn't until about half an hour ago that I realized it was the 20th already. I spent the entire day doing things, running errands, playing with my son, visiting with Charlene and Tori . . . living.

Now I sit alone in a quite house as tears run down my face and accept that in living and pursuing my life I am taking baby steps further and further from the sister I lost last year.

I know it's healthy, normal. I'm suppose to move on. But it hurts to realize she is already slipping away from me. How much longer until I don't think about her but once a month, twice a year, when I visit the town she's buried in?

She deserves to be remembered and I fear there are few that will remember her. She left behind no husband, no loving parents; just a son she didn't raise and four siblings - the oldest of which forgot her birthday the first year after her death.

Oh well, there is some whiskey in the kitchen. While not Jim, Jack, or Johny (Becky's boys, as she called them), it will do.

A toast to Becky on her birthday;

To shared laughter and shared tears.
I love you.

Follow the Star

For an area that has been in the worse drout for twenty years, it's been raining constantly the last six weeks. Right after Thankgiving, late one evening, I was driving to a super Walmart to pick up some milk and noticed that I could actually see a star.

It wasn't until that moment that it dawned on me that I had not seen a single star in almost three weeks. I looked around and only one star was visible and it glowed so bright it was nearly blinding.

With Christmas music playing on the radio, and the streets decorated with holly and lights, it wasn't suprising that my mind recalled the star the wise men followed to the manger and baby Jesus.

I'm not a religious person by any means, but I thought the star they followed must have appeared to them like this . . . so bright there was no doubt on their parts as to where they would go.

Smiling at my fanciful thoughts, I pushed the star from my mind and completed my trip to Walmart. As I pulled into the parking lot I was overwhelmed at how packed it was. I had to park way out on the edge of the lot and people were streaming into and out of the store.

Oh, Christmas shopping. I'd forgotten.

As I climbed from the car, I looked toward the store and was shocked to find the single bright star appeared to be sitting directly over the peak of the center of the Walmart store.

All I could think was how glad I was the wise men weren't looking for Jesus tonight.

Snow Globe Ornaments

Will and I took something that has been over-running our home, vending capsules, and made snow-globe ornaments yesterday.

We sprayed the tops of some of them silver to cover the odd coloring, used foam to raise the floor, glued in a small ornament and added glitter. A small gold string was attached to the top and covered with a glass bead and some more glitter.

Will got to help the entire process. He had a blast.



We also made some that he simply filled with glitter and added stickers to the outside. They came out awesome too.

If you are just dying to make you up some cheap plastic ornaments, here is a link to the ehow article I wrote detailing the process.

Peas and Lizards -- and Snakes

Will sit on his stool in the kitchen watching as I prepared dinner tonight. I opened a frozen bag of black eyed peas and was pouring them in a pot when he asked, "What's in there? Peas and lizards?"

I almost poured peas all over my stove. A quick glance at the bag showed a photo of black eyed peas with a few random green beans, no lizards.

Why is it that you can attempt to teach a child something by using repetiviteness and it only seems to work sometimes. But you have one occasion when a lizard is accidently frozen in some green peas and they never forget it.

True, it is a little shocking and my response at the time no doubt burn the memory upon his little mind. As I think about it, I realize that even three years after the incident, I still get the willies when sitting under a tree at a restaurant - expecting a snake to fall from the tree and land on the table in front of me. (Yes, it really happened. Twice actually. The same day, the same location.)

Maybe the secret to enforcing a memory has to do with being scared. Or reptiles.

Random Weirdness

I haven't had anything big to blog about, but occasionally something odd comes up that I'd like to share. So enjoy my montage of random weirdness.

Tomato Juice
At some random store Will found a squishy tomato that you throw at the wall. It splats, sticks for just a moment, then reforms and falls off the wall. I'm positive we paid no more than $2 for it.

For weeks it was his most prized possession. He'd play with it until it got dirty, then we'd wash it off. He took it in the car, slept with it, and bathed with it. The night before his birthday, he took it into the shower and came out crying hysterically. It had a hole and the liquid had all drained out. He cried for half an hour. It was heart breaking.

While he was at school the next day I ran to four different stores looking for a replacement, but didn't find one. Will and I both looked at an additional five stores over the next four days. Nothing.

During this same time period, Will and I were at the grocery and happen to walk through the produce department. He saw a tomato and made the ugliest face. I was like, "What is wrong with you? You've never even tasted a tomato." He informed me he had bitten his tomato and the juice had been YUCKY!

(Oh yeah, we finally found him a replacement.)

This is Not a BAR!
Crossing the parking lot of our local grocery store the other day, I was shocked to hear a woman cussing casually during a conversation with her friend. She wasn't just saying "damn, shit, or hell". No, this woman used the big "f" like it was going out of style.

"And I told that mother "f" asshole that if he wanted to ever "f" see me again, he'd better "f" get his "f" shit straightened the "f" out."

And that was only one sentence. She was loud enough I could hear her four cars before we got even with them, and four cars past them. The entire time my five year old is listening. If that wasn't bad enough, the woman with Lady"F" had two small children of her own.

I shot the lady a dirty look and hustled Will along as fast as possible. But I couldn't help but think how rude and unacceptable her behaviour was. What the "f"? It wasn't like I was at a "f" bar, tattoo parlour or strip joint. She had no "f" right to be talking that way in front of my "f" kid!

I Can Hear You
I am AMAZED at what people will discuss on their cell phones in public. Apparently, in their little world, talking on the phone limits the range of their voice to just those meant to hear it.

I was sitting two table over from a woman at Chick-Fil-A the other day. Will was playing in their tiny playscape and like most of the moms, I was sitting at the table waiting on him.

I had to listen -- really, there was no option but sticking my fingers in my ears and humming -- the woman tell someone over the phone about her visit to the doctor that morning. Oh, that's not the bad part. The bad part is what she had to see the doctor for; feminine dryness - which apparently is normal while nursing.

Damned with Faint Praise
I grew up hearing this phrase, but it's never been as real to me until I hit my forties. I don't know if it's because I am not around people as much, and therefore more aware of exactly what they are saying, or if people are just getting stupider.

Tonight, I was talking on the phone with an insurance representative about health insurance. After talking about 10 minutes, the lovely feminine voice on the other end asks for my age. I tell her - it's 43. Her response?

"Oh, you don't sound that old."

A little "Ho"

I didn't start celebrating any holidays or birthday until I was 23. Prior to that, nothing. No birthday celebration, Christmas. No hunting Easter eggs or going trick-or-treating. Nada. Zip. The big "O".

So when I did start celebrating I had over 20 years, and a child's heart, full of holidays to make up for. Not only was I celebrating holidays for the first time, I was learning about them, and teaching my children how to celebrate them. It was HUGE. Every thing you could celebrate I did to the extreme. I home made very Halloween costume, decorated the house and YARD just shy of North Pole ornamentation, hid hundreds of eggs, etc.

When Steve and I got together, I was still going strong. Yet as the 30s passed me by, I sort of lost my enthusiasm for holidays. Each year I found myself doing less and less. Skipping those small holidays. Ignoring people that didn't live close to me for the Holiday.

One year, I sent out over 13 individually picked Mothers-Day cards; to ex-mother in-laws, grandmothers, mother, sisters, elderly friends, in-laws, etc. I haven't sent a single Mothers Day card out in years.

By the time the girls were six or so, they were my compatriots in crime when it came to holidays. Just as crazy as I'd ever been. We decorated the house together, made ornaments together, baked holiday cookies and handed out to the neighbors.

But as they left home, so did some of my enthusiasm. Looking back, it may have started to wane before that. But they drug me along and my love for them made me enthusiastic about spending time with them.

With a toddler, raising any enthusiasm for a holiday became harder. With depression it nearly ceased to exist. With the death of my sister it became impossible.

Last Christmas, left on my own, I would not have put up a tree. Not bought a present -- okay, maybe one for Will. Steve came through and drug the stuff from the attic, pulled out the tree, and preceded to piss me off by doing everything wrong. So I had to get off my ass and fix it.

This year, I've been so-so about it. I pulled down the tree and put half of it up; shoved it against a wall. Half the ornaments. Half the room decoration. I haven't even mentioned to Will that the outside lights are still up and all we have to do is plug them up. They've been up for 7 years or so and are more pinkish/white than red, and quite a few are burned out. They would still tickle him, but I just don't want to mess with them.

But the other day, when Will had me decorating the tree, I was revisited by holidays of the past. We lit candles, loaded the CD with Christmas music, danced around as we put up ornaments and hung stockings. I was surprised.

Yep, there is still a little holiday spirit left in me after all.

Not an entire Ho, Ho, Ho; just a ho.

I Want One of Those!

Every parents has heard it, and most more than once. The television is on, your child(ern) is planted in front of it, and a commercial comes on. Never turning their head, or acknowledging you in any way, they start pleading for the item being advertised.

Begging. Whining. Bargaining. Throwing a fit.

It's just part of being an parent, teaching our children that they don't need everything that is advertised. That what is advertised probably isn't even as much fun as it looks. By the time most children are as old as Will, nearly five, this is a lesson they have already learned.

The problem in our household is that we've never had cable. When Will watches TV it is movies we've purchased or are public network station that doesn't allow advertising. Steve does watch TV shows at night, but their nothing Will is interested in and they don't have advertisements geared toward children.

I hadn't given in much thought until today. We came in from lunch and I hit the computer. Steve went to chill in front of the TV and Will followed him. Steve is surfing the channels when I hear Will yell, "No. Go back, Papa."

"Will, that wasn't a show. It was an infomercial."

"No, Papa. Go back. I want to see. It was a commercial."

After much bickering back and forth, Steve returned to the infomercial. Every few minutes I would hear; "I want one, Papa." "Look, a kid is using it." "I said no Will." "Please, Papa." "Can I have one." "Will's a good boy." "No, Will."

I was laughing so hard I almost fell out of the chair. Oh, the circumstances were humorous, but the kicker was what the infomercial was for. A mop.

Not every child's fantasy present.

Lost in the 344 Acre Woods

No, this is not a story about Winnie the Pooh. He lived in the 100 acre woods. This is a story of a silly woman who took two young boys hiking in the middle of the day to a small park she's been to at least 10 times, and managed to get them all lost.

Mary Moore Seacrest Park is one of the least well known parks in our area of town. To access it, you actually turn off a major road, Slaughter, onto a hardly noticeable street between apartment complexes. Honestly, I had driven right by it HUNDREDS of times and never noticed the entrance until a friend told me about it.

Once you make the turn, you drive down this small road two or three miles to a parking lot. At the center of the park, there is a volley ball setup, bathrooms, playground, picnic areas, etc. On the weekends, they hold Frisbee games, football, and jousting on the open grass. It's fun to watch.

But what really draws people to the park is the wild area. There is a paved path that makes a circle; it's a little over 5 miles long. But criss-crossing the paved path are hundreds of small paths; some made by humans, others by animals. The woods are filled with trees so thick you can't see anyone more than 10-15 feet in front of you on the trails. There are gorges, dry river beds, a river, hills, rocks, and wild life. When you make it to the middle of the woods you can't even hear traffic or any sounds of civilization.

Most of my hikes through the park in the past have been with Steve, who has an amazing sense of direction. When we go as a family, we just let Will pick which ever way he wants to and when we're ready to head home Steve leads us out. No biggie.

This morning was beautiful. Steve was working and I didn't want to stay home, so Will and I picked up his friend and headed to the park for a walk. Our original plans were to walk for about half an hour then stop by the play area for the boys. I locked up the car and pocketed my keys. We didn't even take drinks, because we weren't going to be there that long.

As soon as we came to an intersection, Will choose which direction to go. Then Gabe. Then me. About thirty minutes into our walk I realized nothing looked familiar and we hadn't passed anyone in a while. Not to mention, I was pretty sure the last "path" we took was a deer trail.

About then we came upon the river again. In all our trips in the past, we stayed near the river, found a place to cross it and were home free. So we followed the river, but nothing looked familiar. I finally found a place to cross, but it wasn't a place we've ever used before. I was getting desperate though. The boys were thirsty and tired. Tripping over their own feet. Will wanted me to carry him. We'd been walking for at least an hour at this point.

I'd like to mention that until I got lost in the park, I had no idea how big it was. I though the park was about the size of Lew and Donas old place, around 40 acres. I kept expecting to walk up on someone or an area that looked familiar.

Right after crossing the river, we come upon a back of a line of houses. I thought they were the apartment complexes near the turn off. And even though that meant we were two miles from the car, as least we'd know where we were and where we are going. There was a 6 foot tall fence surrounding each building and butting into the last one. First, we tried to walk until the fence ended. Planning on going around them. But the last fence contained viscous dogs and both boys are almost sobbing at this point, so we turned back.

Then I tried the gates we passed back by, they were all locked. About the 10th gate we came to opened. We walked to the back door and knocked, no answer. The side gate allowing us out to the front was unlocked as well. When we stepped into the front I realized we were NOT at the apartment buildings. This was a subdivision I'd never seen before. We went to the front door and knocked. A very nice woman answered and I explained we'd come through the back gate and that we were lost.

I asked her where the park was, and she asked which park. She kindly offered to drive us back to our vehicle. We had basically walked the longest distance in the park and come out the other end, on FM 1626. To get us to our car, she had to drive up FM 1626, cross over on First Street -- go 4 miles, then turn up Slaughter, another mile, then the two miles down to the parking lot. The only other way to get there, go back through the woods.

We spent less than two hours lost in the woods. The boys never got upset. We weren't attacked or scared. Just tired and thirsty. But it was so mentally and physically exhausting I wasn't good for anything else all day.

I took the boys to eat, then Will and I came home. Where I spent the rest of the day curled up in bed with my heating pad.

Forty three, and this is the first time in my life I've been lost. It's not fun.

I'm Thankful

I am having one of the best Thanksgivings of my life, and it's the most unusual.

I've been very sick all week, so I've turned down all invitations to join family. Though simply being invited by so many loved one's has reaffirmed the feeling of family. This morning, Steve took Will and headed to his dad's for Thanksgiving.

I stayed home. I'm feeling better, much better. But I'm not much of a people person and December this year is going to overrun with people. On the fifth we're having a party for Will's fifth birthday, a ton of family is coming. On the eleventh, my dear cousin Lori is flying in to spend 4-5 days. I've very excited. Bonnet is flying home some time during the month for a week. And the end of the month we're having a family reunion in Dona and Lew's honour and all the Marquardts will be coming to visit. I'm hoping we'll have a day or two of them before we head to the coast for three days.

As you can see, my December is overfilled with people. I think even a people person would be a little concerned about it. Me, I'm terrified. Oh, not of any one person or occasion. Of all of them at the same time.

So I really needed today to chill. It was one get together that I could set aside without hurt feelings or lengthy explanations. I also needed the time to finish a few projects around the house that I'm having trouble finding non-Will time to do.

That beings said, here is how my Thanksgiving went . . .

I put on baggy shorts and a torn t-shirt as soon as the boys left. Turned the radio up loud on a country station. Removed two doors from their hinges and coated them with Kilz. Then I painted the inside of the linen cabinet. Then the doors. Then the linen cabinet. Then the doors. LOL

I took a break and drove over to Luby's to pick up lunch; liver and onions, hot rolls, pecan pie.

Finished up my painting, cleaned up my mess, and took the time to move my blog over - something I've been wanting to do for a while. Then soaked in a bubble bath; with candals lit.

Might not be your idea of a great day, but it was mine. At least this year.

It left me a lot of time to think of what I AM thankful for, and I came up with the following list:

• I am thankful to have a husband that understands me -- or pretends to.
  
• I am thankful to listen to country music loud -- and be glad I haven't cheated on my spouse, gone to prison, recently gotten drunk, or robbed a bank.
  
• I am thankful to eat Liver and Onions without the sound of someone gagging near me.
  
• I am thankful that so many of my family members called and tried to talk me into coming to visit this weekend; a good sign we're all recovering from our sisters loss.
  
• I am thankful I caught a cold this week; God really does work in mysterious ways.
  

I hope today left you thankful as well.

A Pap Smear for Christmas

What? It's not on your list? Mine, either.

Last night, Steve and I were watching CBS when this commercial comes on. A decent looking guy in his mid-thirties is sitting on a bar stool on a blank stage. He says . . .

"Want to give your woman a special gift this Christmas?"

And I actual drop my conversation to see what he thinks 'special' might be.

"Give her the gift of a pap smear."

What?

"Pap Smears save lives.
Give her the gift even Santa can't give."


I'm not sure who was more shocked, me or Steve.

I do know one thing, God have mercy on the man who buys his wife a pap smear for Christmas. I'm quite sure she won't.

What Kind of Muffin Are You?

During a chat session the other night, a friend and I were discussing our changed views on what is attractive in men. In their twenties, women are really into the packaging.

In their forties, they are more interested in what's inside rather than outside. If a man is dependable, loyal, hardworking, kind, etc. As I put it to my friend, we are no longer interested in stud muffins, we're looking for bran muffins.

Over the next day or two, the idea of people (and personality traits) being assigned to muffins would just not go away. After some thought, I decided that I was probably a day-old banana-nut muffin. And here is why . . .

Banana = loving, gentle, soft, accepting
Nut = resilient, loyal, independent, crazy
Day old = past my prime

When I shared my mental muffin meandering with a friend over coffee today she couldn't decide upon a type of muffin that applied to her. She thought she might be a croissant, which according to her was flaky and filled with fat. I disagree, I think she'd be a boysenberry muffin.

I've taken the liberty of preparing a list of muffins and my perceived views on their personalities. Check them out and let me know what kind of muffin you are.

Pumpkin = cozy, welcoming, country, gentle
Corn = sentimental, traditional
Blueberry = popular, warm
Banana = carefree, loving, gentle, soft
Lemon Poppy seed = indecisive, loner
Nut = short tempered, resilient, loyal
Strawberry = passionate, bold
Carrot = sweet, normal, common
Chocolate Chip = party animal, upbeat, positive
Bran = loyal, dependable, solid
Apple = charming, enthusiastic
Orange = strong, centered, happy
zucchini/Squash = agreeable, blends easily
Boysenberry = fun, enthusiastic, bubbly

Feel free to send me back suggestions to add to the list.

Lori's coming to Visit!

I'm super excited. My favorite counsin is flying in from Omaha to spend four days with me in December. We haven't seen each other in almost 25 years.

We reconnected online right after my sisters death last year, in no small part due to this blog. I can't express how much we have in common. How are lives have managed to shadow each others in some ways, and go in totally opposite directions in others.

When we visit on line, we are always tying in the same comments at the same time. Telling the same jokes. Finishing each others comments.

It will be fun to see how we interact face to face.

This is the most exciting thing to happen to me since Will's birth. Life changing.

Living Lettuce

Okay, maybe I'm the last person in America to fine living lettuce so facinating. If my store has carried it in the past, I've never noticed. But last week, while grocery shopping, I found a container with the most beautiful lettuce I've ever seen.



It was called living lettuce because the roots of the plant were still attached. It was a little more expensive. But I found it cleaner and in better shape. I didn't have to throw away the outer leaves. The taste was wonderful. And the shelf life is phanomenal. A week later and it still looks as good as the day I bought it.

No smarky comments or life lessons, just a cool product I stumbled on to.

A Walt Disney Morning

I went for a walk this morning and found the day to perfect. It was in the high 50s; a little chilly in the shade but warm enough in the sun. A light breeze tossed the fall leaves around playfully and butterflies flittered about in wild abandonment.

No cars passed me on my trek through the neighborhood, but I was serenaided by the gentle twitter of birds.

I kept expecting to turn the corner and run into Bambi.

And the finalists are . . .

Today I received an email from the Northeast Ohio Romance Writers Association. The entry I submitted in May -- which I had forgotten about -- was selected as one of the top three in the Paranormal category of the Cleveland Rocks Romance writing contest.

It will be sent, along with the entry of the other top three finalist, to a judge. The paranormal judge is Ethan Ellenberg from the Ellenberg Literary Agency.

She will review and assign positioning to the three entries. She will also provide a detailed critique on the first page of each entry. As she's an agent in the field I'm working, this is a free chance to have my work seen by her. To get my name out there. Her feedback will also be great for increasing the hookability of the first page, helping me snare an editor more easily.

I am quaranteed a place (1st, 2nd, or 3rd). Which I can list as an accomplishment for the book and my writing skills in the future. It's also not unheard of for a judge to request a partial or full book read from finalist.

Here's hoping, NOT. I've been a bad girl and haven't been writing lately. I don't have a completed book to send out. LOL

Paper Trails

I taught my pattern class at UT today. As usual, it took two days to prepare for it. I left the cutting and folding of paper until last . . . I always do.

For each student that attends, I hand out a set of instructions and a pattern package. The pattern package contains 2 sheets of 24-inch wide paper - around six feet long. Since I also sell the pattern packages online, I make up extra ones each time I prepare for class. I also take extra packages to class in case I have a student(s) that bring more than one garment to reproduce.

That being said, last night I had to cut 42 sheets of paper from a roll. A HUGE roll. My favorite brother-in-law gets the 24-inch rolls and brings them to me. The current one must way in at close to 50 pounds.

In the past, I've had to clean off the floor and roll the paper out, cut it with scissors, then roll it back the other direction. Just imagine how time consuming and painful doing that 42 times might be.

I've been pondering an easier way to handle the job all week. When Steve got home I discussed my solution with him and made a quick dash to McCoys for two closet rod holders. Steve installed them and ran an iron pole between them, screwing it into place. He also picked the huge roll of paper up and situated it for me, about 6-1/2 feet above the floor -- right over my plotter. As it so happens, my plotter has a 36 inch long slit in the top made specifically for cutting straight lines on large pieces of paper. (Are you feeling the Hallelujah course yet?)

Yep, all I had to do was pull down enough paper, run a razer knife through the channel and fold. I completed all 42 pieces in less than an hour -- a 3 hour job the old way.

Now, I just have to look at the paper hanging from my wall the rest of my life, because those screws are not coming out.

And you thought he was going to be faithful?

But he won't cheat on me -- the battlecry of the desperate.

If I've heard the above once, I've heard it twenty times. From relatives, friends, co-workers, all of whom became involved with a married man, dated him through the end of his marriage, and moved in with him in his new single pad -- or he moved in with them.

Yes, it happens. A lot.

And each time the person is sitting across the table from me with a cup of coffee and an ernest expression on their face I have to fight not to say, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

Oh, I don't have any experience personally in this area; thank God -- something bad I've never done! LOL

But it is simple common sense; if someone will cheat on their spouse with you, they are going to cheat with someone else when they are living with you.

Then, the other morning, confirmation! On the radio station we were watching (and how odd is that, the fact you can watch a radio channel on your TV now?) they did a section call Fact or BullFact. They had statistics proving that 80% of marriages that started with affairs ended up in divorce.

I'm not much of a gambler, but those are not odds I'd want to play.

I'm going to be a Grandmother

I found out tonight that by July of 2010 I will be a Grandmother. I can't say I was shocked, I have two daughters over the age of 20 that have both been in steady relationships for a while.

But the roller coaster of emotions was unexpected.

When Bonnet first told me, over the phone, I was like, "That's nice dear, would you pass the peas?" Okay, not really, but that is what it felt like. I wasn't excited, happy, sad, upset. It was like she had the flu, or I was adding something to my shopping list -- i'm going to be a grandmother, check.

After I got off the phone with her I stated picturing a baby that was part my Bonnet. Remembering Bonnet as a baby. Thinking of having another chance to love and hold, protect, a baby Bonnet. Then I got excited. I HAD to tell everyone. I'M GOING TO BE A GRANDMOTHER.

About an hour later, it hit. Realization. She lives in CO. Other than a brief week she will be in TX next month, I probably will not get to see her during her entire pregnancy. I'll probably miss the birth. Even if I can go up and stay a week when the baby comes, I know what will happen. I am going to love it to death and it is going to kill me to leave. I won't be there for it's first smile, step, word. I won't get to see it every day, or once a week, or every month. When I do see the baby, it won't even know who I am. So I cried, and cried, and cried. And still cry.

I'm going to be a Grandmother.

Gaming Inpact Real Life?

I've never been big into playing games. When most people of my generation were really getting into Atari (Yeah, laugh it up.) I was getting married and having kids. I lived in a small town so there wasn't much outside influence to introduce us to new technologies.

By the time Nintendo started getting big, my girls were overwhelmed with school and after-school activities and just never got into the game craze. It didn't hurt that the mere thought of spending hundreds of dollars for a game system freaks me out.

Before Will, Steve got into computer games for a year or two. But most of them were driving or killing. Didn't reallly interst me. He and the girls had a brief affair with SIMs and some sort of Zoo building game. The concept of those I found more interesting, but I spent so much time on the computer at work the last thing I wanted to do to relax was play on the computer.

Recently, I found myself playing FarmTown and Farmville. And I'm addicted. It's not just the attempt to manage the farm to produce and grow as fast as possible. I love the interaction of your friends and relatives. I love how in FarmTown, when I'm bored, I can go work on total strangers farms and make money. For my type of personality, where I need to be doing something constantly, it's nervanna.

So, today I was driving to a shopping center and I turned down the entrance lane. On either side of the road there are rows of closely planted trees -- just as they appear on many farms. And I kid you not, my fingers started tapping the steering wheel like I was harvesting them. I think I even visulized little fake fruit in them.

Yeah, my first thought was, "What a lame human you are." But the more I thought about it, the more unnevered I became. If playing a farming game for 1-2 hours a day for a week or so will make me start reacting to the site of rows of plants or trees (with an acutal physical response) . . . what does playing a killing game 3-4 hours a day for months on end do to one's automatic response?

Are there people out there in the shopping malls, parks, driving down the road that see something that makes their trigger finger jerk?

How scary is that?

What getting a tattoo REALLY feels like

So, I did it. I got my first tattoo at the grand old age of 43. While not huge, it is larger than most 'first' tattoos I've seen; about 3x3 inches.

No matter who you ask, everyone has different ways of describing the feeling of getting a tattoo. You hear of people who pass out, have to stop often for breathers, or can't even get it finished. Then you have those that say it's not painful at all -- no more so that sticking yourself with a pin.

Just to confuse you more, here is exactly how it felt to me -- and my memory is less than 4 hours old.

The outline, which is what was done first. Feels like about 16 individual needles so small and close to each other they are less than pencil lead thick. But, and it's a big one, it doesn't feel like they are poking you at all. What it feels like is that the group of needles is stuck into your flesh and then dragged 1/16th of an inch. Then it is reset, right next to the last gouge and dragged again. It feels very much like a small plow digging trenches into your skin.

Filling in the tattoo was slightly different. Instead of a round bundle of needles there is a double row of them, more like a rake times two. Because of the lack of density, the pain is different. However, the strokes were longer.

Good news? Yeah, there is some. First, if the tattoo is not going over nerves or bone, it's a lot less painful. Yeah, I heard that a head of time, but truly did not appreciate it until about five minutes under the gun. Since my ink was put on my neck; I had a lot of tender and painful places. But when the design wasn't on bone or nerves, it was like a picnic -- in comparison. First timer worried about pain? AVOID BONES.

Also, it was livable. Sort of like getting a paper cut. Well, three or four hundred of them in a 3x3 inch space over a period of an hour and a half.

Will I ever get another one? Maybe.

Why must my house stink?

I got a little behind on housework during the week I was making costumes. No biggie. But this week I've been trying to catch up.

I changed the dogs beds and cleaned up around their area in preparation for moping the following day. I also scrubbed the kitchen, sanitized the garbage disposal, and aired out the house.

THEN Steve comes homes and washes both dogs. While it is true they will smell better in the long run, wet dog is not a plesant smell.

THEN the following morning we awake to the fact our Border Collie had the runs in the middle of the night, all over the living room floor. Steve, love that he is, cleans it up.

BUT while doing so, managed to step in poo in the yard and walk it thorugh the entire house. True, I was going to mop anyway, but now I have to change out my bucket three times to make sure it's all sanitized properly. Hours later, the house smells wounderful. Floors shine, pillows and chairs have been freebrezed, windows opened and house aired.

THEN half an hour later Will does a big job and I don't know how, but the stink managed to affect over half my house; and it hung around for hours. The damn window was open in his bathroom, how he managed to poloute half my house I'll never know. A few hours of peace and non stink.

THEN Will throughs up on his bed. While taking him to Steve to watch as I clean up his room, he vomits all over the living room. Steve takes him to the bathroom, where he spits up on the floor. I'm changing bedding and getting fresh mop water. But I still have a pile of stinkly laundry. This morning everything seems okay; I'm working on orders, the guys are gone.

THEN the whiff of poo slithers into the office. Winkels not only pooed right next to the room I was in, but by the front door as well. I spank her butt and put her outside, and run some more mop water.

The really sad thing, is that all of this happened in about 36 hours.

I know, when the dogs are dead and Will is gone, I'm going to miss them. Yeah, I will. But I can guaran-damn-t you that I'll never once miss the smells they leave behind. LOL

Poking my Neck

So, Friday is the big day. At 2:00 I have an appointment to get my first tattoo. I love the design, and I was very picky about the location. I'm using Tori's tattoo guy, so I feel secure in his ability and cleanliness.

But . . .

Every time I mention where I'm getting my tattoo people freak out. Yes, I'm getting it on the back of my neck, known to be one of the most painful places to get a tattoo.

At lunch with Tori yesterday, I mentioned that Bonnet told me to make sure I eat well before going. Apparently, Bonnet passed out when having her tattoo colored in a few years back. "Yeah," Tori says, "but Bonnet . . . " Later, she confesses the ending would have been, "Has her tattoo in one of the worst places."

So, last night I pulled out a sewing needle and jabbed it into the back of my neck repeatedly in the general area the tattoo will go. I tried a little needle. I tried a big needle. Yeah, it hurt, like some idiot was sticking a needle in my neck. But it wasn't horrible. And yes, I do realize that when that same needle is poked in hundreds of times in close proximity, it will hurt worse.

But I'm not so worried today.

FarmVille, FarmTown, and YoVille

I've been a member of Facebook for several months. I joined only because friends of mine kept asking me to -- yes, I have friends.

Since I joined, I am continually bombarded with notices, prizes, and requests to join different Facbook offered games; mainly FarmVille, FarmTown, and YoVille.

One day last week, I had a spare hour and found myself sitting at the computer, so I logged into FarmVille and began to mess around. When Will got home from school, I showed it to him and he wanted his own town. We started him a farm in FarmTown. We are both hooked.

It is so much fun. There is so much to do. And the challenge of making money, timing your crops for your free time, and helping our your neighbors is a blast. Will just likes the animals -- so if you are a FarmTown friend, send poor Will some animals. LOL

Having so misjudged how much I would enjoy the games, I went ahead and set me up a pad in YoVille. I've given it nearly a week, and I just don't enjoy it.

Basically, you can change your clothes, decorate your apartment, or go see your friends places. When you go to your friends places you can kiss them, throw a water balloon at them, dance, sent them a note, or give them a gift -- which you have to buy or give them something you own. Money is hard to come by for the newbie too.

I enjoyed getting gifts, but the rest felt 'fake'. I couldn't show up and rearrange any one's furniture, still their clothes, or hitch a ride to the park. To be honest, there just didn't seem that much to do. I found myself sitting in the casino playing the penny slots out of boredom and I had to ask, "What the hell are you doing playing a game that bores you?" So I quit.

I gave away all my belongs to my friends and logged off.

My final conclusion was that I am unable to remain inactive, even in a game. Besides, it really freaked me out to start and end each session alone sitting on my couch in a sparing decorated and lonely apartment. If I wanted to see that, I'd get a mirror.

Contest Results Are In

If you remember, in June of this year I entered the first chapter of my book, Wolf Cub, in a writers contest and scored a high D. I was pretty excited about it. But by the time the actual judging took place I had already rewrote the chapter to the point the one I submitted was hardly recognizable.

I entered my new version in a second contest in September and recieved the results today. Out of a possible 100, I received 89 from one judge and 91 from the second judge. The finalist cut off was an average of 192. The average grade for the sumissions was 172. I'm pretty damn sure I can consider that an "A".

You could score a possible 5 in 20 categories. One judge only assigned me 4s and 5s. I had two 3s by the other judge.

I received the following comments from the judges:

Great opening scene and exciting plot.

Characters are strong and intriguing.

There was a tiny bit of showing instead of telling. This could be incorporated into dialogue. A very compelling read. I’d love to read the entire manuscript. Great work!

All in all, I'm pleased. The contest coordinator said they had the largest turn out they have ever had and it probably adversily affected our chances of placing.

I've made changes since submitting the chapter, and I will make more based upon feedback from the judges. Now I just need to find me another contest to enter.

Good Bye Trick-or-Treating

Steve and I took Will trick-or-treating tonight in our neighborhood. I've noticed each year we've lived here that the amount of trick-or-treaters and those handing out candy have declined. Each year.

The fashionable thing to do is take your children to carnivals held by schools, churches, or cities. They are safer; children aren't on the street, property isn't vandalized, strangers aren't allowed up to your house, you don't have to worry about infected candy.



Hey, I want to protect my child as much as the next person. But I see what is happening to old fashioned trick-or-treating as just another step in isolating ourselves from others. Instead of going out and meeting your neighbors, running into other children in the neighborhood, building relationships, we are 'fast fooding' the gathering of candy.

A perfect example was that a group held a "trunk treat" tonight at the parking lot of our local Cabelas. Everyone drove up in a vehicle, flipped open their trunk and handed out candy. A child could literally walk down one side and back up the other in under five minutes and have a bag filled with candy. There were so many kids no one talked, no one commented on costumes, no one was any closer.



Steve and I walked a mile loop around our neighborhood. It took over an hour. We looked at the stars, pointed out two planes, and visited with neighbors. Every single house we went to tried to guess Will's costume -- 50% truck/50% Optimus. Neighbors took photos of Will's costume. Several times we'd end up walking with another group and chatting. The kids interacted.

I miss the good old days. When everyone made their costumes. When the treats were baked brownies, home-made popcorn balls, and rice crispy treats -- that didn't come prewrapped. I miss 8 out of 9 houses having the lights on and entire families gathering to EW and AH over each child.

Based upon the lack of children out tonight and the lack of houses handing out candy, this very well could be our last true night of trick-or-treating.

What Sex is Your Brain

I found the most fascinating quiz to take online, it was created and is managed by an university to collect data.

Regardless of your sex, it tells you if your mind set is more male or female. The quiz is broke up in six different sections and takes about 10-15 minutes to complete. Take it here!

When you complete it, you are given your score and told the average answer per male or female. The average total for female minded is -50 and the average total for male minded is +50. I got a 0 (zero). Honestly! I am stuck right in the frigging middle.

I expected to be more on the male side because I have always attracted feminine men and masculine women. Now I know why. LOL

Since I have neither a male- or female-mind set, that makes me no-minded.

Lizard Soup

Yesterday evening was relatively cool and since Will and I have been feeling under the weather, I decided to make home-made chicken noodle soup.

I boiled the chicken and removed it from the broth. Then diced up fresh bell pepper, carrots, and celery to the pan. Added some spices. Cut up some of the cooled chicken pieces. Then I opened a new bag of frozen peas and randomly poured in some.

About the time I decided to add noodles, I took the spoon from Will to check the consistancy of the vegitables. I swirled the liquin once to get everything floating and noticed something odd shaped, and dark. I scooped it up in my ladel for a better view and it was a freaking LIZARD!

I immediately cut the fire off and left the kitchen. Steve drove to Sonic for super last night, I was unable to return to the kitchen. I got in there and poured out my soup today, disposed of the unwanted reptile.

But I don't see Chicken (read here LIZARD) soup sounding good to me any time soon.

To Tattoo or not to Tattoo

I've always been a good girl (well, mostly.) I've done what I was brought up to believe was right. Except for very brief moments of madness, I've done very little that is outrageous or exciting.

Yet, there lurks within me a totally different person. Someone rude, outgoing, who laughs when others trip and fall down. Someone who dreams of wearing risque clothing, dancing on the stage at concerts, picking up strangers, and getting a tattoo.

Just so Steve doesn't freak out on me here, I would like to say most of those things are desires I've out grown. LOL

Most of them.

I've always wanted a tattoo. More than half of life, I've wanted one. First I was to religious for it to be acceptable. Then I was in a marrage with a very controlling husband that didn't think a tattoo would look good on the mother of his children. Then I was busy, broke, didn't live any where near a tattoo parler.

Bonnet's last year with me, her senior year, I tried to talk both girls into going to get a tattoo with me. Three matching tattoos. Something that would link us together. We couldn't agree on a design. Before you knew it, Will was on his way and you can't get a tattoo while pregnant; well, you shouldn't.

Now Steve and I are updating the house with plans to leave the Austin area. To leave a place so filled with tattoo parlours you can probably find one on any major street down town. And we're headed to small town USA -- I use to live there and they don't have tattoo parlers.

So I've decided it's now or never. Yes, I feel old to be getting a tattoo. Yes, I'm not young, tight, or thin . . . the best skin for a tattoo. LOL

But I found a design I like, have decided on a location for it, and am meeting an artist later this week to see his rendition of the design I'm intersted in. Small, tasteful, personal.

I'm excited.

And what does Steve say? The same thing he always says when he sees someone with a tattoo, "That sure would make a nice lamp shade."

Dinner and Live Music with a Younger Man

Steve is out of town this weekend. His absence isn't good or bad, just different. I don't usually plan much for the weekends as that is the only time we have to spend together as a family. So when Steve is gone, I'm a little lost.

I wasn't sure what I would be doing tonight. As it turned out, it was one of the best evenings I can remember in a long time. No stress. No worrying about what might upset Steve: Will misbehaving, the traffic, a crowd, bad food, a bad parking experience. (I need to make clear that Steve is not an oger, it just seems to be my nature to want to pacify everyone and therefore I worry about what might upset people. Weird hu?)

I went out and had Chinese with a handsome young man. He was polite and great company. Made me laugh and forget any thing that might have weighed me down. I got a great fortune in my cookie -- apparently luck and money are headed my way next month. Watch out!

Then we went over to a local park where a live Blues band was playing. The weather was perfect. It was probably low sixties, sun shinning. With the rain we've received the last few weeks the grass was green. The park was only semi-crowded; so it was easy to find a place to set -- we perched on a rock wall. The band was pretty good and by the second song I found myself tapping my foot. A few more and I was patting my leg to the tune. I had forgotten how much I enjoy Blues. I wanted to run right over to the music store and buy a CD.

My date? He danced. He got out in front of everyone and danced like there was no tomorrow. No shame, no embarrassment. He just had fun, enjoyed the music.

We stayed until just after the sun set. Long enough to watch the lights come on in all the trees, for most of the children to quieten down.

My date didn't say a word about stopping at Hobby Lobby or Walmart on the way home. He merrily trampled along with me, talking all the way. Happy to be with me.

If it wasn't for the fact I had to carry his heavy ass inside when we got home, it would have ranked in one of my top 10 dates of all times!

One Year Today

October 23rd of last year was the day we buried one of my younger sisters, Becky. I also referred to her as the older of my younger sisters. And called Byjo, the youngest of my younger sisters. The first fifty times I was talking about Byjo this year I stumbled over my classification of her. As the months went by and the pain receded her classification became my living sister.

Like all her siblings, I've had a hard year adjusting to the loss. Many in the family have struggled almost more with the circumstances surrounding her death to the actual death. See, Becky committed suicide. Oddly, that part didn't bother me as much as her being dead. I know that sounds weird, but I hope you understand what I'm trying to say.

Even when I wasn't thinking of the approach of this unwanted anniversary, I've been weighed down with an expectation of gloom. Not a full blown case of the crazies, just a case of the blues. Not much interest in life in general. But I still laugh and play with my son. I know what is causing the gloom and I understand it will pass.

I made it through the anniversary of the day she killed herself and didn't have a break down. I made it through the anniversary of the day I received the news and didn't fall apart. And now I've made it through the anniversary of the day we buried her and I'm still sane.

What more could you ask on the anniversary of death?

Silence Vs. Snoring

As you age, you expect certain things to change. Your enjoyment of certain foods. The type of music you listen too. The amount of effort you put into staying in shape. How much time you are willing to spend on appearances. LOL

One thing I did not expect was that certain sounds and how they affect me.

Prior to Will, I use to enjoy silence. I loved being in my house with no noise; no TV, radio, children, noisy fan, etc. The quieter the better. Now? It hurts my ears. Honestly, hurts my ears. I'm still not a fan of leaving a radio or TV on just to make noise. But when everyone goes to bed at night and the house is quite; I can't stand it. I will turn on a box fan I keep in the hall just to make noise. When I go to bed, I have to turn on a noisy fan we keep in there for background noise.

Also, noises that use to bother me no longer do. The largest difference I've noticed over the years is the sound of Steve snoring. I use to wake him up and tell him he was snoring. I had to, I couldn't sleep otherwise. Now, when I go to bed and hear him snoring . . . I just smile. It's just part of my life, part of Steve. I lay right down and fall to sleep with no problem.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if 13 years of listening to Steve snore while asleep has made it impossible for me to relax and enjoy the quite?

Probably, after all, it's always the spouses fault.

It was calling your name!

It's odd how something can happen to you when you are around a friend of love one that will impact the two of you for the rest of your lives. Yeah, if you were alone, it might have made you smile, frown, laugh, or cry. But by the simple act of sharing the experience, it becomes life changing.

Two such acts happened to Steve and I our first year together. Neither of them big or important.

It Was Calling My Name
When Steve and I were first dating, we hung out with an ex-sister-in-law of mine, Tressa, and her husband James. They were newly weds and a little odd. Okay, a lot odd. But then, Steve and I have never been classified as sane either.

One day we stopped by their house and Tressa was all aflutter about a piece of pottery that James had bought her. To be honest, I can't remember what it was. What I do remember was that it was the largest, tackiest, ugliest piece of crap I'd ever seen. It wouldn't have surprised me if darling James hadn't found it near a dumpster and brought it home.

To add insult to injury, Tressa had to tell us about how he was driving down the road and glanced it out of the corner of his eye. He immediately thought, "That is calling Tressa's name." and went back for it. And it must have been, because she loved it like only a mother can love an ugly baby.

It was calling Steve's Name
My mother was notorious for getting us the worst gifts ever for every occasion. And it wasn't that she bought cheap gifts, she just didn't know us. For our wedding, she gave us a ceramic piece that was a water bottle with a nearly naked Indian woman on the front of it. She'd special ordered it and it was hand painted in ugly and unattractive colors. The style, object, coloring . . . nothing we would have EVER picked out. But hey, it was better than the rock with trash glued to it that Uncle Eddy gave us a few years later. Or maybe not, Eddy at least made his gift.

For Steve's first birthday's as a part of my family, my mother bought him a gift off the side of the road. (And I'd just like to state for future reference, this is generally not a place I see things I'm just dying to own.) She honestly used the same words Tressa did, almost.

"I was driving back from ??? and I saw it hanging over this truck that was selling stuff. It was calling Steve's name." She even went on to tell me how much she paid for it, and it was pricey for her budget. It just wasn't Steve.

Dying to know what it was, aren't you? It was a tanned beaver hide. Yep, my mother gave Steve a beaver for his birthday. I guess she thought he wasn't getting any.

So for the better part of the last thirteen years, "It's calling your name," has become our catch phrase for "Isn't that the tackiest piece of shit you've ever seen? And, if you bring it home to me I'm going to brain you with it."

Buy a Damn Step Stool!

During my recent cleaning and reorganizational spree I moved all of my books into my walk in closet. I put them on unused shelves to high for me to reach.

I do keep a nice foldable step-stool in the kitchen, but Will has claimed it. So it stays in the kitchen. Every time I want to read a book, or put one back, I have to go to the kitchen, get the step stool, carry it through the bedroom and into the closet. When I'm done, I take it back. It's a pain in my kiester. (Well, actually, my shins. But I'll get to that soon enough!)

One day I actually added step stool to my shopping list as I left the house and then I talked myself out of it. Really, what's the big deal with carrying the one stool back and forth. I can find lots of better uses for $20.

After finishing up my shower this evening, I went into the closet to pick out a book. I didn't want to go out of the bedroom or Will would follow me back into the closet and I wouldn't have a chance to pick out a book undisturbed. I looked all over my bedroom for anything that could lift me that extra 12 inches.

The only half-decent option I found was a sturdy, small trash can. So I turn it up side down and tried it out. It worked. Doesn't feel like the sturdiest thing in the world, but I don't plan on needing it but about 3 minutes.

At two and a half minuets the bottom of the trash can gives out and both my feet slide through the middle of the broken and ripped hard plastic. There I am: holding in my hand the book I was looking for, both feet inside an upside down trash can, staring at my clothing and I can feel blood dripping down my legs.

When I managed to get out of the trash I had 6-8 4-inch long lacerations on each calf. At first, they didn't hurt much. But they bled. Then they started hurting. And hurt more. Swole a little. Soon, the pain was so bad my legs would jerk when a breeze blew over a laceration. I've taken ibuprofen, put ice on them, put pain relieving antibiotic ointment on them . . . There is really only one thing left to do.

Buy a damn step stool!

Pocket Knife

I'm not sure if it was the age, geographical location, or population of the area where I grew up, but all my life men have carried pocket knives.

From banker to farmer, attorney to plumber. Any time you were trying to open something, every man in viewing distance would pull out their pocket knife and offer it to you opened, handle pointed towards you.

It was just something I accepted as truth, like knowing how to brush my teeth. Well, maybe that's not a good example. Who knew after thirty years of thinking you knew how to brush teeth someone would finally decide you needed to brush your tongue too? Go figure.

Anyway, back to the story . . .

My loving hubby, his brothers, my brothers, my brother-in-laws, my uncles, my neighbors, all carry pocket knives. And no, not just when they are going hunting. All the time. So a few weeks back I was shocked when I was in a Home Depot and asked a man standing next to me in the cable section if I could borrow his knife.

He looks at me all panicked and says, "I don't carry a knife." He's in the friggin' Home Depot -- isn't there a requirement you have to be sort of manly to even enter them? I think even the women have to exclude a higher male hormone than normal to get in the doors.

A few minutes later, I asked another man. With the same response. I was so flabbergasted I had to tell Steve about it later. A few days later the same thing happen to me again, this time in paint department of a Walmart store.

A week or so later the family was at a flea market and Steve bought a new knife. I mentioned after we left that I saw a knife I was considering purchasing myself. That evening he pulls out these 'extra' pocket knives from years past he's had stashed. I pick out a very slim plain silver knife. Only thing I do not like about it is the silly dear sticker I can't get off; that's a little butch for me. LOL

I carry it in my purse and have been shocked at how often I've pulled it out and used it since I've had it. At least three or four times a week.

Today I was waiting in line at the new post office. A woman was at the only open register ahead of me. And there was one man behind me in line. The employee knew the gentleman and had been talking to him ever since he walked in the building. It became obvious the woman checking out needed one box from a bundle that was secured with binding. The employee searched and couldn't find scissors.

So she says to her gentleman friend, "You're a good ole boy, Roger. Take out your knife and help this lady open that package."

Rodger stumbles and stutters before admitting he doesn't have a knife. He goes up and tries to muscle the strapping off. I just shake my head, open my knife, and go slit the package open.

Does that make me a "good ole boy?"

A Different Life

I visited with someone close to me today and had to laugh at something that came out of her mouth. It's not that she's uneducated, quite the opposite in fact. It's just that she's lived a different life than I have.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Everyone lives different lives. But occasionally you will find yourself establishing a relationship with someone whose life has been so different that moments pop up where it's like speaking to an alien.

For instance, my Different Life friend and I were once discussing an old acquaintance who had a horrible hair growth problem. This young lady shaved twice a day. Seriously, she had a full beard. Needless to say, she never dated and her future prospects were looking pretty grim.

My Different Life friend just shrugged her shoulders and said, "There is no excuse for that. She could have laser treatments."

Sure. She could. If she could afford $300-$400 (minimum) per visit for three to four initial visits and then two or three follow up visits EACH YEAR. Most of the people I know just could not afford that.

Today, my Different Life friend was talking about a hotel she'd recently stayed in. It had very high count sheets, you could tell by the way they felt. Luxurious robes were supplied for them both. On and on she went. Then she concluded with, "You know what I'm talking about."

I laughed. "Sure."

And of coarse, I did. I'd seen that episode on TV.

One of My Patterns to Appear in a Book

I was contacted via email by India Flint, a world-renown Australian textile artist. If you search the web for her name you will find exhibits of her work have appeared/been displayed in over 9 museum collections. She's renown for costume design and has displayed in over 100 private or group exhibitions across the world. You can check her out at www.indiaflint.com.

While conducting research for a book she has coming out in 2011, Second Skins, she stumbled upon a set of free directions I have posted online. And she wanted my permission to make the product and display it in her book, along with directions, photos, and a credit line (including website URL) for me as the designer.

Pretty exciting stuff, hu?

Yes, since she's in Australia, I may never get a copy of the book. Who knows if I'll even remember to look for it two years from now. But it is exciting.

And I know, you are dying to find out which design of mine she wishes to duplicate . . . right?

Yeah, well that's sort of funny. She's going to use my instructions for turning old socks into a circular dog rug. If you're just dying to see the instructions in action, check them out at http://www.makethemyourself.com/rug.html. There is a copy of the round design towards the bottom of the page.

Of all the things I've designed, and written, it will be a set of instructions for using up old socks that may serve as the toe-hole into a more profitable future

How to Clear an Isle at the Store

I seldom get an opportunity to sneak off to a book store alone. When I do, I like to pursue each shelf on every row in the genres I'm interested in. I also like my space. I hate it when there are multiple people trying to look over books in the same isle.

I really hate it when you are standing looking at a book and someone will walk up and decide they have to stand RIGHT WHERE you are. There will be an entire freaking isle and every time you bend over to pick out a book you bump into strange ass. Yikes!

Tuesday morning -- and for the non addicted reader, that is release day for new books -- I was at my favorite book store. There weren't six people in the entire store, including associates. It was quite. I had the isle, hell the department, to myself.

Just as I squatted down to look on the bottom shelf I was surprised by a long, loud extrusion of air. Yep, a fart. The loudest, longest fart I believe I have ever passed in my life. Steve would be so proud.

I'm pretty sure it could be heard at the checkout stand, but that wouldn't have bothered me. How would anyone know I did it? Really.

Well, except for the fact that just as I started to squat I caught a glimpse of a person coming around the corner I was less than 4 feet from. They took one step my direction, were no doubt serenaded by my gastorial rendition of an elk mating call, and immediately turned and walked away.

I was torn between laughter and major embarrassment, but decided to simply store the experience away for further use. Should I ever NEED to clear an isle, I now have the knowledge of how to accomplish it.

Beer Thirty

Sunday, Tori drove over to the house and then the entire family met Lew and Dona for lunch a little further North. We stopped on the way for gas.

When we turned into the station, Steve made a comment about a car that at the pump a few over from the one we were pulling into. It was an older model plane car. Nothing new, nothing fancy. A clunker. A clunker with a faded paint job and a racing strip.

I thought that was funny and looked to see who was driving it. A woman stepped out. Blond white hair with brown roots at least three inches long. Hair tussled. Looked like she woke up, stumbled out to the car, and drove to the store. Her face was still red in places, from where I assumed she'd slept on her side.

She had on a baggy t-shirt with no bra and overly tight jogging pants. Not that there was anything wrong with what she was wearing. She just looked a little old to be running to the store like that comfortably. At this point, I'm just sort of curious and I would have stopped watcher her except I noticed . . .

She was barefoot. She exited the car, walked across a nasty-ass parking lot and into the store with no shoes on. I no the parking lot was nasty, because as soon as she got into the store she wiped her bare feet on the welcome mat to clean them off.

My, "Ewww" coincided with Tori's laugh. Apparently we had both been watching Ms. Racing Stripe. It seem to take her longer to come out than I expected. But when she exited she was carrying a 24 pack of Bud Light in cans. I glanced at the dash clock and it was 12:03. That explained it, she had to wait for noon to purchase alcohol.

After getting in her car, she pulled up less than 50 feet to the air/vacuum location. At this point, Tori and I are throwing theories back and forth at each other. Tori thinks she needs to vacuum her feet off, I though maybe she had a slow leak in a tire.

As it happened, she never got out of the car. She sit there about a minute and backed up and drove off.

Must have been Beer Thirty. (Or, more like Beer:05.)

Be Careful What You Ask A Four Year Old

Poo Alert!
If you have a sensitive tummy,
you may not want to read any further.

Four-year old's are incapable of understanding when a question is rhetorical. If I had any doubt, it was put to rest today.

Will, my four year old son, came down with the runs while we were shopping today. He messed in his pants. We stopped by the bathroom and cleaned him up as well as possible and headed home.

Even thought I had thrown away his undies, and wasn't that going to be a pleasant surprise for the janitor, when he sit in his seat he made a face. "Yuck, poo poo pants!"

"Feels gross hu?" I said as I put on his seat belt. "Just think, babies poo in their pants all the time and it doesn't bother them. How do you think they do that?"

"Like this . . huuuuu"

The Anniversary of Death

Everyone in my family has always been HUGE in being hung up on people's death anniversary; for 10-15 years after the deceased has passed away. In some instance, you can hardly stand to go around them the entire month.

The people we have lost have been just as related to me as to them; cousins, uncles, grandparents. I was even torn up by the passing of my step-father, thought I have no doubt his actual children were more so . . . that one I'll give them.

However, year after year I have not felt the need to commensurate their death.

This month has me worried. This is the month my sister committed suicide last year. And not to sound selfish, but it's taken me nearly an entire year to start living again. Based upon my past lack of interest in mourning the departed, I didn't expect an issue.

Maybe I should have.

The first day of October was when it hit me. I realized it was close, the anniversary of Becky's death. Memories started playing in my subconscious. Not bad memories, just painful now that she's not around. I got the shakes and started crying. Today is the end of the 4th day of this month and as I write this my eyes are filled with tears again. I messed up my medication for the first time in months the other day. I'm having trouble getting to sleep.

Knowing how badly I needed a break from life, my friend and I are planning one of our scrapbooking weekends for later this month. The third weekend of the month.

Do you want to know where I was the third weekend of the month last year? At a scrapbooking weekend with Charlene, screaming in agony as Steve told me over the phone about Becky's suicide.

I've always been a person that believed in just yanking the bandaid off. Getting it over with.

Well, this should do it.

Assuming no other sibling decideds it's a nice weekend to bite a bullet.

The Perfect Snack

It's funny how you can live your entire life and not realize certain things, like what the perfect snack is. Well, you can live in ignorance until you have a four year old.

Last month I caught Will with numerous snacks on the coffee table. He was pouring things out and arranging them just so in a big lump.

I asked him what he was doing and he replied, "Making the perfect snack."



Just in case you were wondering, the perfect snack consists of gold fish, fruit chews, and original potato chips.

I'd rather be Crafty

I've always had problems with the word and concept of being "crafty". The very word bothers me, as it should.

The actual definition of Crafty is: Skilled in or marked by underhandedness, deviousness, or deception.

In the ten different dictionary sources I pulled up on the Internet, not one of them listed a description of a person having the ability to participate in many different crafts.

No, but if you look up arty (and who even knew that was a real word?) you find the following description: Of or relating to artists or the fine arts.

Fine arts? What the hell is that? I think of ballet, sculpture, painting, singing . . . things that have little to no impact on my life.

I have often had non-crafty people assume that since I can do so many things I must be able to draw, or paint, or sculp, or . . .

I can't.

Over the years I've come to realize that anything that requires a certain set of steps to produce a reaction, I can do. I can sew, do stain glass, crochete, bake, etc. But if something requires a great amount of artistic input -- choices on color, design, layout . . . not so much.

At different points in my life, enjoying crafts has subjected me to near second-class citizenship. Stand around a room of executives talking about their interests and just imagine the look on their face when sailing, painting, dancing, etc, is followed by sewing. LOL

As we age, we not only gain a better understanding of ourselves and our needs, but an acceptance. In my twenties, my mother-in-law told me that while I was a "Jill-of-many trades, I was a Queen of none". My interest in most crafts has been in the ability to conquer them. As soon as I feel half way confident in my ability to do anything I want, I loose interest and move on.

I have never sought to become an artist in any field. This simple thought released a life-time of feeling inadequate about my skill of being crafty. I've never spent years, hell, not even months, polishing an ability. Never taken more than one class on any subject. Never poured over every book about a craft I could find.

When it comes right down to it, subconsiously I've always preferred being crafty to arty. And it's only takem me forty years to figure it out.

Got Pepper?

I had lunch with Tori today and as always after every meal we've eaten together since she turned twelve of so, she looked at me and flashed her teeth, tilting her head from side-to-side. While no longer accompanied by the words, "Is there pepper in my teeth?", I can still hear them resounding loudly from years past.

As I sit there listening to her and my best friend talk, I actually noticed pepper in Tori's teeth and it got me to thinking. Tori is the only person I have ever known who is so fanatical about checking her teeth after every meal. If there is no one at the table she trusts for her pepper check, she'll take a napkin and wipe each tooth off, just in case.

While that's odd enough for me, the really strange thing is that Tori is the only person I have ever known who always gets pepper stuck on her teeth. Seriously, I've been married the majority of my life. Have eaten at least one meal a day with the same person sitting across from me, and may have seen pepper on his teeth once. Tori, every other time I check.

So I got to wondering . . .

Does the fear of something happening, i.e., getting pepper stuck on your teeth, make it a reality? Or, did the fact that pepper always got stuck on her teeth make her fanatic about checking for it?

It's the age old question, which came first, the pepper or the fear of the pepper?

I'm Bored

You may not believe this, but it's taken me all week to realize what this odd feeling I've been experiencing is. Boredom.

I've conquered the challenge of cleaning my house. I'm tired of reading. I just finished a chapter in my book and am just not ready to jump into another one yet.

I haven't been officially bored in years. Because, lets face it, depressed people don't get bored. Getting bored requires looking forward and giving a shit; not big items on the 'to do' list of depressed people.

On one hand, I'm insanely excited to have found myself bored. But mostly, I'm just bored. I want to do something FUN! Something that excites me.

A friend of mine, and I, are planning a three day get away next month. One of our scrapbooking weekends. They're great and it's exactly what I need. But it's three weeks away. I need something NOW.

Is it just me, or am I beginning to sound like my four year old?

Oh well, the computer is boring me so off I go to find something else to fiddle with for a few moments.

Am I done?

I finished cleaning my house today. Over the last three and a half weeks I've managed to deeply clean every single room in my house. Each closet, cabinet, floor. Every piece of furniture moved and cleaned under.

I've given away no less than 10 trash bags of items and hauled out closer to 30 bags of trash.

When I completed the bathroom today I was sort of let down. In fact, I was wondering what I'd do tomorrow. While checking laundry, I realized I had not cleaned the laundry room. Then I got to thinking, I didn't clean the ceiling fans. I didn't wash the walls down. I didn't . . .

I had to stop and ask myself when was I going to stop? I could continue. It would take a month to clean our garage. A week to clean the attic. A week to clean the driveway. A week to clean the back yard.

What exactly is my goal here? My original goal when Will started school was to use the time he's gone to increase the sales on my website. I have a three prong approach to doing this. 1)Add new patterns, 2)Convert existing patterns to digital so they can be sent via email, and 3)Post links to my website and comments through the web to drive more customers to my site.

I only decided to clean the house because it really needed it. I never expected it to take this long. So why am I LOOKING for more things to clean?

On one hand, I'm kind of addicted to being able to accomplish something so obvious in a morning. When I tackle a new room, it is shocking the difference at the end of the day. I can pat myself on the back and say, "Good job!" When you work for yourself and no one else is involved in your business, you get no 'good jobs', pats on the back, or noticeable recognition.

But it's really the other hand holding me back, fear. It's been a long time since I jumped in with both feet and swam with the big fish. Since I decided 'this' pattern needs to be made and just made it. Remade it and remade it. Found poeple to test it. Wrote up directions the average Jane Doe can follow and marketed it.

While I've come a long way the last couple of months, I still don't have the self confidence I use to have. But I do know how to get it . . . by jumping in with both feet. Sink or swim, baby!