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.