The Mirror at Mom's House

I noticed an odd phenomenon about five years after I moved out of my mother's home. Each time I would return for a visit and happen to walk by a mirror, I was always pleased with my reflection. This was odd because I am never pleased with my reflection in any other mirrors - or any photos taken for that matter.

At first I just thought I looked nice that day. Maybe I wore makeup or had on a nice shirt. It took nearly twenty years, two husbands, three children, and ten houses later to realize that it didn't matter. I could have been working in cut-offs in her garden all day; covered in mud and sweaty. No makeup. My hair not fixed. And I still liked what I looked like in mom's mirror.

That was when I realized what I saw when I looked in mom's mirror was the choices I'd made since leaving home. The temptations I'd bypassed. The principles I lived by. How far I'd gone to improve my life and the life of my children. When I looked in mom's mirror I saw the inner me. And, I like me.

I guess when all is said in done, only at our mother's house do we truly feel judged upon what's on the inside.

It's been nearly four years since the last time I looked in the mirror at mom's house. I miss it.

Yesterday, I had an Apple Turnover

I've eaten flavored yogurt all of my adult life. More times than not, the low fat variety. I'll eat them off-and-on for months and then not at all for the next year or so. Then I'd be back on them. They are good for me, low in fat and calories, and cheap and easy (something my husband accuses me of occasionally). What's not to like?

Since my last yogurt feast, my favorite brand, Yoplait, has come up with some great new varieties. For months I've been watching one commercial after another from their Outsmart Temptation ad series. The flavors sounded to good to be true: Apple Turnover, Banana Cream Pie, Boston Cream Pie, Key Lime Pie, Pineapple Upside Down Cake, Raspberry Cheesecake, Red Velvet Cake, White Chocolate Covered Strawberries. The list goes on and on.

So I've been counting calories for the last few weeks and have once again returned to my old friend yogurt. I excitedly loaded my basket with every delicious sounding option my store carried. And each day I eagerly tried a new decadent desert. I've made it through all the flavors and have drawn the following conclusion.

None of the flavors stand out as awesome or amazing. In fact, they taste a lot like the fruit flavors. It tastes like they took Pineapple Yogurt and renamed it Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Banana became Banana Cream Pie, and so on. It makes sense. Who wants to eat something that sounds like a fruit (which you can have on ANY diet) when you can eat something that sounds like desert (which you can NEVER have without guilt).

Overall, it taste pretty much the same.

Oh, I'll keep buying them - as opposed to their appropriately named fruit counterparts. I like the idea of telling someone,

"My diet?
Well, yesterday I had an Apple Turnover."

Mine Enemy: Sleep

I can't remember a time in my life when sleep came easy.

As a child with a bad family life, you were your most vulnerable at night. I'd lay awake listening to every shift of the house, every squeak of the floorboard. Straining hard enough I could hear family members breathing two or three rooms away. Hear the dogs outside scratching. Each car as it slowly drove past.

When the children came, none of them slept well. No eight hour sleep patterns for my babies until they were well over a year old.

As a classic Type A personality, I've always gone for the stressful job. Worked where there was no way my responsibilities could be completed on time. And I asked for more.

But even over the last few years, with no job (per say) and William old enough to sleep most nights, I still don't sleep. I manage, on average, 4-6 hours of sleep in a 24-hour period. Always have. And it's beginning to look like I always will.

I manage to function, but it's not healthy. A lack of sleep cuts down on my natural serotonin levels; making it easier to become blue or depressed. A lack of sleep makes it harder to loose weight, gives you bags under your eyes, and leaves you fatigued all day.

The flip side of my problem is that I fall asleep at the drop of a hat in certain circumstances. Like in a car. Take me for a ride in a car and I'll be asleep in half an hour. If I'm driving, two hours max. When I drove up to see Paul for his birthday recently, I had to stop an hour in and pull over for a few minutes shut eye.

I don't even try to go to sleep until about one in the morning, knowing I'll just lay there if I do. And sometimes I still lay there. I toss all night long, though a little less in my new bed. I change positions constantly. Half the time I'll get back out of bed during the night. I'm usually up by six (by alarm when Will goes to school), or by seven thirty when left on my own.

I use to take pills to help me sleep but stopped when I was expecting Will. I've never gotten back on them because Will still needs me some nights. I also can't hear everything that goes on in the house if I take pills.

I fear that until Will is old enough to defend himself, I'll just have to live with mine enemy - sleep.

The Morning in Hell

If you've been keeping up with my blog this year, you know I'm not real pleased with Will's school. They are disorganized, don't involve parents in what they should, and send home fund-raising items several times a month - just to name a few of my pet peaves.

First, I was sick all night. Probably didn't sleep more than two hours. It was hard to wake up and since I had to be at Will's school by 8:00, I couldn't go back to sleep. Ready in plenty of time, I went to pick up my camera in the computer room and it wasn't there. I spent way to long looking for it and couldn't find it. Stopping at Walmart for a throw-away camera put me at school just in time to see Will's group walk out of the building and into the fenced in area.

I had to park right by the fence as I was late. Then I had to walk almost two blocks to the main office to get a visitor badge. While there were only three people in line in front of me, it took thirteen minutes to get through - yes, I counted them.

Then I walked two blocks to get back to where I started - just the opposite side of the fence. I was suprised to see an information booth set up for parents. I stopped by to see if they could help me locate where Will's class was - there were literally thousands of children on the field. They couldn't. They didn't even know what they had on the table; some sort of print out. But they didn't know what it was and if it was theirs or to be handed out. I was told to look for a group of small children in -- "What color was your son wearing today? Oh, green. Yeah, just look for a group of small children in green."

As it turned out they were at the furtherest corner you could find; about two blocks through sweaty bodies, 90 degree tempertures, and no shade.

When I finally reached him I was impressed with the smooth operation of the events. The coach was in charge and they were at drawn lanes doing several events. There are six classes of pre-k children and each class was in it's own lane. The first event I watched was hurdles. The coach would signal about every 30 seconds and the next batch would run off and jump the hurdles. It was cute.

The next race was the chicken throw. The coach had a bucket of plucked colored chickens that were about twelve inches long. Each child was suppose to throw their chicken as far as possible, run up to it, and throw it again until they passed the end. This didn't work quite as well with the 30 second batch thing as some children took four or five minutes to complete the course. You had children getting hit by flying chickens all over the place. It was funny.

When that was completed, and it only took about twenty minutes, things went to hell in a handbasket.

They walked us all over to the opposite side of the field only to realize we were early, so then we walked all the way to near my car and allowed the kids to play at the playscape. When it was time, we went back across the field to the pitching events. Only, there was no coach and no one to organize it. None of the teachers even had an idea of what the events were suppose to be.

Eventually they lined all the kids up in 12 lines and just gave them whatever assorted balls were laying around; crocket, backetball, football, baseball. But no one took charge of the event and timing. So you had children throwing balls (some very hard) constantly and others running in the middle of the meyham to retrieve their throws. Every parent on the sideline was wincing and complaining.

Fifteen minutes later we take the kids to their classrooms for a snack. I helped those at the table with Will open their packages and drinks. After the break, we were lead all the way through the school and out the opposite side to the bouncy houses. The teachers instructed the children to remove their shoes, leave on their socks, and then climb in. Of corse, they had to walk through about twenty-five feet of burs and stickers to get there. They were only allowed to bounce about three minutes when someone realized there was a mix up on the schedule and we weren't supose to be there. I helped pull stickers and burs off of four different pairs of socks and put shoes on small sweaty feet. Then we walked through the entire school and back out the other side to play on the playground again.

We were told due to the mixup the children would play on the playground for an hour, then participate in a tug-of-way. At this point, it's 97 outside. There is still no shade and I've had it. I tell Will bye, and head out.

As I walked through the school, and back to my car, I checked how many photos I'd taken to see if I should drop off the camera on the way home. I took nine. And if I remember correctly, one of those was an accidental photo of the hot cracked ground.

I'm a 65

It's official, I'm in love with my sleep number bed.

Steve and I paid almost $2,000 five years ago for a special mattress set that was going to last a while. We both have back issues and trouble sleeping, so it seemed like a sound investment. From the DAY it was delivered it was a nightmare. Since it was purchased at a furniture store and not at a mattress store, they would not take it back. We were stuck.

Five days ago Steve picked up a king size sleep number bed and brought it home. It has two separate mattresses so we can each set our own comfort level. (He's a 100.) It also comes with a zipped in pillow top that is about four inches thick.

I put it up the next morning and we have slept in it for four nights now. It took me a few days to settle on a number, but I knew the first night it was going to work out. I just needed to tweak it.

We kept our old bed on hand until we were sure we were keeping the sleep number bed. We're sure. The old bed was hauled to San Marcos and donated to Tori.

I know a lot of people are either totally for or against a sleep number bed. I love the ability to have different settings per person. It's cut down on how often I roll over or reposition myself at night. Made a significant difference in how loud and often Steve snores (and probably myself as well). And, I no longer wake up with aching joints.

I really have only noticed two cons; 1) it sits really low to the floor, and 2) if your numbers are significantly different you need to keep rigorous activity to one side only - don't ask.

Open Marriages

Steve and I were watching House this evening and the episode revolved around two different married couples who had open marriages. It disturbed me so much that I could hardly watch the show. In both marriages shown, one person wanted to play the field and their spouse agreed because they loved them and didn't want to loose them. When one wife decided she couldn't do it, her husband lied to her about it and continued to carry on his affair.

I just don't get it. How can you possibly have the trust and respect necessary to create a strong relationship in an open marriage? When I was searching for a photo to accompany this blog I was shocked at how many couples online are admitting to open marriages. I did find one site that came closer to helping me understand the concept. Basically they said there are two different type of people. (A)Those who go into a marriage with the concept it is until death and is a bond that shouldn't be broken - those who would never consider an open marriage. (B) Those that enter a marriage as a business transaction to gain security, ranking, or releave loneliness.

Consider me an A.

As we watched the show this evening, I couldn't help but wonder how the original conversation progressed when having an open marriage was brought up. Do you pick days that you can screw around? Should you notify each other first? If you have kids, do you swap out weekends when Mommy or Daddy get to go out alone? What's the procedure when you return from a romp? Do you head directly to the shower? Do you shower before you come home and act like nothing happened? Do you hop in bed with your spouse and go for round 2 (or 3)?

As a tie in to this issue, I've been searching for a group nearby that I can join to meet new people. Some place where I can alleviate some of the loneliness that has haunted me for the last five years. I'm also thinking of volunteering, but that comes with it's own issues. Mainly time constraints and Will.

When I did a search for lonely mothers in Austin in Yahoo Groups. I found at least ten groups for lonely mothers to hook up with men on the side. When I searched for lonely married people in Austin I found just as many groups for spouse swaps. Each group had hundreds, if not thousands, of members. I did find 3 groups for women who found being at home very lonely and isolated - just what I was looking for. All of them were inactive and had been for years.

It's a sad statement on today's society that a lonely married woman can find places to commit adultery, but no companionship.

Oddly, if you search for companionship you get a bunch of pet groups.

Go figure.

You Get What You Pay For

Will has hard to manage hair. There are three hard to control cow licks. Two towards the back which mandate the hair on top of his head remain long. And one toward the front that won't allow things to lay flat. Add to the fact his hair is baby fine and straight as a board and it's all kinds of fun finding someone to cut his hair.

I've tried doing it myself. I've tried barbers. I even tried the cheap walk-in places. I finally found one place that consistently does a good job, for $13.95. Not bad really. But as I cut Steve's hair myself, and my hair only gets cut twice a year, paying to get Will's hair cut every 6 weeks seems obscene. So I put it off each time as long as possible.

Apparently, I put it off to long.

Steve made some comment about Will's hair being to long last night and I was like, "Yeah. I need to get it cut." After I put Will in bed for the night, Steve asks for some scissors. I give him my heavy duty sewing scissors. Then, a man who has NEVER cut hair, took those bulky scissors, a sleepy 5-year old, and went into the bathroom to trim the hair out of his eyes.

As you can see from the photo above he did achieve his goal, there is no hair in Will's eyes. Nor, will there be for 2-3 months. I'm hoping it grows back out to normal before he starts his new school next fall. LOL

It's not that it's a bad haircut, and let me tell you it is much worse than the photo shows - he cut half the hair of both sideburns as well. It's that as I child I had those same bangs all through elementary. We even had a name for them; Norma Bangs. Named after an eighty year old woman that wore her bangs about an inch long.

I told Steve that he was not allowed near my son with a pair of scissors ever again.

I've had this same talk with all of my children in the past . . . just never one of my husbands.

No. No. Bad Daddy!

Blue Night

I'm feeling a little blue tonight.

Sad.

Disappointed in myself.

Due consideration was given as to whether I should even blog about my state of mind. I do not want to freak anyone out. Don't want my husband to start thinking he's doing anything wrong; that I'm unhappy.

One of the ironic things about ongoing battles with depression is that when you are doing okay, you have to constantly reassure those that love you that you are happy, content.

I've spent the last few days coming to terms with where I am in my life and as Tori use to say when she was three, "I am not very happy!"

When I see people doing really well in different careers I've always allowed myself some slack. They didn't have the obstacles I had, the set backs. They didn't marry early. Didn't have children so young. Didn't, didn't, didn't . . .

I reconnected recently with my best friend from my teen years. He started the same place I did. Had the same family issues. Had to do everything the hard way. And you know what, he made it. He has an amazing job doing something he loved doing back them, working with planes. There were no short cuts for him. It took years (and years) of hard work, training, and climbing the ladder to get where he is today.

I've vaguely been aware of my sister-in-law going back to college - sorry Nan, if it doesn't have to do with my kids, it's vague in my world. But it didn't really impact me until this week when she was posting photos of her graduation on facebook that she's finished. I've been saying for years I am to old to go to college now. (I'm pretty sure Nan is older than I am.)

Tonight I've come to the conclusion that where I started from, and my age, are not what's been holding me back. They are not the reasons I've never made more of myself. They've just been my crutches.

Which leaves me looking at the culprit in the reflection of my monitor.

There's no excuse. I have not accomplished the things I wanted to be because of my own actions. My own weaknesses. My own fears.

I think that realization deserves a few tears.

And tomorrow, a kick in the ass.

Thirteen Years Equals . . .

Today, Steve and I have been married thirteen years.

I've spent part of the day, like most married couples who remember their anniversary, thinking over the years we've spent together. The good times, and the bad.

But the real shocker for me came when I realized this is the longest relationship I've ever had - outside of the family I was born into. Even my marriage to the girls father only lasted ten years. Holy crap! I've been married thirteen years.

Then I started thinking of things as they relate to numbers.

During our marriage, Steve and I have:

• Held eight jobs


• Opened two businesses


• Welcomed nine new children into our family


• Participated in the raising of three children


• Buried eight loved ones


• Had two people close to us diagnosed with cancer


• And, lived in three different homes.

And according to the Internet, in the last thirteen years, Steve and I together have consumed.

• 4,160 pounds of sugar


• 6,500 pounds of meat

Best of all, thirteen years equals 4,745 days that I've had someone to share my life with. The good and the bad.

The Rabbitless Fair

Saturday was my youngest brother, Paul's, birthday. My sister and I met up in Killeen and took him to lunch. The three of us had such a good time we were in no hurry to part ways.

That was when Paul suggested we attend the Rabbit Fair that was going on in a nearby town. He'd seen signs around, but never been to the fair. We all jumped (or slowly waddled) to his vehicle and headed out. Once we got within five miles of the fair the traffic was stop and go. It literally took us half an hour to make that last five miles.

We passed the time by joking about what the Rabbit Fair would entail. Would it be like the Goat Cookoff where we all grew up? No real goats per say - just goat to eat, goat crafts, etc. Would there be rabbit to eat? Would someone be selling lucky rabbits feet? (By the way, has the validity of their luckiness ever been questioned by anyone but me? They weren't very lucky for the rabbit.)

Or, would there be rabbits every where. Maybe a rabbit race? Maybe a fenced off area with greased rabbits for kids to try to grab? Maybe we could all buy fake rabbit ears to wear or take our photo behind a cut out of faceless rabbits.

When we finally paid for admission and made our way to the fair it was confusing. There was the standard carnival - I'm pretty sure it was the EXACT carnival that was in Austin for the rodeo a few weeks back. There was food; but all normal; hotdogs, funnel cake, cotton candy. There were crafts boothes, but they were so generic they could have been at any fair.

I finally spied the chamber of commerce booth and asked the attendant if there were any rabbits anywhere.

"Well, not at the fair.
There are a few over at the exhibit hall.
Just exit the park and cross the main road."

We did, and there were a dozen rabbits in tiny cages for sale. Unaffiliated, of coarse, with the Rabbit Fair.

Going To Seed

Twenty-four hours ago, this was the most beautiful rose I'd ever seen in my life. Several times I caught myself just standing near the arrangement entralled.

Steve brought the dozen rose buds for Mother's day and they were gorgeous then. Pale yellow with a light pink blush on the tips of each petal. Each day that passed they would open more and more. And I enjoyed them. But yesterday . . .

There was just something magical about them. Maybe it was the knowledge their days were numbered. Or, the fact they were open as wide as possible - no mystery or fault lay hidden.

Today, their gone.

I couldn't help but be reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Calendar Girls, a movie that came out in 2003.

"The flowers of Yorkshire
are like the women of Yorkshire.
Every stage of their growth has its own beauty,
but the last phase is always the most glorious.

Then very quickly they all go to seed."

The Bug

It's been a tough week for me.

Having Will sick seriously depleted the time I had to spend on sewing or filling orders. And every time I would try to work on either, he'd climb into my lap and demand attention. Sometimes with in 2-3 minutes of when I started a new project. He just wanted me to sit and hold him.

On Tuesday I stumbled across an ad for part-time employment from home formatting documents. Nothing would work out better for me. But a resume and portfolio are required to apply. I've spent 2-3 hours each night since trying to find any copy of my resume; which I haven't had to use in over six years. I checked the contents of boxes of CDs, diskettes, and backups. No go. Today I started taking boxes out of the attic and searching for an old hard copy. No go.

I finally managed to finish Bella's crib set last night; only two weeks later than I had planned. When I went to pack it up for shipping I turned the dust ruffle (which I bought) over and noticed half the ties are torn loose. I took it out of the box to fix and will send her the rest of the items.

I've also meant to mail Bonnet the first baby dress she ever wore, nearly 24 years ago. I have it in a sealed plastic bag in the attic. After months of forgetting it, I found it tonight and brought it down to send her for Bella. I took it out of the bag and all the elastic had disintegrated. I'll have to repair it before it's of any use.

Our mail person comes between 2-4 in the afternoon. Yesterday, with Will in school for the first day this week, I spent hours preparing packages to ship and put in our mail box. I walked out at 11:00 and he'd already been by. So I had to drive into town to the PO to drop them off as they're prestamped with the date they ship.

Oh, I know. None of it is big shit. I'm not dying, being tortured, or covered in millions of paper cuts (and then dipped in alcohol). It's all small stuff. But my world is small.

They say that some days you are the windshield and some days you are the bug.

This week I've been the bug.

Harris Lester Collins

This isn't so much an actual post on my blog as a place to store my photo of my biological father. This is the only photo I have of him, and it's a scanned image my half-brother, Harris' son, sent me via email years ago.

I thought it was lost forever, but found it tonight while sorting a bunch of old diskettes out.

I'm not sure at what point the photo was taken. Immediately following boot camp Harris shipped off to Vietnam and died three months later.

I've already lived twice the life span of my father.

Tonight, that brings tears to my eyes.

Photos of Unknown Origin

The summer after Steve and I got married, nearly 13 years ago, we took the girls and drove up North to visit family for vacation. The girls and I had never been out of Texas and the three weeks we spent driving up to North Dakota and then over to Montana before heading home were memorable. In more than one way.

I bought both girls cheap little cameras and all three of us snapped photos like crazy the entire time we were on the road. When we got home we had 26 rolls of film to develop - yes, this was before digital cameras. After picking up the photos, we set down and went through them, reliving every moment. Except for the four or five photos right smack in the middle of a roll that none of us were there for.

All those strange photos were of a small Mexican family sitting next to the pool at a hotel. Two girls and one rather young, small-boned, male. And the man was grinning to beat all and holding a frilly pink parasol.

We can only assume the camera was left on a table near the pool, then remembered later - after it had been violated.

And until today, that was my one experience with photos of unknown origins. When I went to download some photos this evening I was a little surprised to find eighteen different photos of Darth Vader among them.

At least this time I have a pretty good idea who the culprit is.

Noisy Eagle

As the eldest of five siblings and mother of three children, you'd think I'd seen it all by now. Will, my five year old, continues to surprise and amaze me.

From the time he started sitting traps in the yard for cats at the age of three, he's been headed at full-speed from one unimaginable adventure to another.

He's been home with me the last two days as he's been running a low grade fever. While he was suppose to be watching a movie in his room he found one of the soft-pellet guns him and his dad shoot, located a container of metal bebes, and loaded the gun. I wouldn't have known about it, but he came out to ask how to release the safety.

I explained that all guns that shoot ammunition of any sort can only be used when he's with his Papa. "Just wait for Papa to get home," I suggest.

He's quite for a moment, an intense look of concentration on his face and then he says, "Why don't you go lay down in your room and read a book Momma?" He gives me a little shove. Subtle he is not.

"No. You are not going to shoot that gun without your Papa."

"I'm not going to shoot the gun," he promises, with all the panache of a veteran liar. "I'm just going outside to play."

"William, if I catch you shooting that gun I am going to spank you."

"I'm not going to shoot the gun. I'm just going outside to play." He's outside for less than three minutes. Then he's back for the next round.

"Why don't you put on some of those ear covers so you can't hear loud noises," he asks me. I know exactly what's he's talking about; headphones for shooting.

"I am not putting on headphones. I do not need them. And you are not shooting that gun."

"I'm not going to shoot the gun."

"Then why do I need to wear head phones?" Again the intense look of concentration.

"An Eagle might fly out of the sky and . . . "

Motherless Day

Most of the people I know don't really have anyone to celebrate Mother's day with this year. Their mother has passed away, has mentally left the building, or lives to far away to visit. Lot's of people don't even have fond memories of their Mother's. To those of us, today can be a day where we are found lacking or alone.

Don't let it get you down. Enjoy and celebrate that someone (even it if wasn't you) grew up with a loving mother. That your neighbor, partner, friend is having lunch with their mom today. Enjoy that fact your very existence allowed you to impact other's lives, to have children of your own.

Enjoy the day for the spirit of all that mothering stands for; being loved unconditionally, supported, held, nurtured.

If nothing else, you can be thankful someone elected to give birth to you. I am.

A Mother's Day Letter

As Mother’s Day approaches I wanted to let you know that you are in my thoughts every day. That everything you’ve taught me, everything I’ve learned from watching you, is an ingrained part of who I am.

I want to thank you for teaching me to play hopscotch. For showing me how to make mud pies and jump on a trampoline. For taking me walking in the rain and jumping in the middle of the largest puddle you could find. For rolling around in the leaves and snow like it was the most fun you’d ever had.

Thank you for introducing me to new music, books, and movies; for enriching my vocabulary on a daily basis.

I appreciate the time you put in without complaint as I learned to clean house, wash laundry, and prepare mostly eatable meals.

You inspire me. Make me feel like there is nothing I can’t reach for and accomplish. You make me strong.

You’ve taught me the importance of sacrifice, of looking out for others, of unconditional love.

I look forward to learning much more from you.

Love, Mom

Fat Percentage

Years, and years, and years ago -- practically another life ago -- I was training to run a marathon. Prior to each run, a different speaker would talk to the group about health related issues: stretching, good fitting clothing to run in, shoes that fit, watching what you eat, etc.

One comment made by an instructor has stayed with me ever since. In fact, I think about it every time I walk into a restaurant.

Basically, the guy said you could always tell if a restaurant was a good choice for the health or weight conscious by checking out the other customers. The higher the percentage of obese people to healthy people; the worse the restaurant choice.

I find that, at least in Austin, it holds pretty damn true.

A fine example was tonight. Steve and I went out to dinner without Will this evening and decided to eat at a restaurant we haven't been to in years, Cherry Creek Cafe. When we walked in there were six or so tables filled. All with overweight people. By the time we left another three to four tables had filled - there were at least 30 customers besides us. There was only two people who were not obese, and one of them was about nine.

But the food was great.

The Suitcase

There is an episode of Everyone Loves Raymond where Debra, Raymond's wife, leaves a suitcase on the stairs for weeks after they return from a vacation. The reason she leaves it there is because Raymond always just brings the luggage into the house and drops it off somewhere, expecting her to unpack and put it up.

I laughed so hard through the entire episode I could hardly breath. Raymond knew what was going on and he refused to be the first to "break". Everyone who visited the house - grandparents, siblings, neighbors - would ask about the luggage that would just not go away.

It struck me as funny because I've done the same thing, with one exception. Steve never knew I was leaving it out for him to deal with. He's clueless when it comes to subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints.

My dearly beloved husband has this one flaw that makes me want to choke him; he never puts anything up. It's bad enough I day dream about being a "nagging wife". I know if I mentioned it every time, if I harped on it, he'd do it. The problem is that type of action is totally against my personality. I'm not a harper - and somehow I feel weak just admitting it.

So every time Steve goes on a trip, fishing, out to the skeet range, etc., he brings home whatever and plops it in the nearest clear spot. He and Will went camping last weekend. He came in about lunch on Sunday and dragged an ice chest, suitcase, and gun case into the house. I finally dumped out the ice chest contents on Tuesday when they began to smell.

This morning Steve went to the kitchen, where his suitcase is still located, and opened it to dig out some boots. But he left the suitcase there. I hauled it into the laundry room and washed everything in it - how am I suppose to know what's clean? I'm not smelling anything that man owns.

I also went ahead and put up his gun today, too. Just like I put up the fishing poles and tackle box from the last fishing trip that he left in my car for weeks.

You would think after picking up from behind him for fourteen years it wouldn't still bother me. Yet, every time I finally give in and put up his stuff, I feel like I lost again.

The Uni-Bra

I recently bought some very nice Victoria Secret bras that I love. They are comfortable, fit well, and give me cleavage to die for.

However, the second or third time I wore one, I noticed something odd.

The bra pushes from the sides in, as well as from the bottom up - which is what gives me great cleavage. However, it leaves me no boobs on the side.

I look a lot like the photo above (if she was a mid-40s, overweight, brunette) when I wear the new bras. Like I have a uni-boob with a crease.

Roasted Potatoes With Rosemary

I have two flower beds in my back yard that surround the base of a tree. Stacked rocks forms the walls, which are about 12 inches deep. In one of these flower beds I have a small rosemary plant that was a cutting from Dona's rosemary bush.

As a general rule of thumb, rosemary loves to grow in Texas. Most people I know with rosemary bushes are overwhelmed within a year or two. Not so with mine. Most of the problem is a lack of direct sun light.

After three years my rosemary bush was only about the size of two gallons of milk. As I wanted it to surround the entire tree I started taking cuttings and reseeding them last year. I now have four small rosemary bushes, all healthy and growing.

Several months ago I gave Will some potatoes that had gone to seed and told him he could plant them outside if he wanted to. He planted them in my rosemary flowerbed. I didn't worry about it, I expected they would die from neglect.

Not so. The potato bushes are larger than my rosemary and seem quite happy. The other day I was out watering and I kind of smiled thinking that all I really needed was some oil and a really hot day and I'd have roasted potatoes with rosemary - my favorite.

Then a laugh broke out.

Not an hour before I had sprayed the plants down with a solution of 99% water/1% canola oil for bugs.

Just need a nice hot day now.

Will's Room

My family went camping this weekend and I took the opportunity to tackle Will's room. One of the reoccuring issues with his room is how much junk/toys he has. And that's my fault. So I feel some responsibility to clean it out every now and then.

Today I spent six and a half hours of my "free" day working on a room that is about 10x10 in size. I gave away four huge trash bags of toys, books, and puzzels. I filled our large out door trash can, removed a shelf unit, and utilized the closet, dresser and built in shelves better. I also mopped, twice.

This isn't the first time I've had to work this hard to clean his room and I fear it won't be the last. Since I know it won't last, I have to enjoy it while I can.

Three Great Memories

It's sad that as we age the easist memories to maintain are those of the bad or stressful times. The times we were hurt, physically or emotionally. Today I recall three seperate really great memories of my childhood that all originate with my mother.


May Day
Growing up as Jehova's Witnesses (JWs) we didn't celebrate any holidays. As you can imagine, this was very hard on us kids, especially once we were in school. Mom located a holiday that the JWs didn't spefically preach against, May Day.

Each May Day, she would order small baskets of flowers from our local florist for me to hand out to my best friends. There were always three or four of them. As a child, it felt wonderful to have an acceptable method of showing how much I cared for my friends. Even though it wasn't a celebrated holiday, it made me feel more like I fit in.

As an adult I can appreciate the expense and trouble she went through each year without complaint or thanks.


The Last Day You'll Ever Be...

Another celebration we particiapted in was celebrating the last day we'd ever be an age. Mom hated not being able to celebrate our birth, so she celebrated the day before. It started out with just a small present. A few years later, cake was added. To this day I feel the last day someone is an age is as important as the first day of their new year.


Dance Lessons

Mom loved music and dancing when she was young. Having given birth to me just a week after her eighteenth birthday, she was still quite young and into music. I can distinctly recall her teaching me how to do the locomotion, the twist, and many other dances that age me. This type of music always brings back feelings of happiness and continentment.

Thanks mom.