Warm Blankets

I had surgery on Tuesday. For a deviated septum. Nothing glamorous or life-changing like a tummy tuck. But I guess you have to start somewhere inconspicuous. The recovery has not been all that bad except for the perpetually bloody nose. Every time I lean over, whoops there is goes. The feeling of the splints inside isn't that great either but at least it really doesn’t hurt.
K started off pretty good in the pampering department, but he has a short attention span and is easily sidetracked. After he had three extremely loud phone calls right beside the bed, I was ready to replace him with a quieter nurse. He has lots of work to do, but I think that the world should stop just for me sometimes. K had to get back to the office, so I mostly tended to myself on Wednesday.
While I waited for my turn in the surgery suite, the nurses loaded me up with toasty warm blankets. That is such an awesome feeling. The world would be a better place if everyone got warm blankets to cuddle up in. Laters.

It Takes One To Know One

The church has been doing a series about the Prodigal Son. Except that it is not really about the Prodigal Son, but about his brother, and in particular, exposing what a rat he really was. Since I have never read the story that way, and since I seldom like having my firmly set, preconceived ideas challenged in any way, I have been feeling more and more cranky about the older son bashing. Probably because I am the older son, I am faithful and diligent and always do the right thing and I think that a little righteous anger is A-Ok if someone deserves it. Yes, I do see the irony and the lesson, and all the etceteras. Thanks for asking.
Anyway, K found this poem and it seemed to fit my wicked sense of justice humor. Laters.
The Prodigal Son’s Brother- Steve Kowit
who’d been steadfast as small change all his life
forgave the one who bounced back like a bad check
the moment his father told him he ought to.
After all, that’s what being good means.
In fact, it was he who hosted the party,
bought the crepes & champagne,
uncorked every bottle. With each drink
another toast to his brother: ex-swindler, hit-man
& rapist. By the end of the night
the entire village was blithering drunk
in an orgy of hugs & forgiveness,
while he himself,
whose one wish was to be loved as profusely,
slipped in & out of their houses,
stuffing into a satchel their brooches & rings
& bracelets & candelabra.
Then lit out at dawn with a light heart
for a port city he knew only by reputation:
ladies in lipstick hanging out of each window,
& every third door a saloon.
Steve Kowit

Lunch Break

I had lunch at the yacht club today. You know, like I always do. I held my pinkie up and used my napkin to gently blot my lips and said, “hmm, right, right” when talk was made about mutual funds and stocks and big money. (I am able to offer sound financial advice since my portfolio weathered the recent economic crisis quite well. I went from $27 dollars down to $8 and now my investments have made a healthy jump to $32, so I figure at sixty, I will be living in the nicest slum Juarez has to offer.) I also paid close attention to my forks, using the correct one for each dish so as not to make myself appear an ignoramus.
When dining with the upper-crust, it is nice to be reminded that despite socioeconomic status, people are either kind or they are not. Bigotry and small-mindedness can come in all shapes and forms. Today I had lunch with some very nice ladies; in the truest sense of the word. Laters.

Sew What?

My mom is awesome! Besides the hotness factor that we both share, she knows how to sew and paint stuff. She can also drywall and frame-in doors and install ceiling fans. When she comes to my house, she moves the furniture and pictures all around and says things like “feng shui” and “décor.”
She also asks me things like, “Do you like this here?” or “Where are your paint brushes?” I mostly just read, answer in monosyllables, and move to the other side of the couch when she needs to stand on the side where I am sitting to hang a picture. I also laugh inside because I don’t have a paint brush. Or a craft box, or hot glue sticks, or any of that necessary stuff. She just looks at me like I am crazy because obviously, everyone should have these things.
Even with the hotness factor, sometimes she probably thinks that I am not really her daughter, that her real, sewey, crafty daughter was switched at birth with a neurotic, gnome- like shoe lover who can’t even sew on a button. She loves me anyway, but she does roll her eyes at me. A lot. Laters.

Photo Shop

I downloaded the new photoshop app for my iPhone. It is pretty cool cause I can make myself look substantially better than I really looked when I did the weird backwards snapping thing that is a must for iPhone pics. I can go for the dark, gothic look or the brightness of oversaturation. When all else fails, I just do black and white. It seems impossible to look bad in black and white. See what you think of my handiwork. Laters

Worth My Weight In Words

What is 199? This little number can take many forms such as: my pregnancy weight at 6 months, the price tag on those cute little boots I want, and add a little “.” and it is the price of 2 goodies in your cart at Dollar Tree.
Today, this number means that I have posted to the blog 199 times. Imagine all those nuggets of wisdom falling freely from my brain to yours; my ramblings making the world a better place, one day at a time.
See you tomorrow for the big 200. (Coincidentally my pregnancy weight at 6 months, 1 day.) Laters.

Infomercials

I am the queen of suckers. I need it all, the total gym, the fat smoother bra, the miracle face smoother. I need all these wonderful,amazing products to reshape and resmoothe the rough edges. Does anyone else ever feel this way? Laters.

Testing 1 ,2, 3....

It is always harder to get out of my bed on cold mornings. I have a routine that goes something like this: First, I put my shoulders out as a litmus test. I want to see how cold the room really is. Then, I put both arms outside the warm cocoon of covers to absorb the cold to more easily and prepare myself for the cold run to the bathroom. Just when I am adjusted to the chill, I pull the covers up to get warm again and the whole process begins over. When I absolutely can’t lie in bed any longer and still make it to work, I finally get up and dress. I see nothing wrong with using this appoach for life decisions. A little testing of the waters never hurts, but sometimes neither does a quicker action. Pondering the pros and cons of both. Laters.

Psalm 23

A good poem for a cold Thursday. Laters.

Psalm 23

from The Bay Psalm Book

The Lord to me a shepherd is,

want therefore shall not I:

He in the folds of tender grass,

doth cause me down to lie:

To waters calm me gently leads

restore my soul doth he:

He doth in paths of righteousness

for his name's sake lead me.

Yea, though in valley of death's shade

I walk, none ill I'll fear:

Because thou art with me, thy rod,

and staff my comfort are.

For me a table thou hast spread,

in presence of my foes:

Thou dost anoint my head with oil;

my cup it overflows.

Goodness and mercy surely shall

all my days follow me:

And in the Lord's house I shall dwell

so long as days shall be.

Fall and Stuff

Pumpkin picking is one thing that I love about fall. I also love new boots, pumpkin spice lattes, and "Winter Candy Apple" lotion from Bath and Body works. After I have these 4 things; the cold weather can go on about its business and leave me alone. I also allow a token snowfall for the perfect Christmas.

I don't like cold weather and I never have. I remember as a kid, riding my bike in the cold, whipping wind to school; tears pouring from my eyes and nose dripping like crazy. It was on that particular cold journey that I became an avid fan of summer. I just can't seem to get warm in the winter. The gloves are never thick enough, the coat way too flimsy to break the knife-like thrust of the winter wind.

I spend the winter going from one heater to the next, constantly trying to warm my hands and backside. My winter wardrobe consists of puffy coats, sweaters that make me look like the Michelin man, and thick fuzzy socks, all designed to produce maximum body heat, but despite it all, I am always cold. Don’t even get me started about the agony of sticking my feet into the abyss of cold bed sheets. Oh misery, thy name is cold sheets! Poor K has stoically endured  many shocks of cold feet placed directly on his unsuspecting legs.

I think that I need to fly south for the winter like any good goose does. Laters.

I Got Nothing....

I am feeling the pangs of writers block. When I first began the blog, I had not written in so long that I had amazing creative stamina. This week I am struggling for some interesting content. Nothing remarkable happened today. I laughed some, I was busy some, I was frustrated some, I was happy some. And I guess all of those emotions are the good things that comprise the wonderful, everyday life that I live. Hopefully I will have more for you tomorrow. Laters.

Ode

My grandpa's name was Archie, but Mamaw always called him Ode. I don't know why. He wore spit shined shoes and man boots and always smelled good. He and my grandmother slept in separate rooms and in his night stand; he had a long metal spoon that he used to scratch his back. Sometimes I would sneak out of my bed and lie beside him, and if I was quiet and not too wiggly, he would let me scratch my back with it too. He had an old chifferobe that held his dressing accoutrements and I remember sitting inside it in the dark with his suits and shoe polish, smelling the scent that was him. His suit pockets held wintergreen Life Savers broken in half and Juicy Fruit torn neatly into. Half was all you got, no more no less. These pieces were passed out to all the kids at church who knew to ask for them.
He wore overalls at home and had pens of beagle dogs that he raised to hunt. We were not allowed in the dog pens at all. He also had goats and chickens and we were not allowed to mess with them either, but we did. He wasn't as strict with the goats as the dogs, and all of us grandkids had a run in with the big, mean, billy goat that ruled the herd. The goats were penned in by an electric fence and all of us had a run-in with that fence a time or two as well. Electric fences hurt.
His face and arms were a dark, reddish brown, a tell-tale sign of his Indian heritage. He had snow white hair and ate bacon and eggs that he cooked for himself every morning around five. His bacon still had the rind on it and sometimes, if I were lucky, there would be a piece left on the stove for me to eat.
The day he died was the first time that I lost anyone I loved and I found it so hard to take. Who he was seems to have blurred with the passing of time and I hate the fact that I don't remember him like I wish I could, but I think that he may have been a difficult man to understand. My favorite memory of him is this; he could peel an apple in one continuous motion without breaking the peel. He ate an apple every night before bed and we always fought for the apple skin. I don't know why, but it tasted so good. Laters.

Out of Gas

Sometimes men are just men and there is nothing you can do about it. Tonight we had a nice talk, and a good dinner that was followed by a desperately needed trip to Wal-Mart for chips, canned peaches and the like to put in the kids school lunch. All healthy stuff, cause Sher's teacher is a B-E-A-R about healthy snacks. My take on it is; I am her mother and if I want to send her with a bag of sugar for a snack, I should be allowed to do so, but I digress. Only healthy snacks for Sher.
So after the nice night, snuggly-wuggly and walking with hands in each others pockets (the truest sign of affection by the way) K walks around the kitchen, dripping gasoline all over the place in his attempt to find a funnel in the kitchen drawers. I sent him right back outside, but the smell of gas had already permeated the entire downstairs. He says there was no gas and it was only the gas smell concentrated solely on his left hand. I told him to take his left hand outside- and the rest of him too.  He said he guessed I wasn't being sweet anymore. He guessed right. Laters.