Til We Meet Again

I am wallowing in laziness. I don't expect to post much the rest of the year. I am spending time enjoying my family and health. Since I'm done with cancer stuff, not much exciting is happening any way, so don't think I'm holding out on you. I love Christmas time- this year has been a treat too as I have gone all digital. I'm shopping online and with a click of the mouse, it's all delivered. Now I can just go to the mall, try to find a parking spot and fight the crowds just for fun, not because I need anything. I hope your holidays are spectacular and blessed with warm fires, lovely presents, family, and kisses under the mistletoe. See you in  2011. Oh, and if I do get the urge to post, read this one last. Laters.

This Is It!!

I am done, done, done, and here is the proof! I am generally feeling warm and fuzzy about the whole thing being over. (along with feeling an intense itch from all the peeling skin and healing)
I always appreciate this time of year and I love the experience of tallying up all the things that I have to be thankful for, but this year, wow! Adversity can make or break you, and I will not be broken. I am alive and I am extremely grateful for all that I have. Laters.

Rock Of Ages

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0ZicY7Oqmg

I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t. But there they were, my toes tapping along to Joan Jett, a rebellious sneer forming on my third grade lip. “I love rock-n-roll, so put another dime in the juke box baby….”  Yes, hell was feeling a bit chilly the day the JUKE BOX was installed in the cafeteria of Paoli Public schools. If we brought a dime, (or was it a quarter?) we could personally participate our own debauchery. Raised as a conservative Christian, I knew that I shouldn’t, but man I couldn’t help myself, I DID love rock and roll and Joan Jett. It was auditory heaven, though I studiously tried to act sanctimonious; like I wasn’t enjoying it at all. To this day, I can’t even imagine how the juke box was installed in the first place. Who was the mastermind to circumvent the school principal, committees and parents and sashay in with a juke box as bold you please? I still wish I knew. If my recollections are right, the juke box spent most of its time unplugged in the corner due to complaints from parents. But on those occasional, glorious days of acoustic freedom, we who were born to rock at Paoli Public Schools, ate our fish sticks and pudding with a sassy twist. Laters.

A Room Of My Own

It was while scraping the peel off a cucumber that I experienced true pangs of housewifery. In a Virginia Woolf/Sylvia Plath kind of way, so you know it was very bad. I thought, “Is this it? Is this what my life amounts to? Scraping peelings into the sink while lecturing my kids about discarding Halloween candy wrappers in random places?” It happened again while I sat in the basement on the cold concrete in front of the dryer, sobbing quietly folding dishtowels. Everything I did seemed so pointless, like I was trapped in an endless Groundhog Day of the mundane.

Things have not been easy as of late and sometimes it’s like a cloud settles on me and I can’t find happy. I moved the sad party upstairs to the bath tub and cried a while in the steam too. I thought about many things- dreams that I have put to the side out of necessity, dreams that I have put to the side out of neglect, where I am and where I thought I would be, and how those two places don’t always match up. I cried over missed opportunities and would haves and should haves. I cried because I am still angry about being a bigger person than the person I am angry at, I cried because I had to be angry in the first place. I cried because sometimes people are idiots and it’s not my fault. I cried because cancer makes me feel out of control of my own body.  I cried because I’m probably the most ungrateful person alive because I should be content that I have laundry to fold, and cucumbers to scrape and kids to lecture. I cried because life isn’t fair, but I always try to be and it just doesn’t work that way. I cried because sometimes, even having the whole world is not enough to make me happy.
Then K came into the bathroom and asked me if I was crying. I lied and said, “No, why would I be crying? I’m getting out now and coming to bed.”
 Laters.

((Sigh))

My boob:

The radiation death ray:

The after effects- Like this:

Or this:

It feels a little like this:

But when I eat this:

Or this:

It all feels like this:

I will:

Laters.

I Can See Clearly Now

I found out Kev’s secret last night- despite all his blustering, despite all the mean things he’s said, despite putting them on top of his “all time hated teams” list, he really, deep down inside, likes the Yankees. He says he hates them to avoid saying how much he likes them. He likes to pull for the underdog and underdog is one phrase that can’t be matched with the Yankee’s payroll. Once it became clear to me, his endless cycle of yap and smack talking made much more sense. Otherwise, why would a grown man with two available thumbs to flip channels watch a team they detested for 4 ½ hours? The cold, hard, truth is this; Kev is a closet Yankee lover.


To understand it better, I equated it to my complaining about my soft tummy pooch while secretly liking it and thinking that concave bellies are way overrated. When I put it in perspective like that, it all made sense to me. I can see now that Kev has been using reverse psychology on me all these years. And now I know just what he really wants for Christmas. Laters.

A Fall List

Things I like about fall:


1. Apples

2. Pumpkins

3. Fires in the fireplace

4. Beautiful Foliage

5. Pumpkin Spice Lattes

6. Cozy boots

7. Flannel Sheets

8. Watching t.v. covered in a fuzzy blanket

9. Soups and stews

10. Thanksgiving

11. Lower utility bills

12. Christmas anticipation

13. Baking

14. Cardigans

15. Turning on the heater

16. Hot Chocolate

17. Hay Rides

18. Thermal Underwear

19. Finding last year’s cash in my coat pockets

20. Pie

Laters.

When Hairy Met Kevie

Often, it is the little things that bring the most joy. I have been known to bliss out over a small cup filled to the brim with coffee and frothed milk. Or how about a cupcake? Small, yet tasty and delicious-an instant, “oh yeah” moment. Life often rewards us with small chunks of delight, where we least expect them and I do appreciate that. I received one such small gift this week.


Now is the time of year where I start to feel like a frisky Shetland pony, growing its wooly, winter coat. The days are cooler and the need for the razor becomes less and less of a priority. I suffer (and I use that word in all seriousness) from appallingly sensitive skin, and summer’s rigid shaving requirements often have me feeling quite out of sorts with my irritated and bumpy armpits. As the sleeveless blouses and tank tops are replaced by longer sleeves and cardigans, my armpits and I both rejoice. In the fall and winter, I like to take a week or so between shaving to cultivate things in a more European fashion. No one sees it anyway with my toasty wardrobe. Iam a big fan of warm clothing.
I should interject here with the staunch and steadfast displeasure that this cool weather ritual brings to my hubby. Having lived in Europe for some time, he is a distinct non-fan of the au naturel look and to be frank, disgusted by it on many levels. His trauma started with a hot German girl on a crowed bus, him being 15, and a quick grab by standing hottie for the hand strap; flashing a hirsute underarm in his young and unsuspecting face. It was all downhill from there, as my abused and over shaven underarms can testify.
I have often tried ways to redirect his way of thinking, but he is pretty set on the matter. But then the ultimate bargaining chip fell directly into my lap, the proverbial gift from heaven, in the form of an info packet from the radiation oncologist on Wednesday, holding perhaps the best news in the world. The packet cautioned me that through out treatment, I should not shave my underarm. And just like that, my fall starting looking up. Way up. Laters.

I'm Postive It's Negative

I like pregnancy tests. They are pass or fail and you don’t even have to study. I have taken a few in my day. OK, a lot- 4 were positive but only three ever materialized into breathing humans. But the second you pee on the stick, there is the agonizing wait to see if the “magic” line appears. That minute is a long, long minute. Confession: I have never wanted mine to be negative. There is always that tiny moment of, “What if?? Oh my, a baby?” And then, the small sigh of relief and strange lurch of disappointment when no lines appear. I now am past those days, I think.


During the recent surgeries, I had to take a pregnancy test every time I showed up for an operation. There is a Russian woman of a certain age, who works as an aid at the surgery center. Each appointment she would, in her heavy accent, request, “a tiny bit of urine.” I would donate and then wait on pins and needles to find out the results. Even though I knew I wasn’t; strangely relieved to hear her announce, “It is negative.”

Sher has asked me numerous times recently for a baby sister and I guess that’s what made me think of being pregnant. I hate disappoint her, but she already calls me her dolly’s grandma. I guess that will have to do for now. Laters.

On The Craft

I just found some old term papers from my college days (magna cum laude June 2007) not really that far gone, though it seems like a lifetime.  As I scanned through them, I thought, “Wow, I’m a genius, and an excellent writer!”  I should probably tack “modest” on the end just for good measure.  It was a gentle reminder that, yes, I should probably go back to school and of how much I truly like to write. My mom always used to say to us, “Foolish names and foolish faces always appear in foolish places.” This was her adage to remind us not to write our names where they didn’t belong; on bathroom walls particularly. She was very much against that. I had such a fear of appearing foolish that to this day, I have never scrawled my John Hancock anywhere it wasn’t allowed.  Some writers say that if they didn’t write everyday, they would die, Stephen King, I think in his book, “On Writing” was one, but I wouldn’t swear to that reference. While I love it, I have never felt that way. For me writing was less about the action, and more about having something to say.  I don’t like to write if I am not inspired, motivated, happy, or mad…..well you get the idea. I would say that I am a writer who must have a purpose. Less of a purist and more of a task oriented person, I suppose.  But that’s how it flows for me. I love a good, looming deadline.

Oh, and the surgery was a success. Now 6 weeks of radiation and I’ll be on to the rest of my exciting life.  Laters.

My Left Foot

When I was very young, about 5 or 6, I got my little toe stuck in the automatic door at Safeway. It was much more traumatic for my mother than me, as I don’t remember it at all. She still tells the story in vivid detail, down to her frantic screaming,” don’t let it cut off her toe!” at the store manager who was trying to release me from the door. I imagine that I was up to some sort of mischief in the first place, and that was how the whole event happened. I have nothing but a story to remind me of the incident at all-no memory, no scar. That is not the case with breast cancer. I feel like I am scarred for life and I’ve realized after wrestling with the mastectomy vs. lumpectomy decision that there really is no good option. I made a pretty long list of pros and cons for each, but in the end, this is a situation where one must make the best choice they can and pray that it all turns out well. I keep in mind that I am one of the lucky ones who found out early, that I have options, that I feel well. I have choices and others do not. Another surgery next week and that is my last shot to keep the right one. I might need that trumpet after all. Laters.

118 The Message

Psalm 118


Thank God because he's good, because his love never quits.

Tell the world, Israel,

"His love never quits."

And you, clan of Aaron, tell the world,

"His love never quits."

And you who fear God, join in,

"His love never quits."



5-16 Pushed to the wall, I called to God;

from the wide open spaces, he answered.

God's now at my side and I'm not afraid;

who would dare lay a hand on me?

God's my strong champion;

I flick off my enemies like flies.

Far better to take refuge in God

than trust in people;

Far better to take refuge in God

than trust in celebrities.

Hemmed in by barbarians,

in God's name I rubbed their faces in the dirt;

Hemmed in and with no way out,

in God's name I rubbed their faces in the dirt;

Like swarming bees, like wild prairie fire, they hemmed me in;

in God's name I rubbed their faces in the dirt.

I was right on the cliff-edge, ready to fall,

when God grabbed and held me.

God's my strength, he's also my song,

and now he's my salvation.

Hear the shouts, hear the triumph songs

in the camp of the saved?

"The hand of God has turned the tide!

The hand of God is raised in victory!

The hand of God has turned the tide!"



17-20 I didn't die. I lived!

And now I'm telling the world what God did.

God tested me, he pushed me hard,

but he didn't hand me over to Death.

Swing wide the city gates—the righteous gates!

I'll walk right through and thank God!

This Temple Gate belongs to God,

so the victors can enter and praise.



21-25 Thank you for responding to me;

you've truly become my salvation!

The stone the masons discarded as flawed

is now the capstone!

This is God's work.

We rub our eyes—we can hardly believe it!

This is the very day God acted—

let's celebrate and be festive!

Salvation now, God. Salvation now!

Oh yes, God—a free and full life!



26-29 Blessed are you who enter in God's name—

from God's house we bless you!

God is God,

he has bathed us in light.

Festoon the shrine with garlands,

hang colored banners above the altar!

You're my God, and I thank you.

O my God, I lift high your praise.

Thank God—he's so good.

His love never quits!

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

Last Tuesday, I returned home from surgery, slightly addled and mostly nauseous. This is my typical response and nothing to be alarmed about. I stumbled groggily from the car to my bed, elbow-guided in the right direction by my resident stud muffin, Kevie-Kev. He doesn’t let me run into walls or anything and he always holds the plastic throw-up tub for me, even though it grosses him out. Once I was settled, mom brought in a vase of beautiful roses, (pink, of course, I’m sure you see the connection) and said, “Look what came for you!” My brother David and his lovely wife Caroline had sent flowers to brighten my day. I lay in the growing twilight, admiring my flowers with a loopy grin on my face.

By Friday, two more arrangements had joined the first and my room smelled like a flower garden. I was beginning to feel glamorous like Zsa Zsa Gabor, who I always see photographed with massive sprays of fresh flowers sprinkled behind her, and even when I came up the stairs, and my bedroom door was closed; I could still smell the flowers. I was reading in bed on Saturday, when Sher came into my room. She said, “What’s that smell? It smells in here!” My Zsa Zsa bubble promptly burst. Laters

Hey, Nice Rack!

thanks to Google for the pic- sorry, I have no idea who to credit

Another surgery tomorrow- a lumpectomy, sentinel node biopsy and probably radiation in a few weeks. The results from the last reconstructive surgery were so awesome, that I’ve convinced myself that I need to do some kind of public showing of the new breasts before they go under the knife again. I am thinking something spectacular, something I could get arrested for, something that will make the newspapers, but to be honest, the best I will probably do is to go sans bra in my fuzzy bathrobe when I take the dog out to potty. You know, in the dark and all.

I’m hoping not to lose the girls when this is all said and done. It looks like they will be around for quite a while, but I suppose that you can never tell with these kinds of things.

I was thinking of a funny story though, a friend that I knew from some years ago had a double mastectomy and the night before the surgery, she and her husband had a goodbye party for her breasts and it was very symbolic and therapeutic for them. They even had a trumpet in the mix to herald the occasion. That is my favorite part of the story, I can just see them….marching solemnly around the room, blowing the trumpet,  “dah-dah-dah…… we now say good bye to the breasts!!” How sweet were they?
I thought we should try it, but I doubt I could convince the hubby, and besides, where would I get a trumpet at this late hour? Not very likely; though we might have a kazoo abandoned in a toy box or a recorder from school band. Hmmmm..... all good ideas, but maybe I’ll save it for later. You know, just in case.  I would appreciate your prayers tomorrow. Laters.

That Look

A trip to the City on Saturday. I went for some new shoes, but got an American Girl doll instead for Sher. I guess that's just the way this mothering thing goes.

We have visited the store several times, but my cheap little heart could never pull the trigger on a doll that cost more than most of the clothes I own. But Saturday, after multiple trips of being put off, Sher had that "look" as we waked around the store; me fingering tags, wincing at the prices, she looking longingly at the rows of dolls in cardboard cases. She got one- I couldn't bear the "look" in her eyes. She held her doll lovingly all day, frequently kissing the top of her head, making sure her tiny, purple shoes didn't fall off as we walked through Central Park. She named her Christina Elizabeth, but only after making sure I approved of the name. She loves stories, so I told her the one about how her name was almost Elizabeth, but that we settled on Sheridan at the last minute. It made the name feel just right. I am the biggest sucker ever, but was also informed that I am the "best mommy ever," so I'll take that as one of the dearest compliments I've ever received. Laters.

Big Boy

My son turned 14 last Friday. I saw him briefly that afternoon, long enough to hand him his birthday gift of video games and feed him some buffalo wings. (2nd on his fave food list, right under pizza) That, my friends, is the definition of irony; buying more video games for an avid teenage gamer. To be honest, the only clue I have that he is alive and present some days is the water running for his two-hour showers. But who am I kidding, I love that boy like crazy and he is a solid, industrious chap. Awesome really, and taller than me already. We are in full scale summer mode here. That means a nightly argument about why bedtime should not exist when school is out of session. Left to themselves, the boys usually opt for the 3 a.m. option and sleep ‘til noon or 1. It is amazing really, but I suppose a rite or right of summer, depending on how you look at it. I am just now grumpily easing back into the work routine myself after two glorious weeks of vacation, so I can’t really blame them. I pulled a few late nighters myself, practically giddy with the freedom of uninterrupted, alarm-clock free sleep. My thoughts after his momentous occasion are that I am so fortunate. Each stage of life I have experienced with my kids I thought to myself, “Wow, this is it! This is the best age. Look what they can do now!” I have loved it all and I’m happy because it just keeps getting better. Laters.

The Vacay Is Over

Vacation is over. The pool and beach are behind me. I am tired of looking at everyone's cellulite, including my own. The kids had a great time and are as brown as nuts, in fact we all are.  Every morning, I thought, "why can't vacation be everyday?"  I know the answer, but it is nice to imagine my days consisting of lying by the pool while sipping a cold drink. Now, we are on to the less fun portion of the trip, the driving home, but that is to be pleasantly interspersed with visits to old friends, so I still have something good to look forward to. Summer is my very favorite.  Laters.

A Poem for Poetry Thursday

Address To The Lord
by John Berryman

Master of beauty, craftsman of the snowflake,
inimitable contriver,
endower of Earth so gorgeous & different from the boring Moon,
thank you for such as it is my gift.
I have made up a morning prayer to you
containing with precision everything that most matters.
'According to Thy will' the thing begins.
It took me off & on two days. It does not aim at eloquence.
You have come to my rescue again & again
in my impassable, sometimes despairing years.
You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy themselves
and I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning.
Unknowable, as I am unknown to my guinea pigs:
How can I 'love' you?
I only as far as gratitude & awe
confidently & absolutely go.
I have no idea whether we live again.
It doesn't seem likely
from either the scientific or the philosophical point of view
but certainly all things are possible to you,
and I believe as fixedly in the Resurrection-appearances to Peter and to Paul
as I believe I sit in this blue chair.
Only that may have been a special case
to establish their initiatory faith.
Whatever your end may be, accept my amazement.
May I stand until death forever at attention
for any your least instruction or enlightenment.
I even feel sure you will assist me again, Master of insight & beauty.

Unwelcome News

A post I wrote a few days ago after a talk with my doctor. More testing to follow, then options and decisons. I am feeling good though and very, very optimistic. My family has been amazing and my dad said I'm gonna be just fine and he knows everything.

I have cancer.
I have non-invasive cancer.
I have cancer.
Oh my God, I have breast cancer.
C-A-N-C-E-R……………………
Sort of like dancer, move a letter, shift the alphabet, except that I can’t dance…… not at all.
It seems like I’m speaking about someone else. This is not me. I am just a regular joe. I read about people in books, see them on T.V., those people have cancer, but I don’t. This doesn’t happen to me, only poor schmucks who don’t know any better.
I had a lump removed two weeks ago with the side benefit of a hoist and lift. I’ll can tell you, you my boobs haven’t been that perky since 1996. With all the bandages, steri-strips, and Percocet, I’ve hardly even seen the little dears to properly admire them. They are black and blue and between antibiotic ointment applications I have tried to peek at them. Is it bad that my second thought after I heard the news was, “oh, my boobs, my perky new boobs, what will happen to you now?”
The news made my mother cry and my husband call me 20 times to see if I was ok and talk with a funny catch in his voice. All in all, I feel lucky, this seems to be in the earliest, earliest stages, and I meet with my doctor tomorrow to discuss all the options and get all the particulars. I would appreciate your prayers. Laters.

Lamott Inkshed

Yesterday afternoon I lay in bed for a while reading Anne Lamott’s book, Plan B- Further Thoughts on Faith, amazed at how someone could both eloquently explain Jesus and use an F bomb so freely in a sentence. I liked her aplomb and the fierce, unapologetically introspective look at her life. It made me wish that I had the pluckiness to drop more cursing in my own writing every now and then; it really seems to get the point across. Not, that our writing is on the same level at all, but I suppose I could up my cursing and see what happens. My favorite section was titled, O Noraht, Noraht and as I read, I realized that often, complete frankness makes me uncomfortable. When she talked about her mother, and her Ahlsheizmers and what a terrible mother she was, I thought, “ugh, I really don’t want to know this” because mothers are not supposed to be terrible. They should always nurture and protect and give inspiration and hope. I know that everyone doesn’t have a mother who does, but no matter where I read it, fact or fiction, it always pains me to think that it’s true. But I realized that even though Anne was disappointed in her mother, she couldn’t help but admire and love her, and when the time came, she couldn’t really say good-bye. Feeling blue, I finally had to put the book down and come downstairs to my own little slice of heaven and be glad for my own dear family and the fact that at present, none of us were bitter or angry or facing horrible disappointments in each other. The story reminded me that each time I think that I understand God and how he moves on this earth; I am shown a new facet to his love. The things  I consider terrible and unfair that I have experienced would pale in comparison to parts of Anne’s life, yet she has found joy and peace where she is, just as I have. My quest for acceptance and my desire to know my place in life is no less valid than a former addict because I have not been in recovery. We all need to know where we are headed and it seems that no one has an easy road to get there. I felt thankful that God chooses to repair things that are broken and shower love on the unworthy and forsaken, for if he didn’t, I’m certain that I would be in trouble. In my moment of sweet revelation, the faces of my loved ones seemed brighter and dearer to me, and I watched from the back deck as my daughter shimmied up her rope swing, her face almost ethereal. Laters.

Enter Sandman

I have weird dreams. Often they involve terrible, faceless things that I can never see and they chase me mercilessly through dark alleys and empty rooms. And it never stops, and I never see their faces. After a while, it is more like a never ending game of Duck, Duck, Goose; more aggravating than scary and this is where I usually wake up. Once while having a massage, I fell asleep and dreamt that someone was chasing me. Using my ninja skills, I screamed, “hii-ya” and delivered a hearty round house kick to the terrified masseuse’s midsection. Yes, I did have to tip extra. Most of my massage time these days is spent trying to keep myself awake and lucid so I don’t get a bad name in the spa community. Another time, while sharing a bed with a fellow bridesmaid the night before a wedding (we were all poor and economizing on motels) I woke to find her pushing me to my side of the bed while saying, “Can you please just sleep on your side?” We really didn’t know each other well and I couldn’t tip her so we just tried to avoid each other for the rest of the wedding. I suppose my dreams had led me to seek some cuddly solace and she wasn’t biting. I slept a lot this week and my dreams were exquisite, full of majestic leg kicks, random jerking, finger twitches, and waking with my heart pounding. The frustrating thing is that I can never exactly remember the dreams and I did spend quite a bit of time trying. What is scaring me? What am I running from? I still don’t know. My consolation is that by now, with all the kicking and exertion, I figure I am nearing a black belt level in dreamland, so pretty soon, I will be doing the chasing. Laters.

A Sad Story

 I have a hard time keeping my writing consistent and interesting. I tend to post from the heart-my posts being something that happened to me during day or a cherished memory that I am thinking of. Lately things have been off and I feel like I have been off, so my posts have decreased. I am trying to hold myself to posting at least once a week and this “interesting” story about my thoughts while I ate a smashed sandwich was all I could come up with. Pray that my muse finds her way back.

Being a good hausfrau and an economical saver and all that stuff I try to take my lunch to work, but the conundrum is always, “in what?” How do I transport it? It might seem like a question with an easy answer, but it is not. To take it in an actual lunch box would cost me and I put “lunch box” on the list of things that I never want to pay for, like nightgowns and checking accounts. Why buy a silk teddy when you can sleep in the t-shirt you got for free at summer camp when you were twelve? I personally don’t know why anyone would.

Most of the time, I stick with the grocery bag theme and they vary between Wal-Mart and Stew Leonard’s, the latter being the most sturdy, but then I am faced with the disgrace of a cheap lunch box and so I always just shove the bag down deep in my purse and end up with a very squished sandwich. Squished or pay? Pay or squished? Please, don’t worry; this post has no deeper meaning than my sandwich and me not wanting to pay for a lunch box. Laters.

Deep Thoughts 44 1/2

I remember the trip we took one summer to Colorado. At that time, it was just me and K and the boys; two little brown nuts in the backseat. Those were the days of sippy cups and binkys and I remember driving alongside a river with the windows down, Kev’s hand on my leg as the radio blared and the boys napped in their car seats in the dying summer sun, all of us sunburned, but blissfully happy. I thought to myself, “Life could never be better than this.”  And it was, better, I mean. But it was worse too, and sometimes the worse went on for miles and miles before the better ever came to town.  It was both, good and bad, happy and sad, the perpetual juxtaposition of the way things are.  I came to realize that life is the thing that puts the grey in your hair and the ache in your back, but it is also the thing that crinkles the corners of eyes into laugh lines, bringing depth and dimension to the once unmarked face.  I begin to see that life had happened to me, that things had changed me, that I am rearranged; I am different, things are different, things are new. And then I wasn’t nostalgic for the old times, I wanted these times, the present, the life that is here and now.

 K resigned from his position a few weeks ago, and just like that, I was footloose and fancy free. Church and the Sunday service have been the focus of my every weekend for as long as I can recall and I confess, I hardly know what to do with myself, but I am giving it an honest effort. Where was I this week while the holy hullabaloo I know as church was happening? Swim suited-lying on a lawn chair in my backyard, eating watermelon, making daisy chains with my daughter.  Who had a better day; those with the three songs and a sermon option or me? It’s hard to tell, but I was certainly enjoying myself.  God truly abides in those places where we least expect him.

Life seems determined to bring me the delights that I never anticipated. In fact, it is safe to say that so far on the journey, nothing has been what I expected. But as “they” say, (man, don’t you just wish you knew who “they” was? I’d sure like to smack them) life is a beautiful ride. And it has been and continues to be. Why, if my life weren’t so crazy, I would be bored and I would hate that. Laters.

No, That's Not What Happened At All

I worry a lot and I do it well. I have literally driven myself to tears, worrying about things that could happen, yet never did. A favorite quote of mine goes something like this, “I know that worry works, 90% of what I worry about never happens.” I like to think that all my worry has some sort of talisman effect on my life to prevent all the bad stuff from popping up.


In case you want to know some of the weird things that I worry about, I am including a few snippets here. (Please note that I have only included extreme examples and that I should not be considered crazy)

• When I wear a dress, I worry that my skirt will blow up just as board a train full of people, and everyone will laugh at my underpants, cellulite, or both. You know- the granny panties and all.

• I worry quite a lot about pepper, etc. being stuck in my teeth without anyone telling me.

• Ditto on my nose and boogers.

• I also have a paralyzing fear that when I die, that the morgue workers will use me for bizarre experiments. I can’t really explain it other than I always think of the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the guy makes the frog dance, by moving its legs. I know, I know, but I can just see it…. “Hello my darling, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal….” and me flopping all around, dead to the world. Literally.

• I also worry that I have contracted rare diseases that I see on television. After watching, I am almost always convinced that I have the exact symptoms and that I should seek immediate medical attention. K tries to limit my medical television watching for that very reason.

• Sometimes I worry that if my part of the earth ends catastrophically, like say, Pompeii, that I will be frozen in volcanic ash doing something embarrassing like sitting on the toilet and future scientists will ponder and postulate about my last few minutes, wondering what the ancient connection was for Cosmo and bathrooms.

So, as you can clearly see, while worry has kept all these terrible things at bay, the 10% of trouble that has come to pass has been of the sort that I could deal with, though perhaps I didn’t think so at the time. As I grow older, I can more clearly see the wisdom of the old proverb, “One day at a time,” and I understand more and more the scriptural admonition, "So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matt 6:34)

I am here to live each day as it comes, to enjoy my blessings and to pass on my joy to others. Each day is its own testing ground, its own trial, and bringing the unnecessary and unneeded worry about “what if” only spoils the joy of living in the present. When I completely learn this lesson and stop worrying about a secret, midnight, zombie attack, I’ll let you know. Laters.

Closet Ninja

I have convinced my boys that I was a ninja assassin before I married their father. It is a good ploy and works well most of the time to help me keep their rowdiness in check. Yesterday, after a series of unfortunate events, the king of all unfortunate events happened; our car broke down on the Triboro Bridge in NYC. Harlem to be exact, in intense stop and go traffic, that we had already been stuck in for an hour and a half just trying to go five miles. As the car died, K and I just looked at each other in disbelief. After tossing a few ideas back and forth we realized that we were not far from the train station at Harlem and 125th and that luckily, a jogging/bicycle path runs alongside the FDR. We decided that I would walk to the train station with the kids and head home, and that he would stay with the car waiting for the tow truck. The jogging path is grandly titled an “esplanade” in the many posted placards and notices to not allow your dog to poop on the trail, as if walking on an esplanade is grander than walking on a regular old walking track.


The kids and I set off on the esplanade and began to make our way over through the streets of Harlem. That was an adventure in itself, but it was a nice neighborhood and we walked as fast as we could in order not to miss our train. I had to clarify directions a few times with some of the beat cops patrolling the neighborhood, but finally, from about 2 blocks away, we could see the train tracks.

It was at that corner, that we passed the first collection of  huddled of ne’er-do-wells. Ry turns to me deadpan and asks, “Mom, how many can you take?” I took a close look at the guys and said to him, “at least five or six.” He turns to Reag and says, “Mom has most of them, and I can get two. Can you get one?” Reag said that he could and so we progressed on toward the train with the boys secure in my abilities to kill with my secret ninja skills. Luckily, the dudes were cowed by our keen skills and continued smoking and talking without bugging us at all. Just a warning, you should be afraid, be very, very afraid of the secret mommy ninja. Laters.

Mother's Day

I got breakfast in bed yesterday, except it was really dinner, but that was all my fault. K asked me if I wanted it in the a.m. but I can’t stomach breakfast ever until around 10, so I just waited until dinner to have it. I was lounging in bed reading and Sher came to take my order, with a long pencil and a piece of pink paper folded into a small square. “Good evening, ma’am,” she began in a formal voice, “I’m here to take your order.” (in a whispery undertone, she said, “as long as it’s something that Dad can cook”) I thought about my options and there weren’t many. So I grandly declared, “Eggs and toast! I shall have eggs and toast with coffee.” She painstakingly wrote down my order, and departed for the kitchen. On her way, she yelled at her brothers, “Hey you guys, we’re making Mom dinner. Are you coming or not?” In a spate of motherly affection, the boys decided to “not” and they continued their zombie killing on the Xbox. And I, in motherly affection, forgave them for desiring to kill zombies on a video game instead of making me toast.


Eggs and toast were brought to me in short order, heralded by some da,ta,da,da trumpeting by Sher. (imagine the Wedding March played while you eat eggs and toast in bed and you will pretty much have the idea) The food was delicious and a tasty dessert of M&M’s finished off the meal quite nicely, but what I most enjoyed was the love that my meal contained. I hope your day was a nice as mine. Laters.

Coffee Connection

I have found a new man, Ranjeet the donut guy at the convenience store Dunkin. You remember my hookup at CVS with the photo department guy? Well, this might just be a better connection. Who loves coffee with a deep and abiding love? Me, check! Who loves blueberry muffins? Me, check! Who loves (in)sincere compliments? I guess that is me again. Check, check and double check.


It was a good one too, he pulled, “is that your son? I thought you were his older sister” out of thin air without missing a beat on my sprinkles/no sprinkles donut order and the coffee was just right. My son is tall, looming over me already and he tends to wander off. As I scurried around the chip aisle looking for him, I called out exasperated, “Bud, where are you?” And that small display of maternal affection started the ball rolling. “That is your son?” Incredulous, shocked. Me smiling proudly, “yes, he is.” He stated, “no way, you are too young.” I flippantly replied, “way, he’s mine.” We passed time with similar comments and replies until I got my receipt, grabbed my cup and thanked him kindly for the compliment. On the way out the door, Ry said, “what did that dude say? “Oh,” I replied causally, “he thought I was your sister.” Ry snorted inelegantly and said, “Weird.” Yeah, I know, right? Laters.

The Day It Was

Mondays; what a lot of crap they take, but oh how they deserve it. On Monday, when I ride the train to work, all of Twitter is abuzz with whining, groaning, and "the week-end was too short" posts. But tell me honestly, have you ever had a good Monday unless it was a National holiday or you won the quick pick in Powerball? Me either, and I tried to think of one really hard. (It obviously goes without saying that vacation Mondays don't count. That first vacay Monday, leading to a week of nothing is bliss) Monday is just a frustrating day. Back to work, back to school, back to reality. Places that no one wants to be. But hey, I made it through, made it home and now it's almost over. Laters.

I'm Like Fine Wine, Baby

My husband has been saying the phrase, “middle-aged” a lot, as in, referring to himself, as in, lumping me in his “old” category, as our birthdays are only months apart. This is uncomfortable to me and I don’t really think I even need to explain why. Saying you are old is like having a rash on your butt; it really sucks, but you can’t scratch it because admitting to it would just be weird. You can’t really do anything about getting old except accept it and do it gracefully. Or so I’ve heard.

With my usual savoir faire, I plan to just skip it all and deny, deny, deny. Take my dad for instance, he accepted it. He wears long, black dress-socks with shorts and sandals, the epitome of senior citizen, and he is totally fine with it. In fact, we even have pictures of it and he never looks one bit embarrassed. He also does a lot of crossword puzzles too, but I will let that slide.

The quandary for me is this; all the older people I know never feel old, so how do you know when you are? How do you know when to start wearing fanny packs and lace up Naturalizer shoes? How does one discern just when the peak moment is to dye ones hair blue? Is there a section in department stores filled with *shudder* elastic waisted pants with garish designs and zip up crinkly jackets? Does bright, blue eye shadow and pink-frosted lipstick just show up at your door one day or do you have to make a special trip for it? What about open-toed orthopedic sandals worn with brown pantyhose, how will I know the time and place for such snazzy footwear? How about doilies, lap blankets, and towels to cover my car upholstery? How do I get that stuff? I can tell the middle age road towards being old is fraught with decisions, none of which I know the answer to, but I do assume that the key word is “comfort.” I imagined myself as an old lady still rocking long blonde locks and wearing my stilettos to Bingo, but that is a little creepy so I may have to change the game plan.

I had a serious discussion with K a few weeks ago about which road I should take towards old age, the “nip/tuck” or the “au natural.” He was no help so I had to figure it out on my own. I think my current solution is to “nip” the parts that are visible to the rest of humanity and “tuck” the other offenders into good foundation garments with plenty of wire support. But mark my words, I will never wear sandals with black socks or flamingo print Bermuda shorts or sun visors with permed hair fluffing over the top. And I will stick to that as firmly as my pledge to never own a minivan. Laters.

Ooh, La La

Girl's Weekend was fabulous. We wined and dined and the velvet rope in the nightclubs was lifted just for us. We shoe-shopped kid-free and care-free and came home loaded down with packages. Our dinners were delish and our desserts to die for and our waiters ever attentive. We slept two in a double bed and I stayed straight and true on my side, careful not to drool, snore or try to sneak a midnight cuddle on my unsuspecting sister-in-law. How embarrassing would that have been? Some of our taxi drivers were crabby and some were nice; they were all maniacs, but we always made it to our destination. Some trips were faster than others though, I mean, whoa! We tipped lavishly, as though we had money to burn and as we trod the City streets in our Chanel sunglasses from Chinatown, Starbucks in hand, I couldn't help but feel a little Carrie-ish. Oh, the memories, the midnight run to Times Square where we took pictures with all the tourists, they asked us to, we looked to divine to resist, the fancy hair, the spiked shoes, the feathers and silk on dresses, what a time we had. What a weekend. Laters.

My Baby Girl

I went to my daughter’s parent teacher conference this morning. Besides being a creative genius with a 5th grade level reading and writing ability (she is in 2nd) and getting 66 out of 68 right on her, “per the teacher” very hard math placement testing, she is a kind, sweet ray of sunshine. As we reviewed her work, I couldn’t help but notice her liberal sprinkling of smiley faces above her answers and sweet notes to her teacher. Almost everything she turns in is personalized. I love that she never thinks twice about reaching out and spreading joy. I just want to express how amazing I think she is; one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I have ever met. Gosh, I love her. Laters.

BooHooHoo

I thought, I won't blog today cause if I do, it would look something like this:
Drrrrooool, drooooll :( :( drool :( :( :(
As you can see, that stuff gets old pretty quick. When I got home, K told me that I should go straight to bed but then I was mad at him cause he immediately pegged how tired I was and I was like, "Bed? Who, me? I'm not even tired." He just looked at me. So I went to bed.
In bed, I played solitare on my iPhone and refreshed Facebook every five seconds to see if anyone else had a more exciting life than me. The answer to that question is yes. Then that got old and I texted K to see what he was doing and he was all manly- like,"I'm watching baseball." And I was like, "oh, ok, yea baseball!" all sarcastic. Then he was like "sigh, sigh."
So I blogged. Laters.

Yes, It Happened Exactly Like This....

On Monday, K texted me to say, “I plan to work late at home after dinner.” And I was like, “Urghh!” (except I didn’t text that back, I just said “ok” which is what I always say when I don’t like something)
Several things happen when, “late working at home after dinner” occurs including the following:
1. Said work not beginning until after 10 p.m. due to various and sundry distractions
2. Me, lying down for a nice snoozearama knowing that I will be interrupted at say, oh, 1 or 2 a.m. by loose change thrown on the nightstand and Uncle Loud Shoes.
Uncle Loud Shoes tromps upstairs, bada-bing, bada-boom, stepping on every squeaky tread, sometimes twice for emphasis. Trompy, tromp, tromp, up the stairs, “oh, oopsie, I forgot something downstairs,” tromp de tromp, tromp, back down again. Now, squeaky stair tread, squeaky stair tread, trompy, tromp, tromp, right back up again. “Hmmm, I should probably go into all the kids rooms and make sure everyone is ok.” Tramp, tramp, tramp, stompy, stomp, stomp. Open door loudly, close door loudly- times 3. “Ok, all is well on this floor,” so back down again stompy, stomp stomp.
“Now into my bedroom” tromp, tromp, tromp “so I can open the closet door sixty-five times. Oh, that was awesome! Now, to the bathroom, to drop something heavy, like say, the hairdryer,” bang, “ then I'll sit on the bed to take my socks off. Hey, what about a few more closet door open and shut combinations just for kicks?" squeak, squawk "Extra awesome!”
"Now a little cover fluffing,” fluffy de dee, fluffy de da, “and I’m settling in for a long siesta.”
“Hmmm, I wonder why fire and brimstone are shooting out of my dear wifey’s eyes? Oh, well, she probably just has PMS.” nighty nite, sqeaky mcsqueaky, bedie, squeak squeak
Now you see why I dislike “late working at home nights.” Laters

Wish I Was There.

Coming home is like a trip to a spa and bed and breakfast combined. My mom's home is love. She tinkers constantly and makes everything beautiful. I can only feel envious and hope that one day her talent for arranging and beautifying will somehow rub off on me.
If you are in the neighborhood, let her know. Her room rates are cheap and she always makes bacon and fried eggs for breakfast. Laters.

I'm A Baller, Yo!

I hate it when I don’t know what to wear. I have been invited to a party where the instructions are, “wear your favorite team’s jersey.” For me that would be a great big, “whaaa?” I have no favorite team. I have no jerseys. None. At all. How can I be an American, how can I be a human, how can I exist without a favorite team? I have sincerely felt like a big loser all day.

I did attend a hockey game last week where I ate an awesome hotdog, but having a good dog really isn’t the same thing as being a fan is it? I have tried, believe me, to be all sporty and stuff. I have joined softball teams, tried volleyball, played beach football, but instead of getting awesome playing time, I am mostly asked politely not to ever, ever come back. And even after 16 years of marriage and too many football games to count, I still don’t understand the rules, the downs and the penalty declining. (I, personally, would always decline a penalty) K can’t believe that I am that dumb, but just ask him about D-Gate.

Oh, I am in such a quandary. If only shopping were an organized sport. Laters.

The Wall

I can't remember if I have posted this one before, I am almost certain that I have, but as I just finished writing an article on the "Stone Walls" of New England, this poem has constantly been in the back of my head. Anyway, this is certainly a poem that deserves a re-read. Since I have been working on this piece, I see stone walls everywhere I go. It's maddening. Laters

The Mending Wall
by Robert Frost

SOMETHING there is that doesn’t love a wall,


That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”

We wear our fingers rough with handling them. 

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across 

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it 

Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, 

That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,

But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. 

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father’s saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

So, Tell Me About Your Childhood....

I knew it all along. All these years, it hovered in the back of my mind, a sneaking suspicion that I couldn’t elude, but concrete confirmation came to me last week on March 17th, 2010 as I bustled around; reminding my children to wear green, lest they get pinched- my mother had no respect for holidays other than the ones she liked, Christmas, Valentines, Thanksgiving and Easter.

On other celebratory days, we were thrown to the wind.  Mom never reminded me to wear green. My story is a sad one, I mean really, how many St. Patrick’s Day pinchings can a poor, bespectacled girl endure, while frantically shrieking, “You can’t pinch me, my eyes are green, look my eyes are green?”
That tired old mantra never worked and I was pinched mercilessly. She never bought me leprechaun socks or July 4th hair bows. Sure, we had fireworks, but do they really say, “I’m patriotic!” as well as an outfit fashioned from the United States flag? I think not. We never made homemade Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria boats to float in the tub in honor of Columbus Day. President’s Day slipped by with nary a construction paper top hat to mark the occasion, and I’m sure that this lack of proper celebration has had some large influence on my lack of creative abilities. Now, other than cautioning my children to wear green, I am quite unsure about how to properly celebrate these lower holidays, and thus we propagate the non-celebration standard to a new generation.
I suppose that I will just have to content myself with remembering her spectacular Easter baskets, extravagant Christmases, the loaded Thanksgiving table and elaborate Valentines Dinners, holding those memories dear, while letting go of the negative. Who needs a paper top hat anyway? Laters.

Deep Thoughts 3.756

Sometimes I feel that I am receiving so much divine guidance that I can hardly comprehend it all. On those days the sun shines a little brighter, I approach tasks with confidence; I make firm and wise decisions. I am kind to my family and take joy in the smallest things. (My clothes also fit looser, but that could just be wishful thinking)

I really, really love those days. But some days, I get nothing. No inspiration, no motivation, and I feel a like a useless lump in general. I know that divine spark is missing and I feel like I can’t operate without it.
After some serious consideration, I have come to a couple of conclusions, the first being that I wish God would speak steadily and constantly to me instead of giving me huge insights in spaced intervals. Does that make sense? I want to know all the time, and waiting for the days of inspiration is hard for me. On the other hand, one thing I have realized about God is that he generally operates in ways that seem crazy to me.
The second option, is that God does speak constantly and steadily to me, but I just choose not to notice. I have also realized that the second that I stop caring about people, or looking for positive ways to interact with my friends and community, that is often the second that I feel lost and alone. If I were tracking it, I would say that PMS and my inability to hear God’s voice often coincide on the same week, but that is neither here nor there as long as I have a bag of Lays.
I have known people who wouldn’t be taught, who always thought that their way was the only way, people who have refused the counsel of both friends and experts; people who have no room to grow in life, because they are too important in their own minds. I have learned that if I am not growing, learning, wrong, challenged, discontent, inspired, or searching; I might as well be dead. Life is over if you are not learning. My prayer for the week has been that I would be aware and present in my life. That I would learn from my mistakes and always be a willing student, graciously valuing lessons learned and looking for ways to apply those lessons to future endeavors.
Remember, this is a prayer not an accomplishment. I am still learning. Laters.

Don't Push My Buttons, Ok?

Let me tell you about the panhandler who often lurks outside my office. She is short, plump and posses a tidy, grey Dorothy Hamill bob. She crosses the street frequently between my office building and the Starbucks on the other side. ( perhaps the answer to the age-old question about the chicken crossing the road. The answer is obviously,“to get a Starbucks") I also see her at the library where she always tries to buy her library books. She throws wads of cash at the librarians, but they have lots of patience with her, returning her money and wishing her pleasant day. When we meet in the street, she asks me for a dollar, never more, never less. As I have seen her library money and her constant intake of Starbucks, I always politely decline to contribute.

But honestly, more annoying to me than the panhandling is her abuse of the cross-walk button. Most mornings as I am walking toward my office from the train, she is headed the opposite way, straight for her morning coffee. While she waits for the light to change, she pushes the cross-walk button continuously, at a steady, rapid-fire pace, for the length of the entire light. It is not a short light either. This series of staccato beeps literally drives me crazy, but she never deviates from the pattern. When the light turns, she gives the button a final “just for good measure push” before she crosses.
Looking for the moral lesson, I realize that I am guilty of the same thing. Pushing the button over and over, expecting the light to change before it is time. I’m probably reaching a little here, but I am in a waiting phase right now and I need that reminder. The light will change, it always does, and my button pushing will not speed up the process. So, I’ll be here if you need me, at the light……………waiting. Laters.

Louse-y

Friday, March 5th in the year of our Lord 2010 shall henceforth be called "the day head lice came to the Mullins home" and shall never, ever be mentioned again. This epidemic came to us courtesy of the second grade class at Marvin elementary and we of course, thank them kindly.
I try to be a mom who is never grossed out by things like dirty laundry, vomit or poo and the like. But the tiny crawling bugs defeated my cast-iron-will and left me thinking, ewww, just ewww!
The unlucky owner of the louse and his buddies was my darling girl, Sher, who had a very important party to attend at school and a new red shirt to wear. You have probably never heard the levels of weeping and
wailing that were done when I told her she couldn't go to school. I experienced so much mommy guilt over her sorrow, that we did the fastest de-louse on record and sent her on to school, an hour late with a scrubbed raw head and strict instructions not to mention it to ANYONE at school lest she get sent home early and miss the party anyway. And the combing, oh Lordy, don't even get me started on the combing.
Waist length hair and nit combing should not exist in the same sentence or galaxy even for that matter. Her return home from school at 3:00 began another round of decontamination and we all slept in shower caps with oiled heads (this was from the home remedy for lice site I googled) just to be on the safe side. My washer chugged along for 24 hours straight keeping up with the rugs, sheets, and blankets that all had to be sanitized. All is well now, but lice, in my opinion, are horrible. Laters.

I'm Great, How About You?

Since I saw you last a few exciting things have happened.

I had a spectacularly gigantic fight with the hubby, fumed, then made-up. The make-up was spectacular too, but that is none of you business. I only mention it to show how exciting my life is.
I listened to my eldest son speak wisely and poised to a group of adults while my heart hammered and beat so proudly in my chest that I thought it just might fly away.
My sticky fingers managed to mistype www.hotmail.com at work. If I haven’t yet introduced you to my work monitor, please allow me to; the screen is roughly the size of a football field. This typo pulled up a man in an “oh so tiny” blue thong in full living color. This was especially awesome as the office was full of board members and co-workers. I would count that as one of my most horrified moments.
I have managed to stick to a strict budget for over 30 days. A first for me and something I plan to repeat. I have found that shoe shopping is actually more fun when I budget it in and don’t have the guilt of overspending. (Ok, that is all a huge lie, I love to shoe shop completely unchecked, but I do feel very responsible)
And last but not least, today, I was the lucky recipient of a free Starbucks latte. Laters.

Flannel

I lie in bed, wrapped in flannel sheets and the green blanket I bought in Mexico when I was pregnant with my oldest.
The dog lies on the rug, half on the corner of my discarded flannel bathrobe.
We are both asleep, sort of.
I am sick and the dog is snoring; we produce a cacophony of snores and snorts.
I snore because I am sick; coughing and blowing and snoring slightly out of the left side as I breathe in.
The dog snores, because she is plump and bears the smashed in nose of her breed. She cannot help it. She always snores. I do not. At least to my awareness.
We pass the time in genial companionship, not bothering one another while lost in the music of a lazy Sunday. Laters.

Poetry Thursday

A song for poetry Thursday- here is the link if you want to hear it.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8FBFLMOrnw

Laters.

The River and The Highway

sung by Pam Tillis

She follows the path of least resistance

She doesn't care to see the mountain top

She twists and turns with no regard to distance

She never comes to a stop

And she rolls, she's a river

Where she goes, time will tell

Heaven knows, he can't go with her

And she rolls, all by herself

All by herself

He's headed for a single destination

He doesn't care what's standing in his path

He's a line between two points of separation

He ends just where it says to on the map

And he rolls, he's a highway

Where he goes, time will tell

Heaven knows, she can't go with him

And he rolls, all by himself

All by himself

And every now and then, he offers her a shoulder

And every now and then, she overflows

And every now and then, a bridge crosses over

It's a moment that every lover knows

And she rolls (and he rolls)

She's a river (he's a highway)

Where she goes (where he goes)

Time will tell (Time will tell)

Heaven knows she can't go with him (he can't go with her)

And she rolls all by herself

And he rolls all by himself

Fare thee well

February 24, 2010

I feel as though I haven’t blogged in forever. The reasons why? They are myriad and numerous, but in a nutshell this; I have a terrible cold and don’t have my usual joie de verve and I am working on a piece for work about the stone walls of New England and it is sucking all my creative energy. I am sure that it will be a real fun read; who doesn’t love an inch by inch description of glacial movement?


Despite the chest cold, I have personally experienced a pretty good week. Often times, I feel that I stumble around in a fog, hoping that I am living right, being a good wife and mother, and making positive contributions to the world around me, but seriously lacking any tangible proof. Then, sometimes I experience the rare moments of clarity that my life does have a purpose and that things are right on track. I’ve experienced a few of those crystal- clear minutes this week and the results are amazing. Renewed faith, restored conviction, and a gentle kick in the rump to keep moving on; I couldn’t make it without these times of reassurance. Enjoy my euphoria, I could be grumpy tomorrow. Laters.

Pilgrim Song

Psalm 124


A Pilgrim Song of David

1-5 If God hadn't been for us —all together now, Israel, sing out!—

If God hadn't been for us

when everyone went against us,

We would have been swallowed alive

by their violent anger,

Swept away by the flood of rage,

drowned in the torrent;

We would have lost our lives

in the wild, raging water.

6 Oh, blessed be God!

He didn't go off and leave us.

He didn't abandon us defenseless,

helpless as a rabbit in a pack of snarling dogs.


7 We've flown free from their fangs,

free of their traps, free as a bird.

Their grip is broken;

we're free as a bird in flight.

8 God's strong name is our help,

the same God who made heaven and earth.

Snow War

Yesterday was a snow day.............again.  I am tired of snow. Sher and I took walked to the park between the flurries to play in the snow. We also took Holly. (our dog) Big Mistake! Holly refuses to walk on her leash and our walk was really a drag Holly, while she yelped pathetically. I kept looking around for dog snitches, hoping that I wasn't being reported to PETA for animal cruelty. Holly yelped and shivered so, that I finally had to put her inside my coat. It is hard to play in the snow with a dog tucked inside your coat. Sher and I tried to make a huge snowman, but I couldn't lift the huge snowballs and stack them with the coat/dog combo, so we just settled for a snow fort and lobbing snowballs at each other. Don't worry- we are both terrible at throwing and no one was actually hit. Laters.

Dear, dear Pig. Happy Valentine's Day!

This picture came to me in a packet for a work project. We were discussing how expensive portraits were in the 19th century. My thought was: some guys sure do love their pigs. Laters.

I Am Not Screaming 4 That

Snow Cream-another reminder that some things are best left in childhood. I made some today after our record (I think, it was record?) snowfall. While Sher heartily dug into hers, I only took a few half-hearted bites after seeing a few tiny black flecks that might have been dirt; or perhaps paint chips off our barbeque grill. I also thought of the happy squirrel that I often see on the deck and wondered where he most often used the bathroom facilities…….regardless, I couldn’t enjoy it and left it for the kids to finish. I am gladly giving snow cream over to the category of “things I gave up to grow old gracefully.”

In this category, I have also put: thin thighs, anything spandex, heart-throb posters, and bubblegum lip-gloss. And I’m ok with that. Laters.

Scissors and A Quest

Sometimes, because my mom reads my blog, I feel like my posts should have have a moral lesson attached, but just so you know, there isn’t one attached to this- just an observation- I must tell boring stories.


On Saturday night my baby girl had a female melt-down. She was tired, over stimulated and more than ready for her bed. I tucked her in and kissed her, tiptoeing out of the room. A few minutes later, I heard her quietly sobbing. I went in to lie down with her, rubbing her head and telling her that everything would be ok, but she couldn’t stop crying. So I said, “shush now, and momma will tell you a story.”

I really didn’t have a story, but I thought quickly and began like this….

“Once there was a princess……………, “ then I couldn’t really think of anything.

Then, I got it- “who never thought of anyone but herself”…… see how the moral lesson always hovers, trying to fit in?

I then went on and on about the princess meeting a magic fairy who put her to the test regarding her selfish traits and general nastiness.

Imagine this all told in a halting whisper as I tried to think of the next test the princess had to face. After a few minutes, Sher said, “Is this really a fairy tale or are you making it up?” “Making it up” I said, “just listen.”

I told her that the princess was forced to leave the castle on her quest taking only three things in a small purse.(which I consider to be a task of utmost difficulty-if you wonder; my tiny purse always contains lip gloss, iPhone, and a tissue-I have persistent allergies)

I told her the princess brought these things in her tiny purse; scissors, an apple and here is my problem, I named the third thing, and just as quickly, I forgot what it was. I have no idea why I named scissors at all. Who puts scissors in their purse anyway when faced with three item dilemma?

As I made up some hooey about the scissors and apple, I racked my brain for the elusive third item, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. Finally, I gave up and whispered to Sher, “What did I say the third thing was?” She had no answer as she was fast asleep. Laters.

Deep Thoughts 2.0

I am walking down the stairs, not normal stairs, but Connecticut house stairs, designed specifically for falls and knee banging. Because I don’t want to make two trips, I am carrying the following: an empty bottle, my morning coffee cup, my purse, a wet pull-up, the dog, shoes to put on at work, and two Financial Peace books. The whole time I am thinking, “Don’t fall, don’t fall!” I didn’t, but I was reminded of how precarious my grip on life is sometimes. I am left with the thought that sometimes, for my own safety; I need to lay something down or make two trips. I can’t carry everything all at once. Laters.

Cool List

Here are some cool things for this Friday:


1. When I got to work this morning a ziplock bag containing 5 Kit Kat’s and 1 Peanut M&M packet was lying on my desk. Probably from the candy fairy. ((Sigh)) Me likee the candy.

2. My friend James knows Snooki- here is the proof.

3. I think I lost 2 pounds while I was sick. They will probably show up again by this afternoon when I eat the candy, but I feel skinny now.

4. I don’t have anything do to this weekend.

5. I repotted some plants here at my office so I feel industrious.

Have a good weekend! Laters.

Here's A Good One

What is better than a good knock-knock joke as told to you by your 7-year-old? Not much, I’d say. It was the good one, you know the one where you say banana 50 times before you say “orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” I must confess that I was glad she didn’t say banana, but that’s just me. You might like it. As I am not feeling well, Sher has camped out in my bed to keep me company, armed with a bag of trail mix, (yes, honey those are coconut flakes on your side) a few knock-knock jokes, and a rap song that she learned at school about communities, she is all about making me feel better. I would say other than the fever and body aches, this is a pretty good night.


Knock-knock, who’s there?
Laters.
Laters who?
Just kidding, Laters.

Run For Cover

So, my dad and ambulance chasing, also known as, my dad versus the tornado. There are many stories that fall into this category, yes; there are many tornado encounters to choose from. Some involve driving over to a town hit by a twister to see how he can "help." Others involve lots of channel flipping between The Weather Channel and CNN so that he can professionally gauge the threat level. One particular story goes something like this, if one were to put it in outline format:
1. Tornado warning
2. Mom and us kids in closet
3. Dad not sure if the forecast and sirens are correct
4. He “needs” to watch the weather from the porch
5. Tornado lands right in front of house
6. Dad makes mad dive for cover
7. Bed is the nearest place for cover
8. Posterior of dad and bed frame fight for space
9. Laws of physics rule, i.e. matter cannot occupy the same space
10. Bed frame wins and dad is stuck half under the bed while the tornado passes
11. Mom laughs hysterically from closet
12. Family is safe
13. I have my first awareness that the Glenn posterior might cause difficulty in small spaces

Oh, and right now as I type this, sirens are whizzing by. My longing for a scanner is brought to a fever-pitch. I too like to "help" people. Laters.