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 |  Coffee and ideas bouncing off the walls.
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Grab a cuppa Joe and fall into a seat. Here you may find the latest news, a bit of gossip, a rant, or a movie review. You'll definitely see what makes me tick. |
| I suppose I should be counting my blessings. Dad is going home; the patio will be finished by Thursday and the pergola this weekend. My naturopath's back is healed, and I can make an appointment with her. Everything is coming to fruition under the first full moon bringing summer to town, and I feel like shit. I don't know how to deal with Loretta any more. My patience is pulled thin, and it snaps too frequently. No matter how irritating she is, she doesn't deserve my anger. Walking the almost-finished patio a few nights ago with the cordless, it all came to a head. You see, God told her that Dad would be okay. That's cool; I'm pretty sure God has spoken to me many times. Like most humans, I don't always listen. I would never tell her she's crazy, although the rest of the family might scoff at the notion. That isn't what bothered me. What grabbed my goat was when she said, through theatrical tears, "I know you don't believe in God--you've got nobody." I had to count to ten so I didn't hang up on her. Instead, I finished the conversation and went to meditate to lower my blood pressure. We've discussed the issue--over and over. I've answered her questions about Paganism. I tell her about each ritual and how most of them coincide with Christian holidays. I've explained the similarities and differences. I've told her my personal view--that there's only one God--and the name doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure God's been called everything from Jesus to Bartholomew without getting huffy about the pronunciation. She understood everything I was saying; she just refuses to acknowledge it. I'm not called to swing people to my religion. But I am called to eradicate the misinformation. I'll talk to her about it today, explain it all slowly, again. Then she has a choice. She can either be respectful, or stay locked in her condo with a phone that never rings. I know she turns to the Bible when she's down. I think that is wonderful--that she finds comfort and solace in her relationship with Jesus. But I don't accept her pushing her morals on the rest of us--and this isn't the only example. She's taken rumors about my nephew's wife and spread them as gospel. She's told me I'm raising my kid wrong. She told my husband he drinks too much. (Ok, maybe he does, but that isn't her business.) And she has Dad convinced we think he's an idiot, because that's how she treats everyone. In short, she's a judgemental bitch who uses Jesus as a baseball bat. She won't listen to me, because I'm not Christian, but I hope someone tells her that her tactics aren't winning any new recruits--or friends. Sorry, I've only got two cheeks and they're both burning red. I would never hit back, but God did install an internal self-preservation module that tells me to walk away before my face is mush. Yeah, I've been reading Heinlein again.  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I don't normally do a second entry, but I've got the best news--Dad is going home on Thursday! So I don't have to back the van up to the building and pull the doors off, after all.  Massive, cheesy-grin. |
| Dad was in a foul, evil mood on Friday. He accused Loretta of wanting to keep him in the old folks' home. He railed against the workers, who are "trying to overmedicate him". He has a walker now, and he don't need no more therapy. The home just wants his money, and his family want him to disappear. He's stuck in a 15x15 cell with a gentleman who is in bad shape. Unfortunately his roommate won't walk out of that home. Obviously, Dad stays away from his room as much as possible.. I thought he was just imagining things, until I saw and heard Loretta crying over Dad's care. She really does think he's "safe" in a place where there are nurses to watch after him, because she doesn't trust our other sister to do it. My nephew has been at my house all week building a patio. His wife suggested we pick Pop up for father's day and take him home. Now why didn't I think of that? So Friday night we put Dottie in charge of calling the family, and then I made the dreaded call to Loretta, because we wanted her to feel included in the process. She said it wasn't safe. She was worried about his meds. She made me promise to get the waist belt for safety. And then: "Well I WAS going to ask my husband to take me to visit Dad, but you screwed that up." Whoa, sis. I ain't involved in your marriage, and all I wanted to do was make Dad happy for a few hours. How dare she? How did any of this become about her? I walked in with Dad and the first words out of her mouth were, "Where's his belt?" Well, I forgot it, and he doesn't really need it. The only person who can keep up with him in that wheeled walker is my daughter; he's probably in the best shape since retirement, besides the balance issue. Loretta made sure her husband scoured the Northern Virginia area to get a handicapped toilet seat, and installed it. Because even though he has a normal bathroom in the nursing facility, for the five hours he was in his apartment he needed a raised toilet seat.  And she told each member of the family. And she fished for a thanks.Amazingly, everyone got along while in Dad's earshot. I saw a nephew I haven't seen in 15 years--his son is 16. I probably had more fun than Dad, although I realized just how old I am. As usual, the minute I got home the phone rang. Loretta wanted to know if Dad had a good time, and if he thanked me. Now, I didn't do it for his gratitude, or her peace of mind. As I was walking away, he yelled "Hey-thanks a lot." She said, "Well, at least although he didn't say he loved you, he didn't tell you to go to hell." Yeah, whatever. The day he says it without prompting, it will mean something. It makes me mad everytime she forces him to say that to her. It's degrading. He's not a child, and neither is she. She's trapped in her own mind, afraid to go anywhere, afraid to drive a car, afraid to even sit on the edge of the pool, because she might get hurt, wreck, drown. Now she's transferring her angst to Dad. I can't do anything for her because she has to decide to live--fully. I'm trapped in a family that doesn't communicate, in the middle of grudges and disagreements from 1972, and I'm sick of playing peacemaker for grown adults. Dad's trapped in a nursing home where Death walks the halls. But he's not really afraid of anything--he just feels abandoned by his own children. I can do something about that, so I did. And he expressed his appreciation for a day of freedom in his own way--simply. He has doctor's appointments this week, and if the cardiologist and neurologist clear him, he'll be home on Friday. Loretta can either come along for the ride, or get the hell out of the way. |
| Three days without electricity wasn't so bad. We have a gas range and hot water heater, so we were clean and fed. The first night we pulled everything from the fridge and ate it. The second night we went to our neighbor's and BBQ'd everything left in the freezer. The third night we got Chinese food. The fridge and freezer were blessedly empty for a change, so no food went to waste. I'm sure many of the households found it a hardship, but I like having no computer to distract me once in a while. Besides, we're pros at this--the electricity goes off every time there's a moderate sized storm. Luckily, my hubby is into antique oil lamps, so we distributed the newer ones to the neighbors. They give a soft ambiance, and it was so nice to see dust collectors get cleaned and used. By the third day it was 90 degrees and the adventure had worn off. In the meantime, I got FOUR new chapters written on a legal pad. It took me half a day to type and edit them, but I'm delighted to be infected by the writing bug again. Hope the coming week is just as productive for all of us! |
| I'll be lying low next week, to get my health in order. I'll finish up the required reviews and clean up my inbox, then I must take a break. Mentally, I'm just not able to perform well. I've a million ideas that circle my brain but never make it down to my fingers. I need to detox, so I'm doing the liquid thang. If anyone has used those foot pads and had good results, I'd love to know what brand you recommend. The overwhelming majority of things I've heard have been positive, but who knows? I'm willing to try them for myself. Marlena MDuci  is having some medical issues, too. Much more serious than mine, although I don't know how public she wants the information. So if you have a prayer to spare, Marelena could use it.Thanks, guys! Have a lovely weekend! |
| Got this as a forward from my sister. THE NEXT SURVIVOR SERIES Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks. Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes. There is no fast food. Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, and complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of 'pretend' bills with not enough money. In addition, each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week. Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives, and send cards out on time. Each man must also take each child to a doctor's appointment, a dentist appointment and a haircut appointment. He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Urgent Care He must also make cookies or cupcakes for a social function. Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times. The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done. The men must shave their legs, wear makeup daily, adorn himself with jewelry, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep fingernails polished and eyebrows groomed. During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties. They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting. They will need to read a book each night and in the morning, feed them, dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair by 7:00 am. A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor's name Also the child's weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labor, each child's favorite color, middle name, favorite snack, favorite song, favorite drink, favorite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up. The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if... he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice. If the last man does win, he can play the game over and over and over again for the next 18-25 years eventually earning the right to be called Mother! After you get done laughing, send this to as many females as you think will get a kick out of it and as many men as you think can handle it. Just don't send it back to me.... I'm going to bed!! |
| Before sleep, I was checking out an agent's blog, to get tips on how to become published. Upon waking, I rifled through the book I found yesterday during cleaning, about frugal living. By coincidence, both mentioned the same idea: reading and writing are luxuries. Writers consider this ability a necessity, but for many in the world, and even in the US, it is as far away as winning the lottery is to the rest of us. So many things can get in the way--poverty, IQ, a parent's inability to understand that school is important. The agent mentioned a lady, living on a farm her entire life, who submitted a manuscript she had dictated to a friend. As you might expect, the piece was riddled with errors, and ultimately rejected. She was under the impression that she could get rich quick with a book. Aren't we all stuck in that idea in one form or another? But the frugal book listed the areas of our life where we should be able to find luxuries, and lo and behold, reading and writing were listed. Ok, I'm thankful for my health, for food on the table, but reading--a luxury? It's easy to forget, now that I'm "grown up". But during the process of becoming an adult, reading figured prominently. Like many writers, I used it to quell boredom. I used it to hide from social situations. Ultimately, I used it to get the hell out of a house chock full of alcohol and people who couldn't understand my abilities or my dreams. But you always go back, don't you? I was reminded of this by none other than Loretta. She actually made fun of my speech patterns one day when we were driving home from visiting Dad. "Gee, Kim, you sound like a redneck. Everytime you get around Dad you start saying "Ain't got no" and "he done went and..." Well, hey, I aim to be understood. I always did pick up on regional speech--you should hear me when I come back from North Carolina! But the main reason I speak that way is because I was immersed in it for 18 years. At the time, Dad wasn't nearly as mellow as he is now. I learned not to correct him--depending on the day and time, it could mean a punch in the face. He was right--it was disrespectful. Not as disrespectful as hitting your child, but alcohol does weird shit to people. Because my Mom wouldn't let me teach her how to read, I joined Literacy Volunteers of America. Someone was going to learn to read, dang it! I had to give back for such an incredible gift. As you might expect, it was a short stint. At 24, and newly married, I didn't have the patience or the teaching ability to get through to the young woman with whom I was paired. I really tried--I typed country songs on a floppy disc and printed them out for us to read together. I brought in lists of the most common ingredients in cleaning supplies, because she wanted to have a "normal" job as opposed to working in the factory with the other adults with handicaps. After a year, she had made little progress, and I asked them to find another tutor. Looking back, I can see that while I didn't help her that much, I learned a lot for myself. I put myself in her shoes, and I didn't like the feeling one bit. Maybe that's why I quit. There but for the grace of God and all that. It did teach me compassion, organization, and patience. Those qualities are invaluable in teaching a child to read. It is so much easier with a blank slate--there's no conditioning to overcome (except the conditioning I placed there by accident  ), and there's no shame. Only pride, when something clicks.I may try it again this fall. While Doodle is in trained hands, learning how to get along in kindergarten, perhaps I'll volunteer. This time I'd like to work with a Spanish speaker. I don't consider that "teaching", but trading languages. Yeah, I'm selfish that way. It is something I feel strongly about, but I'm not sure I can put my money where my mouth is--where "ain't got no" and "done gone" fall out to remind me "where I come from"--just down the road a piece from the holler in Appalachia where both my real mother and my adoptive parents were raised. What a long, strange trip it's been. |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I had forgotten that once they have the basics, there's no turning back. She started to read my notebook last week, and I quickly snatched it away. (Note to self: write personal stuff in cursive.) Hey, she's my only offspring, and it's my parently duty to brag! I suppose I should be glad she wasn't a genius baby--on any given day I alternate between pride and terror as it is! |
| I've been dancing with the pen a lot lately, and it feels good. Orgasmic, even. I'm ahead of schedule this month, probably for the first time ever. I need to do one in-depth review, a few Rising Stars review, and start on the Simply Positive group reviews. I'm excited about that--looking forward to learning how to NOT go in-depth. I've come to value my time more than ever, with driving to see Dad every other day. We had a little setback on Saturday, but Sunday he was up in bed bitching because his dinner wasn't ready. Love to see him back to his old ornery self. We're hoping tomorrow he'll pass the cookie swallow and he can go to rehab. He's not excited about it, he wants to go home. But we're not quite there yet. I'm working on a series of articles about investing in real estate. Something a little different than short stories and sappy love poems. It's actually a lot easier than I thought to write an article. I guess all those essays in college finally came in useful for something. Glad to know all those thousands of dollars weren't wasted. Hope you all have a great week! Make sure you take some time to write for your own pleasure. |
| Know that we appreciate you, moms! From snotty noses to skinned knees, from waiting by the phone for news to staying up all night with a sick child, your job is the hardest in the universe. Most of us don't appreciate our moms like we should until we become parents. I know I didn't. My mother was illiterate. A car crash at age 14 took her memory, and she refused to start over in school. She learned to sign her name, and she bought the brands she recognized and trusted. Despite this handicap, in her 40's she memorized all the road signs and rules to get her license. Dad worked in the city during the week, and since we lived in the boondocks, she got tired of relying on her friends' schedules and generosity. Raising six kids must have been doubly hard. I admit, as a child I was ashamed of her. Her vocabulary was limited, and she frequently mispronounced words. "High's" convenience store became "Hide's". She relied on folk remedies rather than doctors, for we rarely had the money to consult them. Her cod liver oil, castor oil, Vicks, and hot tea usually did the job faster than antibiotics anyway. She was a strong woman, and she expected us to have the same pioneer spirit she had, although our childhoods were luxurious in comparison to hers. There was to be no whining about what we ate or our hand me down clothes. She reminded us that she had it far worse, but of course we did not believe her. My brothers and sisters were jealous of me. As the youngest, adopted child, I had my own bedroom filled with toys. It wasn't my fault that they all got married before high school was completed and moved out of the house. It wasn't my fault that Dad could finally afford a new house after years of saving. Still, to this day, they consider me spoiled. This was most evident when my brother placed flowers in Mom's casket. Five red roses and one yellow. That pissed me off--that after all these years, I was still considered "different". It was a small thing, but enough to hurt my feelings, and bring back painful memories. Mom never mentioned my adoption unless I asked questions. While I know she had bad feelings toward my real mother, she never put her down in front of me. When the court asked me who I wanted to live with, what could I say? At 7, I wasn't about to start over with a new family. She was the only mother I'd ever known, and she always will be my Mommy. When there was a field trip, or I needed new shoes, she had money stashed. When someone needed a baby sitter, or an elder sitter, Mom was there. She rarely accepted money if she thought the family had even less than we did. You could call her in the middle of the night, and she'd rush to help. She didn't just adopt me. She adopted every stray cat, dog, and owl with a broken wing that stepped into the yard. She reared one of her grandchildren and would have gladly reared the rest. Her heart was as big as her frame--and she gave it to everyone she met. It finally caught up to her in 2000. She'd given away her entire heart, and it stopped beating. At the funeral, people I'd never seen came up to me and asked me about my life. It seems Mom was fond of bragging about her adopted daughter. Each person mentioned what Mom had done for them. I assumed she sat at home all day when I was busy making a life, but I was wrong. Even after the second heart attack, she was active in her church and the community. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. My sister will be putting flowers on your grave today. It is what she must do for her own peace. But I know you aren't there--you're in the heart of everyone you've helped over the years, you're in my sister's laugh, you're the joy in my daughter's eyes. You are standing by Daddy's bed, whispering in his ear, "Live". Okay, that's probably wrong. You're screaming, "Get your lazy ass up and walk for my grandkids. Don't make me come down here and haunt you, stubborn old coot!"  |
| Dad is doing incredibly well! He was alert and coherent enough today to sign a medical directive, which is a huge load off my mind. I walked in the room to find a face I recognized--the swelling is gone except for a knot on the top of his head, and the bruises are fading already. I walked with him during physical therapy--all the way to the end of the hall. He sat down to rest, and the therapist asked him how many kids he had. "Five." I zoomed into his face, and he said, "Well, six, counting you." And he rattled off our full birth names.He also agreed to go on Coumadin--YAY! We got it on tape, in case the siblings give us a hard time. He said, "I reckon I have to, so I'll try it."  The whole room erupted in a triumphant cheer--doctor, nurse, social worker, and Loretta and I.He said he'd come live with me, but he may have thought I was Dottie. He even smiled when Doodle showed him her latest stuffed animal. I can't tell you how that gave me a charge. We were all set to sign the papers for the rehab center when he choked on his juice. I said, "Sorry, Dad, I'm not a very good nurse." "That was my fault, Kimmie--too fast." I mentioned it to the nurse, and she didn't like it. They gave him the "cookie test". I asked him about it when he got back; he thought he did "pretty good". Nope. He failed miserably--"silent aspiration". So he's been inhaling shit for a week and no one noticed.  Now he's stuck in the hospital at least until Monday, or when he can swallow by himself. Still, I'm encouraged. I knew his strong will would serve him well, if he would turn it toward healing, and he has. The neurologist says he should have no problem getting back his strength and even driving! So much can happen in one short week. He went from resignation to determination, from wishing for death to yearning to live. I told you my daddy was a strong man, but even I didn't realize just how strong he really is. |
| Thanks to all my friends on site for making my day special yesterday! You know you're getting old when the only presents you get are flowers delivered to your door. It's made me feel like a granny, but special, too. I mean, no one sent me roses when I was 21. They may have bought them from Safeway or something... No matter. I had a great birthday, and it isn't over. I didn't clean, although I did wash dishes. I wrote all day long--finished 3 stories and 2 silly poems. The highlight of my day was when my husband came in to ask me what I wanted for dinner. I was right in the middle of a bloody brilliant sentence--eyes closed, my hands gesturing madly over the keyboard. I heard him enter the room and held up a finger. "I was just going to ask you what..." "Salad, of course." "O....K...." I finished typing and looked up at him. He just smiled and closed the door on my peace and joy. From now on we'll have a code phrase: "Little did he know". That line from "Stranger than Fiction" means "I'm writing in the moment." A year ago he wouldn't have understood, but now he knows that I have to get it down while it's fresh. Sometimes it means he makes dinner, and sometimes it means he puts Doodle to bed, but he doesn't complain. He believes in me. My husband is so awesome! |
| Doodle was so adorable last night. She flipped our serving tray up against the wall and drew a picture on the dry erase surface. Then she took her pencil, and pointing to each part of her "drawing", gave us a lecture. Now...I don't know where she got that from! "Now. The first thing you need to know is the head. The head helps you think things. If you can't think, you can't get smart. Now. The eyes--the eyes help you see. Cat's eyes help them see in the night and the day. Then you have your feet. Your feet have toes to walk. You wear shoes and socks on your feet." At this point I was trying not to roll on the floor. I raised my hands and asked her a question. "But what about the middle?" "Good question! Now. The middle has your belly. You put food in your mouth, and crunch crunch crunch it. Then it goes down your throat, past your heart to your belly. When you're a baby you have a little belly. When you grow up, it gets fat. Sometimes it hurts, what means you have to go poop." I lost it at that. She went through every part she could think of-hair, nails, nose, knees. Then she gave an overview of the whole body. When she lost her audience to dinner preparation, she tried to teach Brianna about cat anatomy, but Brianna wasn't interested in becoming a prop. Kids are so cool. On a completely unrelated note, here's a picture of me as a toddler. Note the pacifier around my neck--don't I seem a bit old for one of those? I could smack my mom--no wonder I have an oral fixation! This was taken in the late 60's, but my half of the picture could be from last century--I've got that mean look that old timey photos have. Maybe I didn't get a nap that day or something. If that spot on my lip is from when I fell down the stairs, I remember it--I was three. The teenager is my (adoptive) sister. Her daughter is only three years younger than I am, and she considers me her first "child". ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I've been moping around for two days--maybe I have a problem with SAD afterall, since it has rained for almost a week. Today the sun is out, a typical cool spring breeze blowing in the window. Still soggy outside, but I think I can manage to do some yard work without getting covered in mud. Hubby only has one business meeting scheduled on his day off "real" work, so when he gets back he's going to get me a truckload of free mulch. (Yes, he is!) I'm totally unmotivated to get my reviews done by the end of the month. I'm pissed because I start two different INDEPTH reviews and they've disappeared from the list. I worked hard on them, I'm submitting one of them, anyway. All I really want to do is play outside, but I need to finish at least one review first. I have a reputation to uphold. |
... ...the more you realize you don't have a damn clue. I was lost yesterday--dragging my ass around as if I'd lost a friend; unmotivated to do anything to completion; not wanting to clean. I wasn't depressed at all, just in limbo for a day. It seemed I was rushing around everywhere doing ten things at once, getting exactly nothing done. I realize it's because I never got my Sunday to read blogs and work on my book. I usually have a few hours, if not the entire day for writing, but this week we went to Ikea for ideas. And ended up buying more stuff to put together. Hubbie mentioned (again) how he wanted to make sure this furniture lasts. Instead of repeating my talking point (price/quality ratio compared to Ethan Allen), or reminding him the lint roller was stashed behind the pillows for his cat-hair lifting pleasure, I bit my tongue--the one that has forgotten the flavor of faux cheese and never enjoyed beer anyway, much less on a brand new couch. I allowed his tongue the pleasure of lashing me through a Budweiser/Cheeto haze just this once. Because the more I know, the less I want to argue about it. (This has been a public service announcement from the Council of Saving Marriages.) |
| I'm up early this morn for my monthly Clan meeting. A few friends get together and discuss our plans for the future and how we will get there. Today we have appointments with a lady who does Quantum Touch. I don't know much about it, but my bud swears he was cured of sleep apnea. I do know that I printed out 10 stories, grabbed my red pencil (for reals), and sat in the sun reviewing every one of those bad boys yesterday, with time to spare for painting murals, sock sliding olympics, and furniture assembly. I'd already read each of them several times, so I had an inkling of what my rating would be. I'm so proud of my new-found organization I could just gag. I know you probably could too. So after the week I've had, so many of my dreams coming true even ShellySunshine would be blinded by the light, I'm ready to try it all. I'll let this lady "lay hands" on me, and who knows--it might work. Anything is possible. |
| ..."as it were." I'm getting into the hang of it, chillin' with my homies, keeping on the down-low, and pulling my act together. Those are all the Miami Vice era colloquialisms I can think of at the moment. Life is slowly settling into normal. We have a green couch, a corner TV stand, and the dining table put together, thanks to the Best Neighbor in the World. He's a hard worker, and he knows we'll take him out to dinner as payment. Tonight is the last use of the Alan wrench for a while--bookcase number 1. In a few weeks we'll go back for the rest of the haul. The half of the living/dining room we bought barely fit in hubby's little Toyota. I've a million reviews to do, and I'm rarin' to go. Amazing how much removing unused books and papers from the computer room makes way for thoughts to enter and leave the brain clearly. I love my life!  |
| Why do humans “waste” time when it is a finite resource? I find I’ve a million things to do, and yet it is so easy to click on a game. I suppose it is a form of addiction—like cocaine it both excites and numbs the mind. My favorites are word games, of course, but since I abhor violence against sentient beings, I derive a sick pleasure from hooking symbols up only to watch them explode. (Bejeweled) Or, it could be that I’m forever stuck gamelogically in the Cubert phase—the first (and last) game I bought. (1988?) I tried the Dungeons/Dragons/figure it out games. I’m not coordinated enough to hoist Laura Croft up on the first ledge. Somehow, my game body is even less robust than my physical body. Hard to believe, but true. And I’m impatient. If I wanted to play Clue, I’d play Clue. I don’t have time to keep a notebook detailing the proper sequence of hoop jumping so three weeks from now I can figure out where the treasure is hidden. So I’m left with word games and gem busting, and the old stand-by: Spider Solitaire.  I need to upgrade my sins. I’ve been training my hand to grab a pen or keyboard and write when I want to do nothing. Maybe I’ll dig the Sudoku book out of the closet. I probably won’t play Sudoku, but the closet will get cleaned!  My living room is a gorgeous pile of furniture boxes from Ikea, and I'm eager to grab an Allen/Alan? wrench but my back couldn't handle it. There are a million things to organize; I'm just so impatient. But I'll win this game, watch! Hubbie will think he walked into someone else's sparkling home office. Since the room in which I'm sitting at this moment is THE Last Great Disaster Area, he'll be stunned and confused by the brilliance and beauty into doing what I wish. He'll have no choice but to assemble the furniture! "Married with Children" is a game I'm learning to like. |
| The warm weather has me antsy. I've been going outside to walk every day it has been nice. Spring is coming, but winter is putting up a fight. I thought the rain would either pelt or melt the entire house to the ground last night. The plunk of hail on glass, the creak and snap of the old cedar made it hard to sleep. I swear I don't remember spring storms hitting so hard. Of course I never paid much attention before because I didn't own the house. Now that I've made one insurance claim, I see every wavering branch and lit cigar as a potential threat. Of course worrying only makes you old before your time, but my mind is mushy lately. Today is the trek to Whole Foods for more cardboard. I mean gluten free bread. This is the last chance I'm giving myself. If I'm not straightened out by my birthday I'll consult the surgeon. The diet isn't hard to follow, it is just hard to get started. It is all too easy once I'm feeling better to say, "Just one piece of cheese." And then I'm in this mess again. Wish me luck. And have a great week/weekend! |
| Can't think, type, spell, or speak, but I can push random buttons today. This picture was taken in 2002. Doodle was hailed as the "Sun King" during Yule ritual. I got to pretend I was in labor all over again. I can't believe how much we've aged in 5 years. My husband's hair was going gray in high school, but now it is completely silver. I only have a few gray hairs; wrinkles are my curse. The moral? Go ahead and feel smug if you look younger than your age. It will eventually catch up to you--especially if you wait until you are 36 to have a baby! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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Not much help, I know. If I am stuck in one of them where I don't really know anyone very well, I lurk toward the back of the group. *sigh* If you figure out the big secret, let me know!
