2004

Wet Sands Archives 2004 - My Thoughts as I Knew Them, a diary of Sandra Lynn

Thoughts such as the fact that when I was 17, I thought I was one step away from knowing practically everything, and my main goal was to be on my own and be free.  (But as we all know as grown ups, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, one more car payment to make, and the intense urge to yell at children to 'SHUT OFF THE LIGHT IF YOU ARE NOT IN THE ROOM!' )  It also hit me that "when I was 17" didn't seem ALL THAT LONG AGO in my own head.  The majority of the time, I still feel 17 - OK, not the times where I seize up when bending over to tie my shoes and maybe not the times where the noises I make getting out of bed set off alarms around the neighborhood - but most of the time I feel 'young' and good about life.   Time goes by fast, but there are times when we step back and look around and that is when it really hits us that time is going by fast.  Normally we are traveling at the speed of time with time, holding time's hand and we just don't notice.  It's those little shocks (like my daughter bringing her age to my attention) that throw us out of the fast lane enough to be overwhelmed by the pace of it all.  I was having trouble processing "time" and it's passage.  Thanks to Vickie, I got my head out of my butt and feel much better now.

I woke up this morning and meandered into the bathroom.  I caught my reflection in the mirror and laughed out loud.  My hair never fares well overnight.  I could never, ever, wake up and "go" with my hair.  This particular morning, I looked like a fat female Johnny Bravo.  I can't help but think about old TV show 'My Three Sons.'  I loved that show when I was little.  I was convinced that I would grow up to be as beautiful as Robbie's wife, Katie.  Katie could go to bed with her perfect hair and triplets, and wake up with perfect hair.   Katie could have gone to a Presidential Ball in her pajamas, her hair looked so good in the morning.  I was sure all women had this ability to have picture perfect hair after drooling on it all night in bed.  This of course is not true.

January 30, 2004 - We all obsess about something.   Some people more than others.  I, personally, get freaked out if my cow coffee mug is missing.  My sister made me this cup in 1996 in her ceramics class.  It has black and white cow markings on it, with a cow on the front dressed in a red bow with the subtitle of "Udderly Irresistible" under her.  (There was a set, but the other cup met an untimely death on our cement kitchen floor.  I didn't cry too much, since it wasn't MINE.)  The cow cup holds the exact amount of coffee I would want at any given time, and keeps it hot for a good long time.  I like the shape of it and the handle.  I like how it's the right shape to wrap my hands around it to warm them.  I love my coffee mug.  When it is out of place or comes up missing, I panic.  The family is pulled into the kitchen one at a time and grilled intensely, similar to a CIA interrogation, until the mug is located.  When I see someone using it, I begin to emit sounds not unlike a car alarm, grab the offender's drink, and transfer it to another glass/cup, chastising them the whole time...  "No!  Bad!   My Cup!!" 

I got up at 4:00 a.m. this morning to pee.  While sitting on the toilet, I peered out the bathroom window to see a herd of deer entering the yard from the south side.  The boogers come and eat all of the bird food from my feeders.   They had the audacity the other day to come out in broad daylight and do it.   I don't mind if they sneak in at night when I don't see them, but to come out and consume it during the day!?  But I digress....I was sitting there peeing, watching the deer coming closer to the place where the feeders are, and I flew out of the bathroom barely getting my underwear up and functional and went to the back door and turned on the back porch light.  This didn't seem to bother them in the least bit.  They stared back at the house, but continued on to the feeders.  I opened the door and yelled at them.  This did bother them.  They stopped in their tracks and stared at me.  I stared back.  This went on for ten minutes.  If they even started to move, I banged on the window and shook my fist.  "Staring at the Crazy Woman" game eventually lost it's thrill for the deer and they sauntered across the road and ran off to the woods to the west.  Apparently no bird seed was worth waiting for me to leave them alone.  I showed them!!  So there I am, it's now 4:30 a.m. and I'm wide awake, scuffling around the house in my big old Spongebob slippers, making coffee, and mumbling under my breath about "stupid deer" and "they had better get off my lawn, boy howdy" and "drive me to the poor house eating me out of house and home" and "mumble mumble mumble"  like Maxine.  I had to laugh.  I remember well when I was little, my parents doing just this type of thing...staring out the window giving play by play on any wildlife or neighbor activities.   I used to think they were quite odd and old and too worried about stupid stuff.   Now I understand all too well...they were protecting us kids from the gangs of deer that run rampant around this area.  (Not really, they were just odd and old and worried about stupid stuff, just like me.)

February 3, 2004 - I will be the first to admit I like shocking things or odd things and especially things I find humorous, even if they are on the bleeding edge of what is considered normal.  Since my mind tends to be like that, taking it upon itself to bleat out statements before I even think them to myself and since I often putting my foot in my mouth as it were (Oy, I should be so limber) without ever intending to, I am the first to be forgiving or overlook certain things in other people/events/situations.  However, when Janet Jackson's breast deployed like an airbag on a pickup truck after hitting a cement post head on at the end of her half time Superbowl show, I had to admit I was 'shocked.'  I guess I would expect to see that sort of thing after the kids are in bed.  The football game itself was exciting enough without the peep show.  What a game, aye?  I was cheering for no one in particular and thought for sure it would go into over time.  Very good football game. My suggestion for halftime shows would be to go back to an marching band format, perhaps.  Who knows...maybe if I looked like Janet, who is very beautiful, I'd be throwing my boobs around, too.  (But I would be doing it after the kids were in bed.)

I think the best thing here would be if I'm shocked at what I see on TV is to turn off the TV, aye?  That is a good choice, too.  Very seldom does one's breast explode out of ones shirt when playing Uno with the family.  Maybe this is a wake up reminder to us all - how far do we want to go on TV before enough is enough?  Or, maybe we want to turn of the TV sometimes and play with the kids or read a book or knit something.  I just hope my youngest son doesn't get the impression that all women's shirts will explode upon contact, especially when it's time for him to start dating.  I will discuss this with him soon.

Both kids are sick with snottin' head colds, so the Kleenex company is cashing in at my house this week.  My daughter has Solo and Ensemble this weekend at a local college, so she is worried about the flow of mucus and how it is going to effect her performance.  She has also been sick enough to not do her normal house chores plus keep up with homework, so some things have been left at the wayside.  I didn't notice how much had been left at the wayside until tonight when the cats were sitting and staring at the litter box intently.  I joined their circle of observation.  They had no loose litter to cover up the latest 'deposits' and were both just pondering on what to do about the situation.  I cleaned out the litter box and both cats seemed thrilled.  I mentioned the incident later to my daughter, who just looked at me with tired, bloodshot eyes over her hanky and blew her nose loudly.   My son assumes the world is his Kleenex, and goes about his daily life while leaving a little trail of himself wherever he goes.  I should be happy they are not down with the flu. 

Work has been very 'worky' lately.  We changed owners a while back and changes come with new ownership.  It's been quite the roller coaster ride.  With all the job cuts in this state however, I am grateful to still be working while there is a job for me.  We are not even near being through the 'quite before the storm' part, either - so more fun is due soon.  My husband starts a new job next Monday.  He has not worked since they closed one of our plants in July.  

March 17, 2004 - Ah, the last month has been full of joy and happiness at my house!  The kids went from snotting colds to full blown bronchitis and strep throat.  Far be if for them to keep such a joyous feeling to themselves;  they passed it all on to my husband and myself.  We too could share in the joy of antibiotics and coughing until we soiled ourselves!  Viva Disease! 

My ears have gone that extra mile to become infected and full of something to vile to type about.  I cannot hear much.  I had this trouble back in '97 and ended up getting tubes in my ears so they would drain like good ears should.  I'm on my third week of antibiotics, eating lots of yogurt,   and now taking a form of steroid to help relieve swelling in my Eustachian tubes.   If that doesn't work, back to the ear specialist for holes to drain me with!   I will not complain too much, however.  If I can still hear something, then I'm still blessed.  This ear thing is genetic, and sure, I could blame my ancestor who mutated the 'good ear tube hearing gene' somewhere way in my past and passed it on to all their future descendants, but I am not going to blame them.  Crap happens.   We carry on. 

My youngest son had a burst of energy last weekend, and decided he needed to earn money.  (He has yet to really grasp the meaning of how one comes by money...that money doesn't fall out of one's rear end at will.)  He and the neighbor boy picked up branches in the yard.  I told them I would give them five dollars each if they did a good job.  They spent about an hour outside picking up sticks and did quite a bang up job.  He ran into the house and was panting from his work, and declared, "That is a 20 dollar pile of sticks if I ever saw one!"  I had to laugh.  I gave them their promised due and sent them on their merry way.  My son debated all afternoon over my mistake.  "I picked up a lot of sticks, Mom!"  I explained I had given him plenty of money for the chore.  "This isn't enough for what I want."  I sang the Stones song to him then, "you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need..."   He paced the floor with money in hand.  Here was an 11 year old boy with money, and it was burning his hand like fire.  "If I use MY money and you put in the rest with YOUR money, can I get a video game?"  This went on for hours.   It got to the point where he was soliciting money just for being himself and breathing.  He couldn't understand why he couldn't get WHAT HE WANTED.  We finally convinced him to put the money away, and save it for his video game.  He could earn the rest by doing more chores.  "The part I hate the most, Mom, is having to do something to get money!" he lamented.  (Join the crowd, little man...join the crowd.)

March 21, 2004 - I want it noted here for all the world to witness that my youngest son is doing some homework on his own FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER without me nagging him.  Wow.  Seriously, this is big news at my house.  I am amazed.   Sigh.

I love this quote from the cartoon "Futurama" (first three seasons now available on DVD!) where the Robot, Bender, was accidentally flung into space and lost, left there floating for eternity.  He finally floated to (what we are led to believe is) God.  They talked a lot, and one of the last things "God" says to Bender before he flings him back to Earth is, "When you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all."   Sigh.  I love that, for I find the statement true.

I am trying to herd together my fellow high school classmates for a reunion this summer.  I look forward to it so much.  I have this need for it - to see people from my past - my 'roots' as it were.   I had a kick butt class.  We rocked.  I guess every person assumes their class was the best class, but my class was a wonderful class.  Many have stayed here or returned, and have offspring who attend school with my offspring and I think that is wonderful.  I am very proud of my little community.  However, planning a reunion brings up odd things from one's brain cell library archives.  Items stored and thought deleted many years ago... memories good and odd and in between.  I remember many times of hurt/pain from my school years.  Humans can be cruel to each other.   I don't dwell on the hurt/pain though.  Actually, although I didn't know it at the time, it was a good lesson - forcing me to grow up and go forward and make life decisions.  I hold no ill will against anything or anyone from High School days.   How can we?   Those years we were herded together in so many halls and so many classrooms were only technical 'pre-life' learning grounds.  We were practicing best we could back then, with the limited knowledge we had.  Now we know that no one is better than another - no person is higher than another (or we should know that by now.)     We all know now that all people fart, sneeze, ache, cry, spit, cough, poop, occasionally stink, breakdown, struggle, fall, get up, get lonely, get scared, get help, need help, need in general, live and then we die, hopefully having some wonderful memories in between the body functions and mental learning curves.  Of course, we all know now that if we eat too much corn on the cob without chewing well, there will be hell to pay the next day.  Corn - the great equalizer.

My best memories from my school days ... there are so many!  I had such wonderful teachers.  Mrs. Stephenson who showed me what wonderful things can come from books.  Mrs. Cairns, who made learning so fun and was a true inspiration - (she held mercury in her HAND!  To a 5th grader, that was the closest thing I had seen of 'cool' ever!  Mrs. Brown for opening my eyes to so many new things concerning life and how humans interact.  Mrs. Trush for making me aware of the environment and giving me kittens, too.  Mrs. Mainone made biology so fun, I took related classes the rest of my High School years.  I remember Jim Lewis in 6th grade would always stare at my chest.  (My first indication that boobs were not the end of the world as I previously thought as a kid, and that they were actually appreciated by someone!)  Dean and Vern and myself would write 'love stories" at lunch time in 6th grade.  The boys would dictate, and I would write.  For 6th graders, they were 'steamy' as we could make them.  Since I adored Dean with all my heart, this was a wonderful way to be with him.  I kept his 6th grade Valentine for years until the terrible 'ice tea incident' of '86.  Hahaha.  Junior High brought new people to my world, once again opening my eyes to new things.  Jeanine and Lisa taught me new words and new forms of humor, which I laugh when I think about them to this day.  Bobby taught me the true meaning of a 'gentleman'   Linda let me into her world and that is where I found out I was not the only person to hide in their room and pretend I was in a band while I listened to my records.  That was a big relief to me.  High School brought new challenges and new relationships.  Jenny accepted me for what I was and was so honest with me, and I will always love her for that.   Tim challenged my mind to new heights, made me laugh, and gave me a new perspective on things.  Dave got me hooked on "Nazareth" and to this day when I hear "Hair of the Dog" I smile and think of him.  Vickie gave me a friendship that will last the ages.  Grace and Dawn were always there and supportive and unconditionally accepting.  Kathy always made me feel beautiful.  I look back now on those years with my fellow classmates as a collage of emotions and new experiences I wouldn't trade for the world. 

I have been listening to as much music from the '70s as I can find, also, to get me in the 'mood' of this all - and have to admit, the '70s had some good stuff, and I will admit here in front of everyone that NOT ALL DISCO SUCKED.  There, I said it.  Some did, mind you.  Some, however, I can listen to now, loudly, and not be ashamed of.  Since I'm confessing things here, I will also state that I am PROUD I adored Barry Manilow in the '70s.  His music was like BenGay cream giving one deep warmth without the smell. 

April 2, 2004 - Maybe people down South don't have this issue, but for those of us who share the border with our neighbors to the North ... we are plagued by it.  (The following is typed in my best Rod Serling voice)  Picture this ... you're thirsty and dying for drink from the nearest vending machine.  You barely make it to the machine to purchase your drink before coughing due to a dry throat.  The change in your pocket jingles as you reach your hand in to pull it out, noting to yourself that you have just enough change to buy Pepsi.  Carefully you put in quarter after quarter ... dime after dime... unit you've met the demand of the unholy price for a vending machine soda.  In anticipation of quenching your thirst, you push the 'select' button, only to find that your request was denied...you are a 25 cents short according to the digital display.  You cram your finger into the coin return slot only to find that you've now entered the "Canadian Coin Zone."  (Cue 'Twilight Zone' theme music.)

Canadian coins.   They multiply like rabbits in your piggy bank, yet still are not accepted as a valid vending machine currency in these United States.  I think Kerry and Bush should debate this issue.  Maybe we could come up with something similar to the Euro currency for North Americas.  We could call it the Amero.  Accepted by all North American continent's vending machines.  There, I've stated my opinion.  I feel much better now. 

My son has started to emit adult smells and finally asked to be taken shopping for deodorant. That was the first time in my life I spent nearly 45 minutes in the deodorant aisle in the health and beauty items area at the grocery store.  He had to smell each one!  The ones I liked he hated, and visa versa.  Did you know there are approximately two million different choices for stick deodorant?  Sigh.  My baby is growing up, and I can't stop it.   I guess I should be happy we're just picking out deodorant and not shopping for condoms yet.  I still have some time...

I purchased gold fish last summer because at the time there was actually one square foot of area in my house that didn't have something that needed cleaning or feeding in it.  I took care of that issue by getting the fish.  The kids named them Billy and Freddie.  Freddie is the size of a small Cessna now.  Billy is more goldfish sized, but big nonetheless.  I clean the water once a week and use a small charcoal filter device in their bowl during normal fish business hours.  They are pretty smart for fish.   When I forget to feed them, Freddie will throw himself through the water making splashing noises, which he now knows makes me fly to the bowl in a panic.  The first time he splashed like that, my gut reaction was so quick that he must have put the two actions together in his little fish brain.  I react that way because when I was a teenager, I had a goldfish in my room.  I heard him splashing around one day and paid no mind to it.  (Fish gotta splash, right?)  The next morning when I went to feed my fish he was missing.  Gone.  No fish.  I searched the floor and the bookshelf the bowl was on.  No fish.  I didn't find him until that fall when the heater started working...found him stiffer than a board in the heater vent, hanging by his fins.  So now, by the rules of Pavlov, I react to the sounds of a goldfish splashing with miraculous speed.

April 16, 2004 -  I have introduced the Lady Bug's natural predator, the "Hoover," into my home.  There are hundreds of them everywhere.  If you yawn, you swallow one.  If you dress, you can bet there are at least three of those buggers in your bra, underwear, and skirt.  Walking across the floor causes one to remember the time the dogs broke into the Rice Krispies box.   I cannot collect them all to put them outside.  So I suck them into my the vacuum's cup and put them outside that way. 

Well, I've finally made a decision about the rest of my life...I'm going to give up my fast paced life as full time technical worker oppressed by 'the man' as well as my career as an under appreciated mother to join the Blue Man Group.  I've watched the Free View of their "The Complex Rock Tour" from last summer at least two and a half million times.   (Perhaps I exaggerate a bit...maybe it's been more like three times.)  Damn.   I love it.  I have even ordered the CD.  Anything with that much percussion has to be good, right?  Right now it's playing on the TV at a decibel level that will make my little dog's ears bleed very soon, I'm sure.  My kids sit in there chairs with stoic looks on their faces as I am bounce all over the living room.   What is wrong with this picture?  So much percussion should invoke spontaneous outbursts of movement!!  DANCE ALL OF YOU!  DANCE NOW!   I COMMAND IT.

I think it's not only the Blue Man Group music that creates this need in me to dance wildly.  Being the end of a very long exhausting week may have something to do with it as well.  Tonight I will pretend there is not laundry waiting to be done, nor dishes waiting for a cleansing.   I will forget there is groceries to buy tomorrow and bedding to be changed or floors to mopped.  Tonight, I will just dance, and start packing for my trip to the BMG auditions...

May 5, 2004 -  I was so proud of myself this morning.   On the way to work I listened to the whole song "To Be With You" by Mr. Big.  I haven't listened to that song since 1992.  You see, I blame Mr. Big for my third child.  Things were going along swell back then ... we had two kids, money was stable, and life was good.  Then Mr. Big released "To Be With You" and I fell in love with that song.  I couldn't hear it enough.  I went out and purchased the cassette.  The whole album made me feel so YOUNG!  The day I bought the tape I also bought a 12 pack of Miller beer.  (We all know what happens when you feel young and drink beer when you really aren't that young anymore!!)   By the time my husband came home after second shift, I jumped him in the driveway, on the couch, then every other location that suited my fancy.  It was quite the wild night.  I ended up incubating under the covers of the water bed with my head at the foot of the bed and my feet propped up at the head of the bed.  I was under several covers so I was literally baking.  My husband laughed at me when he saw me struggling to find a way out after I woke up in the morning.  I couldn't find my way out of the covers.   It was, at the time, quite amusing.  I was so happy that morning once I escaped the bonds of the waterbed that I sat down and wrote a thank you note to the group Mr. Big, telling them how their album reminded me of how I used to feel when I was much younger and how much I enjoyed their album...blah blah blah. 

Not long after that wild night of abandon, I started to vomit for no reason and feel miserable in general.   However, it wasn't until I couldn't take a drink of beer without the smell of it inducing a projectile hurling fest that I knew something was wrong.  The only times prior to that when I couldn't drink a beer was when I was pregnant.  I panicked.  Life was just perfect and I wasn't looking to add to the herd as it were.  I bought a pregnancy test.  I was so positively pregnant that the "+" sign was in 3-D.   I didn't believe it, so I took another test.  Once again, just having the test in the house with me caused a positive result.  I went immediately to my doctor.   That test, too, came out positive.  On the day of my oldest son's fifth grade graduation, I sat in the back and cried.  My dear friend Diane said, "Oh, Sandy, he's just going to sixth grade!"  I sobbed to her, "I know, that's not it...I'm pregnant!" 

Since that day, I could never listen to Mr. Big again.  My husband has purchased each of their releases since but they have sat in their wrappings.  I have no urge to hear that group any more, but today after all those years, I brought myself to listen to that one song all the way through.  Time heals all wounds.  (By the way, the touching personal letter I received back from Mr. Big in response to my gushing fan letter now resides on the first page in my son's baby book..."Dear Mr. Big Fan...")

Speaking of my youngest son, we were on our way back from dinner the other night and my daughter was lamenting the fact there were so many new houses going up.  "There are just too many people in this old world..." she sighed.  At that moment, my youngest chimed in with "That's why there are killers!"  He said it such a matter of fact way that my daughter and I exchanged a exasperated gasp and look.  "Is he serious?" I whispered to my daughter.  "I...I don't know!" she mouthed back, "No more video games for little brother!" 

"Do you really believe that?" I asked my son.  "I was just being funny!" he replied.   I let out a sigh of relief.  All was quiet for a few minutes, then he asked, "Well, why are there killers then?"  I spent the rest of the trip home explaining to him that killers were bad people who were evil and sick.  God wasn't happy with these people.  These people had no right to take another person's life.  Life is the greatest most precious gift there is.   Killers are not considered an acceptable mode of population control.   "It's not like deer!" my daughter chimed in.  Of course then there was the tangent we had to go off on explaining about self defense where someone might have to kill to protect themselves, which led to other conversations about related subjects.  "What if there still ends up to be too many people?" he asked as we turned on the last road home.  "Then starvation and more disease will cut numbers."  After that happy note, he pondered all of this but I am sure the subject is not closed. 

That was also the night that I thought a spider was crawling up the side of my face in the car, but when I grabbed it and looked, it was just a six inch long GRAY HAIR.  MY GRAY HAIR.  I know I will get gray, get old, and eventually die.  I have had gray in my hair from time to time, but I have yanked the little buggers out myself or friends have yanked them out, they have not just spontaneously shed themselves.  This, for some reason, depresses me.  I'm getting older, things will turn gray and fall off, I know this.  I just got used to letting my hair have it's own way and curl to it's hearts content as it has always wanted to do without fighting with it, and now this?  I showed the kids.   "It's a cat hair!" my son said, trying to comfort me.  "We don't have cats with six inch hair!" I sighed to him, "It's mine."  He played with my first officially shed gray hair for a while then set it free out the window.  "You can dye your hair" my daughter offered "but you've really earned that gray, Mom."  So gray hair is the equivalent of an Oscar nomination or what?  I guess the gray hair wouldn't have has such an impact on me had I not been thinking just that morning how ironic it was that I was covering up the spots where I dug out ingrown chin hair with concealer makeup, and not that many years ago (or at least it feels like not that many years ago) I would have been using concealer to hide hickeys.  Now those were the days.  Maybe that's why I have so much facial hair now...all the hair follicles around my face were sucked to the surface during hickey creation.  There has to be some scientific study out on that, I'm sure. 

June 12, 2004 -  I never knew how many words we use that start with the letters 'squ'... I am aware of this now due to the fact that Sparky the dog loves to chase squirrels.  She will see them out the window eating from the bird feeders and beg to go out by doing the "Oh My Gosh Oh My Gosh There's a Squirrel" dance.  It's our own fault.  Years ago when she would beg to get the squirrels, we'd have to taunt her by saying, "Aw, does Sparky want to get the squirrels?   Get the squirrels, Sparky!  Get the squirrels!"  After taunting her into a frenzy we then turn her loose and and clap our hands in joy that she uses such speed to almost get the last squirrel to go up the tree.  (She lays at the bottom of the tree until one of us goes out to commend her on a job well done.)  However, we only have to say a word now that sounds like squirrel, such as squat, squish, squash, squid, squab, (although the word squab never comes up in my house so why do I even mention it?) squiggle ... you get the idea.   Any sound similar to 'squ' makes Sparky do the squirrel dance and beg to go outside.  It's like Volkswagen cars...until you notice one, you never see any.  After you notice that one car, then they are everywhere!

I was on vacation this last week.  My daughter is in Hawaii and I didn't trust my youngest son home alone.   His Dad is here sleeping during the day, but I still didn't feel good about leaving him without a guardian that was awake and coherent.  I started reading the 'Dune" series by Frank Herbert again.  Seems to be a trend for me every two years or so.  I started last Sunday and finished last night.  That was approximately 2900 pages of reading.  Friday my eyes were so sore that they watered all day.  Even with my reading glasses, that was too much reading for one week but at least the 'Dune' bug is out of my system for another two years or so.  My husband suggested I treat myself to a new series of books, or perhaps something else from Frank Herbert.  "Well, Duh!" I replied.  (Meaning in 'wife speak' that I have considered this many times, but sometimes when a woman needs 'Dune' a woman needs 'Dune' and nothing else will do.) 

My daughter is in Honolulu this week.  The band parents organized a trip and we had all year to make payments on it.  How cool.  She has called a few times to report her experiences.  She loves it there.  I can only imagine the beauty.  She tries to explain, but I can't even begin to 'see' it in my head.  I will have to wait for her pictures.  I am so glad she had this opportunity.  She's been to Diamond Head, and said it was breathtaking.  She said she had to crawl up the last quarter of steps, but she made it, by golly.  Today they go to Polynesian Cultural Center.   They had a luau earlier this week.  She has snorkeled in the ocean as well.   Tomorrow they go to see Pearl Harbor and USS Arizona Memorial.  I am so happy for her, and so grateful she got this experience.  Sigh.

June 17, 2004 -  My daughter is home from Oahu.  She had a wonderful time, but all the kids and parents that went to Hawaii looked beat up when they got off the bus.  Jet lag can be brutal.  Being cooped up on the plane for 10 hours isn't fun either.  She did love the take off and lading part, however.   That is the best part.  The first load of wash I did of her clothes left a handful of sand in the dryer lint filter.  Pretty funny.  She said, "You should have seen the sand in our swimsuits!"  Apparently there were a few times they walked back to the hotel from the beach with their crotch hanging low with sand.   She is sad now since there is nothing to do after a week of activities and excitement.  Hawaii compared to home - home leaves little to be desired.  Maybe she will cheer up some tomorrow when we get her pictures back.

I'm sitting here watching "Futurama" on the T.V. and reading obituaries on line.  Odd combination.  I have to read them everyday now - the obits.  Don't know why.   Just do.  Maybe I'm checking to make sure I'm not in there.  I like how they do them now, with pictures and the whole life story type deal.  Pretty cool.  

It was an odd day.   When I took my bra off tonight, there was a dead earwig in it.  I assume he didn't start out dead.  My boobs killed him.  I have killer boobs.  Does a girl's ego good to know she still has killer boobs!  There are also three jars of Noxema in my bathroom right now.  The original jar went missing a few weeks back.   People in the house reported seeing it on the floor at one point, but since it was on the floor, of course, no one would pick it up.  (Why pick up something out of place on the floor?  That is MOM's job!)  Apparently they judged the jar of Noxema as "free range nomadic Noxema" and let it be free to graze.  I couldn't find the little booger after that, however.  I looked under everything and everywhere.  Eventually I bought a new jar.  Normally one doesn't go through a lot of Noxema, but when it's not there you need it!  (Tis the season for heat rash, after all.)  My daughter brought home a jar from Hawaii.  So there were two.   Out of the blue, the original jar came back to the fold, so I have three jars now.  I feel rich.  Noxema, anyone?

June 30, 2004 -  To be perfectly honest, it's actually 1 a.m. on July 1st, but we'll give June another entry just for kicks. 

We just got back from seeing the movie 'Spider Man 2' with my daughter and youngest son.  Normally I wouldn't go to a movie at 10 at night, but I had to get my daughter to see it ON THE DAY IT WAS RELEASED or I was doomed, and since I couldn't do it during the day and she had marching band practice from 7-9, we had to do a late show.  For months she's been having Tourettes Syndrome style seizures where she would shiver and vibrate, then shout out, "Spider Man comes out in (so many weeks...)" ... As the time passed, it turned into visible quakes of giddy with shrieks of "Spider Man comes out in (so many days...)"  Lately we've been given hourly updates to the date of the Spider Man movie release.  She likes Tobey Maguire as an actor but I'm pretty sure the draw of the character lies in those rippling muscles under the tight spandex outfit.   (Computer enhanced or not, Spidey is HOT.)  My daughter is a darn good kid.   She does a lot around the house and she's such a big help to me.  Taking her to see her spandex covered dream boy was the least I could do.  At least she's stopped having seizures and was much calmer on the way home tonight, except of course when re-enacting the fighting scenes with her brother.

She has been moody since her return from Hawaii.  Coming back to a small town after seeing the world, after all, can be quite disapressing.  (Our new word for disappointed plus depressing.)  I hope the movie has knocked her out of that phase and now life can continue for her.  Ah, youth.

I was mowing my lawn on Sunday, and I was doing it with an attitude.  My husband has been having issues with his feet;  his plantar fascia is imploding or something, so mowing hurts too much.   He can barely make it through a night of work, let alone mow.  So as I was mowing, I thought, "OK, I'll mow these two acres, and then make dinner, and then do all the work I couldn't do at work by dialing up work and working, then I'll do laundry and then ...."  I was feeling sorry for myself, to say the least. "Poor Sandy has to do everything...whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"  I put on headphones and put in my collection of my favorite Paul Rodgers music (Bad Company, Firm, and his solo stuff.)   I had it loud, and gradually the mowing didn't seem so bad, so I eventually got over my pity party and just enjoyed the mowing.  I also fixed the mailbox that was tipped back for so long, that no one would fix.  I did it by ramming the lawn mower into the mail box several times.  I'd ram it, then bounce back, then ram it again.   It's straight now.  Several people on tractors drove by while I was mowing, and we'd give each other that knowing nod.  You know the one, "Hey, I'm driving something with a motor.  I have power between my legs.  Yep, that's right."  

The wind was blowing and the sky was the most precious blue, and I just enjoyed the freedom of being in the great outdoors, even though I was leveling some of it for the greater good of an acceptable looking lot of grass.  When I stopped after the first acre to pee and get a drink, my mother-in-law stopped over.  I sat down to talk to her for a bit, but left the room when my husband was describing how spastically women mow.  (We don't do straight lines, you know, and we waste gas driving all over in a haze of stupid.)   Seeing as I am a woman, and I was mowing, I decided to live up to the statement made and I drove around in a random fashion at a high speed, stopping only to shoot out the dirt from the mole hole piles until the sky was pretty dark over my property.  I am pretty sure airplanes flying over my house could clearly see the image of a middle finger in my lawn for a while. 

My 25th class reunion is in three weeks, so I've been listening to nothing by 'oldies' stations to get in the mood.  My kids have been enjoying the songs with me, and my youngest made a very astute observation.  "There were a lot of 'na nahs' in your day, weren't there, Mom?"  Now that he mentioned it, it is true - we had many songs with nah nahs.   I explained to him about the yeah yeahs of the sixties and the "ramalamadingdongs" from the fifties.  I also told the kids there was a proper time and place for using such fillers as 'nah na na nah nah.'  One can't just run around saying that in public without getting thrown into some form of mental health care clinic, but when Journey used it -it was like butter!

July 18, 2004 - We have a new coffee maker now.  Had to get one after the kamikaze earwig decided to end his life in the little glass tube that tells you how many cups of water you've put in the coffee maker.  The earwig found his way into the back of the coffee maker, crawled inside the then empty water area, pushed his little body through the microscopic hole to the water meter, and pushed his way passed the little red ball that floats up as you pour water in.  He was trapped.  Maybe he didn't mean to be suicidal but in that situation, there was little choice for him.   I spent a good part of an hour trying to get him past the little red ball back into the lower part of the tube so he could find the microscopic hole and crawl back out SO I COULD KILL HIM and still save my coffee maker.  Instead, after all that rolling about, being pushed in front of a little red ball - back and forth and back and forth - the earwig died.  (I know he was just a bug.  If my house were the set of 'Fear Factor' I could have no doubt won lots of money by eating the coffee maker with the earwig inside, but the thought of brewing coffee with a dead earwig in the water tube just made me sick.  I'm a wimp.)  I like my new coffee pot better.  There is not glass meter with microscopic holes for bugs to crawl through and hide in. 

My 25th reunion is in a week and I'm suddenly scared.  Did I order enough food?  Do I have enough pop and water?  Will people come?  Will I faint from excitement, roll down the hill at the park and into the parking lot, causing damage to someone's car?  If I do faint and roll down the hill and cause damage to someone's car, am I liable for that damage when in an unconscious state?  What if it rains?  I have no back up location if it rains!!  I can't wait to see people though, and when you think of it - waiting so long to herd people together is a sad thing.  How does one catch up with so many in such a short amount of time?  I pray that we find old friends that become new friends.  I hope some of our kids bond at the picnic, and remain friends for life.   I hope people can come and just have a nice time sitting around and talking in the great outdoors.  I saw my friend Dawn in the store yesterday, and she told me about another event going on the same day in the same park - some sort of Beach Party thing with a live band and an old car show and other events.  I was almost relieved.  If I run out of food, I can send people there to eat.  If people get bored, they have something else to go see and do, and the trip will not have been wasted, and if I play my cards right, I can con the band into playing at our event before they find their way to the Beach Party event....and if I faint from excitement and roll down any hills, I sure as heck hope I don't damage one of the classic cars.  That would be expensive!!

I had to go to the doctors on Thursday.  I thought I had pink eye in my right eye, although I've had my share of pink eye in my time, boy howdy, and this wasn't like any pink eye I ever had.   The irritation, swelling, and pain was unreal!  I barely made it home from work on Wednesday night due to the blurred vision and eye agitation.  The doctor assured me I didn't have pink eye and I didn't have to drop an atomic bomb on my house to sterilize it so no one else would get pink eye, I just had some (blah - blah - very - Latin - sounding - medical - term) bacterial infection in my soft tissue of my face.  "Wow, that's gotta be better than pink eye!" I exclaimed, suddenly thinking of all the reports of flesh eating bacteria that were in the news several years ago.  She said it was the same thing as a sinus infection, but more external and could turn into a sinus infection (if it found it's way into the microscopic hole in one of my tear ducts not unlike some earwigs we know.)  She sent me off on my merry way, telling me to call her if it wasn't not better in 24 hours, and come back on Monday for a re-check for sure, and also with a prescription for Augmentin XR (for X-tra Ridiculously huge horse pills - almost 3/4 an inch in length, mind you, conveniently reaching your colon before you finish swallowing them and you need a dolly to carry the bottle to the car from the pharmacy.)  I was feeling better in 24 hours.  The swelling was still there, but the pain was on the run, and the flood of tears had stopped.  By this weekend, the swelling had gone away, too.  (Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the inevitable yeast infection to kick in, and I'm good as gold!)  Yogurt, any one?

August 1, 2004 - August already?  Today, I refuse to believe there are only five months left in this year...I refuse to believe it's the year 2004 in general...I refuse to believe we will all eventually die and most of what we are doing right now doesn't mean a thing when it comes to the "Big Picture." 

My daughter is getting ready for band camp as I type.   She is taking her last hot leisurely shower for seven days.  She will be gone a week, marching her little heart out.  All of the Marching Band members will hurt and ache and take mass quantities of Tylenol, but they will get the show almost ready by next Saturday, and perform it for the parents who choose to go up to pick up their little tooters.  They are troopers, one and all of them.  If it were me, they would be air lifting me off the playing field by the early afternoon of day one.  My daughter has been running the mile and lifting weights to get into shape for camp.  She has been down and out the last few days.  Maybe the correct term is concerned, not depressed.  She's a section leader this year, and the weight of responsibility is weighing heavy on her shoulders.  How can one be fair yet firm, give guidance to uplift yet correct and chastise?  I think this will take it's toll on her by next Saturday.  Just packing her suitcase last night left her quiet and distant.  I try to tell her, "You will be fine!"  or "Use your common sense and follow your heart..." but it's little comfort to a 16 year old with a week of band camp ahead of her.  I can't tell her that this won't all matter 100 years from now, because it's real to her, and it's NOW, and it does matter. 

My 25th class reunion was the 24th of July, and I had a hoot.  I hope everyone who came had a hoot as well.  It was so good to see people looking so darned adorable!  We aged well as a class, if I may say so myself.   About 65 classmates came and most with their families, so it was a nice event.   I hope it leaves good memories in the hearts of those who attended and that they look forward to our next get together.  My best friend from High School, Vickie, came up from Florida.  I love to see Vickie, because no matter how long we've been apart it feels like we were always together.  We had more fun towards the end of the reunion stripping what was left of the class cakes of their frosting.  We would rip the cake part off, for as anyone knows the cake part just holds up the frosting, and is non edible.  Smile.  I had an over all hoot, and it was so good to see everyone.   It was good to hug everyone and laugh and have a good time.  I was disappointed for a day or two at the no shows from more of the local 'kids' in our class.   Some had to work, some had vacations, so I know they couldn't come, but I had hoped for a huge turnout.  In a way, maybe a smaller turnout was better, as we had more time to talk with the people who did come, and hopefully people who did come will tell the people who didn't what fun it was, and they will come to the 30th with bells on. 

My daughter has eyes for the son of two of my classmates.  He was at the reunion with his parents, so she watched him like a hawk.   (In a nonchalant way, of course.  Only limited drooling.)  When she had not seen him for a while, she meandered over to me, where I was talking to the father of said son.  My daughter didn't bother to look at who I was talking to, as she was too busy scanning the park for the lust of her life.  "Mom, have you seen Jake and his parents anywhere?  I have not seen them for a while..." she asked, as she leaned into to me while still scanning the park.  I looked up at Jake's Dad and laughed out loud.  Pointing to his name tag, I said to my daughter, "This is his FATHER to whom I'm speaking with at this very moment."  The look on her face should have been captured on film.  I adored that moment.  She didn't turn too many shades of red as I would have expected.  "Oh, Hi!" she managed to say, and left quickly, laughing.  It was a Kodak moment.  We laughed about it for days afterwards.  "Not too obvious...that's my style!" she would laugh.   I am so proud she didn't curl up into a ball and die from embarrassment.   Maturity is sneaking in on her, I fear. 

When Vickie was up, we spent some time together on Sunday, the day after the reunion.  I took Vickie out for the best ice cream ever known to humans, Cake Batter Ice Cream.  It is heavenly.  I love it.  Of course, if I love it then it's only logical to force Vickie to eat it as she would most likely love it too, and even if she didn't, she had to eat it, being a guest and all.   She did love it.  When she got home she wrote me a letter cursing me for getting her hooked on it.  I did research on the internet, and found out it was Cold Stone Creamery's creation, and sent her a listing of all the Cold Stone Creamery stores in her immediate area.  If you get a chance to try this stuff, you will adore it too, I'm sure.  I tend to go overboard when I find something I love.  When I first had Velveeta salsa cheese dip, I loved it so much, I made if every night for six months, I swear.  (OK, maybe I didn't make if EVERY NIGHT but I made it a lot, and we were all pretty bound up for a long time in my house.)  I'm also a sucker for new packaging for products in the store, especially if you package something with that holographic art on in.  I suppose I would buy dried dog turds in a box if the packaging was fetching enough.  I like shiny things and I'm gullible, as it were.  My daughter told me a joke that a son of one of my classmates told her at the reunion, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.  "Mom, did you know they took the word 'gullible' out of the dictionary?" she asked in an innocently informative way.  "They did?   Why?" I asked, shocked at the news.  "Duh!" she said, and after a second or two pause, I laughed.  Yep, I'm gullible.

Vacation looms at the end of this week, and I cannot wait.  We tend to spend our vacations exploring Michigan, as it's a lovely place to live and tons of stuff yet to be seen.  If you get a chance, come see Michigan, and get some Cake Batter Ice Cream for the road.  (Cheese dip is optional.) 

August 18, 2004 - I had a busy day today at work and had to get tons done.  When I need to concentrate at work, I will listen via headphones to a CD that I'm familiar with so I don't have to worry about listening to new lyrics or music, but I still have the music as 'white noise' in the background to drown out voices and the like and it helps me focus on my work.  Today I picked Steve Miller's Greatest Hits- '74-'78.   I have been hearing these songs since my High School days of the pre-historic '70s.  Of course the music will bring back little bursts of memories from time to time, but not enough to distract me from my work, or so I was thinking...

When "Jungle Love" kicked in, I happened to hear the following words which, mind you, I had never heard in my brain prior to that second "...I brought you a crate of papayas - they waited all night by your door..."

I stopped working dead in my tracks.  "Crate of papayas?" I asked out loud to myself.  I started the song over and listened again.  "...I brought you a crate of papaya..."  Sure enough, there it was again!!  I laughed out loud.  I am 43 years old.  I have NEVER heard those words.  I have listened to this song approximately 3000 times in my life time (give or take 2%) and I have never heard those lyrics.  My friend Jeff was on line, so I typed him a message.  I type him verses from songs all the time just because we do that now and then for the heck of it, and I typed it as I had just heard it, and he didn't flinch, and since Jeff and I play name that tune on instant messenger all the time - and he would have corrected me or laughed at me if I was wrong.  He just typed me back another Steve Miller song verse.  "Oh my God, it IS papaya!" 

I was just amazed at myself by now, thinking I had found the Holy Grail of misheard lyrics.  I called my cousin David in Wisconsin.   "Did you know it says crate of papaya?"  David knew.  All these years, and David knew.  All those years...

I looked the lyrics up on the Internet, and sure enough, they are ...."I met you on somebody’s island/You thought you had known me before/I brought you a crate of papaya/They waited all night by your door..."   All these years, 'Sandy's' version was, "...I met you on some Paris island/ you thought you had known me before/aside from creative desire/I waited all night by your door..."  Go figure!  Hahaha.  I laugh at myself.  I am possibly the only human in history that didn't know what Steve Miller was singing.

Why did this thrill me so?  Beside the fact that I'm a cheap date and easily distracted by shiny things, there were two things that tickled me over this lyrical revelation:   #1-It was NEW.  You know, something you thought you knew so well, but you find out later you didn't - the element of surprise.  #2 - I could HEAR IT!  Meaning I'm not as deaf as I lead myself to believe or feel like I am most of the time.  Hurray!  It made my day.  I ran from cubicle to cubicle announcing my discovery.  The poll came up almost split down the middle - they either knew it was papaya or would have never guessed it was papaya. 

Now I'm left to wonder what anyone would do with a crate of papaya?  Sigh.

August 20, 2004 - My bestest friend Vickie called tonight from Florida.  I love to hear her voice.   It calms me.  (Although the kids say I act drunk and hyper after I talk to her.  "We know you talked to Vickie, Mom!  You act all Vickie-fied!"    I ran the battery down on my handset phone while talking to her, so when my daughter's friend called later, she had to use the speaker phone part of the set up.    Of course, when your teenager uses a speaker phone with her friend anywhere in my immediate area, I feel it necessary to run around acting like a un-medicated bi-polar with tourette syndrome, spewing out wise and odd 'motherly' type of knowledge and insight since you have a captive audience.  "You will have to forgive my Mom," my daughter explained to her friend, " She just got off the phone with her friend from Florida.  She gets this way after talking with Vickie...")

Vickie was only 66 miles away from the worst of hurricane Charley.  Sigh.  Originally the forecast was for Charley to go RIGHT OVER HER hell-bent for leather.  That was scary.  Scary for me, knowing she was down there in it and there was nothing I could do about it.  Terrifying for her, I'm sure.  I would have NO CLUE how terrible it was for her, or how frightened she really was to be alone in a house just watching the clock, wondering if Mother Nature was going to kick her butt to the next state or offshore island, or separate her butt from her body and send both parts packing.  I called her two days before Charley was due at work.   I called her the day before and we talked.  Vickie assured me she'd be OK, but we both knew it was for the calming effects of the spoken words only.  My family knew I was in a state of helplessness.  They all love Vickie.  "Vickie's cool, Mom!"  my daughter says.  "When is Vickie coming back?" asks my son at times.  (The whole family has been forced to listen to my stories from my past of Vickie and me at least a hundred times over, and they never once tell me it's a "repeat" from last season.  They will listen and laugh and comment on our exploits.  Even my paranoid dogs who bark at shadows and make the sign of the cross at the neighbor kid accept Vickie when she came to the house.  They didn't care if they had never seen her before, her aura was that of "Vickie - the one from the Stories of Old" and they accepted her as one of the herd, even getting hair all over her lap.)  The day of the storm Vickie and I talked.  I called back two hours after I figured the storm was directly over head.  The phone rang, but went to voice mail.  That was good news.  If the phones worked, the lines were not down, and that is always a good sign.  Then I worried for hours that she could have heard that phone ringing, but there was a ceiling beam pinning her to the floor and she couldn't reach it....Sigh.  I cried and paced the floor and worried and wrung my hands in the air.

I tried again later and got her on the phone, thank God!  That was after I had seen Charley had ravaged the area south east of her.   (My heart go out to those people - they work all their lives to be able to retire to Florida where it's warm and they don't have to deal with snow , and this happens?)   When I got her on the phone, I was so happy.  The family sent up a cheer, "Vickie's OK!" and I let them holler at her through the phone line.  I cried.  I love her.  She's my soul mate in a non-sexual way, unless you count our passion for frosting.  I would graft her to my side and we'd become one if I thought I could get away with it.  I want to be in the same nursing home with Vickie when we're ancient.  We would have the time of our lives together chasing orderlies in our wheelchairs, or doing wheel chair donuts in the parking lot, or breaking out for an afternoon on the town. 

August 21, 2004 - Well, so much for my flash in the papaya of being able to HEAR correctly.  This morning I was sitting on the toilet, hearing this awful cackling sound not unlike two didgeridoos being dragged behind a semi at high speeds, thinking, "Ah, the Sandhill cranes are back up here!"  (We have a family of four Sandhill cranes that have started to bring their teenagers to the bird feeders in the yard.   When I leaned forward to peek out the window, I realized it wasn't the cranes, it was sounds coming out of my own lower bowel area!  Hahaha.   Bodily functions, gotta love 'em. 

August 22, 2004 - School starts for the kids in one week, and I'm so not ready for this.  My daughter will be a Junior, and she turns 17 in a month as well, and I AM NOT READY FOR HER TO BE THIS OLD!   My youngest son starts sixth grade (Junior High, Middle School...) and I'm not ready for him to be in anything but elementary mode.  I am letting out many loud SIGHS as I type this, just thinking of it all.

This morning, I woke up with every eye brow hair I own going in the exact opposite direction as it was intended.  That kind of hurts.   How could I have slept in such a manner where my eye brows were effected in such a way when there was no blender in the bed?  When I waddled into the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror, I laughed out loud.  I looked like Einstein.  

I have mentioned before in my diary about my fish.   Freddy and Billy.  We got them almost 1 1/2 years ago now at Meijer, where they were having a goldfish frenzy Friday sale or something.  Since the procurement of the fish, we've upgrade from one small one gallon fish bowl (the cheap kind you buy because,  hey, they're Goldfish - they'll be dead in two week) to the two gallon fish bowl (OK, so they didn't die in two weeks.)  Freddy was becoming quite large.    We also upgraded from 'no filter - you're just goldfish' to a small fish bowl filter.  I say "we"... ME!  I have become possessed by these fish in odd ways.  The must LIVE!  I changed their water every three days, as Freddy is a big pooper and it would get quite cloudy.  I used the 'Bowl Buddies' fizzy tablets to ensure they had good healthy scales with every water change.  I bought them new rocks and new filters and let them exercise in the big cake cover thingy filled with water while I cleaned their house.  Last week, while at Meijers (and now I'm convinced it's subliminal messages they play on the intercom) I spot this ten gallon aquarium.  I stand there for 10 minutes reading the info on the side of the aquarium, pondering if I should get the thing or not.  Finally I put it in my cart.  Of course, if you get a 10 gallon aquarium, you need the 10 gallon filter, and a the little vacuum to suck out stuff because you don't just change the water every three days in a 10 gallon aquarium, and you'll need enough rocks to cover the bottom of the 10 gallon aquarium, and if you are getting something that big for goldfish, you had better get a few fish toys and fish couches and entertainment center made for goldfish specifically....

Now Freddy and Billy are in a ten gallon aquarium in my kitchen.  (The kitchen only because when I assumed my fish needed this 10 gallon aquarium, I did not do the math to figure out where this 10 gallon/85 pound aquarium would FIT in my house.)  Since they've moved on up to the east side,  in their deluxe aquarium in the sky, they have stayed in one corner near the fancy "Bite Me" plastic shark that sits there.  They have ten gallons of water to swim in, and they are petrified of it.  Sigh.  Feddy will adjust soon, I know - as he has enlarged himself to fit the two previous containers to maximum capacity, but I worry about Billy.   They can't seem to find the food when it's feeding time, as it's not just falling on their head as it did with the two gallon tank.  I sit and watch them floating in there staring at the plastic shark, and I am pretty sure next time I hear voices in my head telling to upgrade my goldfish to a small above ground pool or lake or something, I'm not going to listen to them.  I wonder if fish like papayas, however.....

September 2, 2004 - I think it is quite humorous how you can go to bed at night with your head full of grand intentions for the next day (i.e. "Ooooo, I'm going to wake up tomorrow morning and make a huge batch of homemade salsa and clean the whole house and re-pot those plants and discover a cure for cancer and dye my hair and clean the gutters and sweep out the car and establish world peace and darn the socks and tote some bales...") yet when the alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. the next morning, you're first thought is, "Screw the salsa..."

September 7, 2004 - I did makes salsa, after all, and it was mild to medium yet good.  I brought in doughnuts and salsa and chips and pop for the whole end of my building.  Sometimes you just need a little perk-me-up for the work crew to let everyone know that working with them rocks.  I bought a plastic table cloth and SpongeBob paper towels for napkins and overall presentation value.  It was a nice little treat.  (Although NO ONE could understand WHY anyone would need doughnuts with salsa.  Duh.)

The Sandhill Cranes and the local herd of geese were having a squawk off this morning.  The cranes were on my side of the road, and the geese were in the field across the road.  It was quite comical.  "Westside Story" music should have been playing in the background.  My dogs were the audience in the bleachers, barking so loud my ears bled.  Chaos abounded and we were all entertained. 

We ate at Pizza Hut last Friday for a treat and had a blast.  Pizza Hut has always been (to me) a place to go for a fun meal.  In my High School days it was always a hoot.  (I believe the commercial jingle back in my day was, "Putt Putt, To the Pizza Hut...")  Even though the place was always full of people back then and it was so loud you had to practically scream, my group at the little booth felt like we were all alone and free to act like idiots.    Now with my family, not much has changed except we don't all fit in a booth.   My niece was with us, so it was even more fun.  At Pizza Hut it's true to say 'the more the merrier.'  I think it's the long wait from the time you order until you finally get food that brings on this feeling of "Pizza Hut Giddy".  After all, getting light headed from lack of food can cause some odd behavior.  The cheese was clogged in the shakers at the table this time, so we finally took off the lids to add it to our slices and of course that led to piles of cheese everywhere.  After cheese, there is not much to play with except the red pepper flakes, and those tasted SO GOOD on the slices of hot delicious pizza.  For some reason, they tasted too good and I went a bit over board.   I wouldn't doubt that I had red pepper flakes in my Pepsi as I was quite out of control with their distribution.  A few times they got the best of me, making me choke and snort.  During one of the back-snorting sessions, a flake got lodge somewhere near the vicinity of my sinus cavity.  I knew it was there, but it only burned slightly and I soon forgot about it.

When it was time to leave, we piled into the car and headed out of the strip mall parking lot where Pizza Hut is located.  While driving through the crowded parking lot, my eyes started to water.  I could feel a sneeze coming on.  Not just any sneeze, mind you, but the sneeze to end all sneezes.   "Ah, the pepper flake..." I remembered as I was bracing for what was to be the Hurricane Frances of mucus expulsion.  I warned the kids, "I have to sneeze or I'm having a brain hemorrhage, so make sure you are buckled in good..."   So while waiting to turn right onto the busiest street in the tri-state area, I sneezed.  It was more than a sneeze.  My whole body was involved with the removal of the pepper flake.  My hands locked onto the steering wheel.  My legs stiffened and shot out, forcing the brake down.  My eyes slammed shut with an intensity I've never felt before and it's the first time I actually heard my eyelids make an actual sound.  My ears popped and my spine cracked.  The noise I made rang in my ears as I covered the wind shield with a layer of snot and then proceeded to projectile urinate from the force. 

It was over in a few seconds (although it felt like it happened in slow motion and took forever) and the kids were in hysterics in the back seat.   I started to laugh too, once I could breath again.  We couldn't stop laughing.   I could barely see to drive from the goo on the window, the tears in my eyes and the hysterical laughter.  The kids mocked me all the way home as they laughed, "You sounded like Pikachu!"  and then they would copy the sound, "AhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhCHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEWWW!"  It's those little things in life that make it special and we had a good time that night, although it took me a while to clean up the car when we got home and I never did find the pepper flake.  (One must leave it open for a sequel, you know.)

September 11, 2004 - I am sitting here typing in an old pair of shorts which are stained with various colors of paint and a scruffy tank top.  My hair is sticking up in a 'post air tunnel' manner, and my youngest son just came up to me and asked, "Gee, Mom, why you all dressed up?  Are we going somewhere?"  I found it sad yet funny to think that just because I was dressed in any manner at all indicated to him that something special was going to happen. 

October 9, 2004 - It's my Birthday and I'll update my diary...update my diary....update my diary. 

I am 44 today as of 6:10 a.m. this morning, to be precise, and I know this as it was the only entry in my baby book.  My Mom's jest for keeping up baby books waned when it came to the third child.   From what I can tell, it was me who wrote the entry of "6:10 a.m." next to "Time of Birth."  (It had to have been right after I learned cursive writing.)  I must have been taking a survey from my Mom back then when I found my empty baby book.  My thought to myself as I pondered my own baby book, "How can I hold things over my children's heads years from now without firm evidence!?"   So I have I tried very hard to keep up all of my kid's baby books.  They are overflowing with stuff.  I still put stuff into their baby books.  (Now they have grown past their covers to become tubs of papers and pictures and the like.)   I made my oldest son take his tub with him when he moved out, although I wish I still had it and requested that he bring it back until I die or go mental, which ever comes first. 

At work on Friday I got lovely cards and presents.  Judy got me my favorite cake from Country Maid Bakery.   I love that bakery.  I love their frosting!  Sigh.  I ate half the cake immediately.  What kept me from sticking my face in the center and just eating it from the inside out is beyond me, for that was my first instinct when seeing the cake.  Sue made me cinnamon rolls like my Mom used to on my Birthday (I ate two of those before I knew there was cake) and got me a candle and a gun that fires those suction cup thingys.  Vickie brought me a beautiful plaque and card, and the group all signed a card.  Jim brought me a balloon.  Deb got me a "Chicken Soup" book for the 40+ women's soul.  I felt loved.  I had a cinnamon roll and cake for lunch.  I was so bloated and my stomach hurt so much, I was late Friday to the homecoming game.  Smile.  We lost and it was raining cats and dogs, but the walk to and from the car was a godsend.  (The parking lot was jammed packed, so we had to park on the east side.  A blessing in disguise, for it gave me time to relieve my bloat as it were.)  The marching band didn't get to play due to the weather, so my son and I came home.  Gee, since I wasn't bloated, what did I do?  I ate more cake....

So, I have a cake hangover today.  Ugh.  There is a corner and a middle piece left to eat.  I will no doubt consume the rest sometime today.  I have no self control with Country Maid Cake and doubt there is a group called "Cakes Anonymous" I could join this time of the morning.  If you calculate the amount of calories in that cake and what is now happening to my heart and thighs, the numbers would boggle the mind. 

My friend Susie sent me a lovely bouquet today!  Such pretty flowers!!  My kids made me the cutest cards.  (There was a contest at school for the marching band.  Each ticket cost 5 dollars, and I bought 5 tickets.  If you won, you got a personal appearance by the marching band in your own back yard!!  I was convinced I would win.  The odds were stacked in my favor, as hardly anyone bought tickets.  Alas, I didn't win, and I was quite bummed out.)  My daughter's card had a small marching band on the front cover and it was titled, "Just My Size" Marching Band.  That cheered me up from my devastating loss.  Who in their right mind wouldn't want a Marching Band in their yard?  That would be so cool.  You could blast the neighbors with brass!   (Which to me wins hands down over the type of rap music they blast out of their back porch at times with the terrible lyrics.)

October 10, 2004 - Today was a lazy day.  I just got up from a nap.  I love naps.  The great escape without leaving the house is a good nap.   I have potato soup cooking slow on the stove.  It's a cozy afternoon.

My daughter is in the kitchen practicing her trombone.  She has the higher parts for "Summer of '42."  I was just out there giving her advise on the song, and she looked up and said, "You're not helping, Mom."  Hahaha.  I know when I'm not wanted.   My son has been practicing his trombone every night too.  He played us "Hot Cross Buns" last week, and those three notes never sounded so good.   I'm always fascinated how one can not know how to hold an instrument let alone play it one week, and then the next you're jammin' to "Hot Cross Buns."  Sigh.   The first week they had their instruments home to practice was memorable.  You could tell all the parents on the block sent their 6th graders outside to practice that first week or so.  It sounded like a moose mating jamboree outside. 

Speaking of my youngest son, he was laying all sprawled out on a lazy boy last week after waking up.  I was prodding him to get breakfast and get his day in gear.  He asked if there was any Count Chocula cereal left.  "No, you'll have to eat Cheerios!" I replied.   He rolled around in the chair for a while, whining that "Cheerios are too much work!"  Apparently getting up to get Count Chocula cereal versus Cheerios is easier.  I never realized this fact.  He explained that you have to stop and put sugar on Cheerios, of course, and it slows down the process and makes it impossible to enjoy your breakfast which makes pre-sugared cereals much better!  Here I was thinking that the amount of time he spent complaining about the Cheerios crisis he could have had Cheerios, made a light breakfast of toast and eggs, and hand squeezed orange juice for the community.  Go figure....

October 17, 2004 - I am sitting here trying very hard not to laugh out loud from the sheer joy of the family being together, plus what is taking place behind me. All the kids are in the living room right now, playing one instrument or another.  My oldest son has a old trombone out, but mind you he hasn't played a trombone for five years.  My youngest son has his trombone out but mind you, he's only played for five weeks.  My daughter, resident "best" trombonist in the house, is barking note and position instructions to the boys as she practices her guitar.  What a riot. 

The boys take turns playing "Hot Cross Buns" and "Easy Street" but not at the same time nor together.  My daughter is playing riffs from Nirvana songs at the same time, so the sound in the living room reminds me of the tune up session at the Boston Pops Christmas party in which someone spiked the punch...heavily.

October 21, 2004 - I bought a new car a few weeks ago.  I got tired of sharing my old car with my now mobile 17 year old.  With the new car payment, it means I have to actually cook dinners every night now.  No cheating and spending too much money going out to eat.  Making a dinner every night of every day of the week is a pain in the lower extremes!  Mind you, I'm not complaining that I have a new car.  I like it.  I named it "Midge" although it's turning out to be more of a "Bridgett."  I love it that my daughter has her "own wheels" now and we no longer have to play "Contour, Contour, Who Gets the Contour?"  I love it that I can send her to the store now at the slightest whim to fetch me something in her own vehicle, and she HAS to go as I am supplying the gas money for said vehicle.  I just don't like the nightly dinners.  Being creative seven days a week, four weeks a month is impossible, especially when my youngest son has the unique ability to remember every time we've had every possible meal combination for the last six years.  "Awww, Mom!  We had that in 1999!  Do we have to eat that again so soon??"  I have gotten around his constant complaining that my meals do not come in with a toy nor a side order of fries by letting him help me cook the meal.  He has input on spices and the like.  He's chief egg cracker when needed.   He has almost made a science out of the art of making chili.  I'm proud of him.  He gives me hints on cooking all the time now, such as "Mom, I see an onion!  Have you always used onions in that?  I think I'm gonna barf!  Get that thing out of my sight!" or "It can't be good, Mom, if you can see floaty green things in it!"  My favorite comment so far in the kitchen has been, "I say we feed it to the dog first to see if it kills her..."

I have come to the conclusion I just can't "do it all" anymore.  I can't keep getting up at 5:30 a.m. and working from home as I'm getting the kids up and in the shower while folding laundry and starting a new load and catching up on morning dishes and feeding the dogs and fish and kids, then going in to work physically just to come home and make dinner, help with homework, bark commands and sometimes work from home some more.  I need a wife.   Until I get one, I think I will go on strike this weekend.  There comes a time when you are running circles around everyone while they are motionless that you must stop and let someone else do the running for a while.  (My planned rebellion sounds good NOW, but will I feel the same when someone runs out of underwear because I have not done laundry and has to wrap a scrap of torn sheet around themselves in order to get dressed?   Hmmmmmm...I think I'll feel pretty darned good.)  :)

October 24, 2004 - Watching the news this morning, they were interviewing someone who had been shot while driving on the highway.  They've had several shootings on this stretch of I-44 highway.  Now tell me how these shootings and the shootings in Ohio not too long ago are anything less than terrorism?  In my mind, anything that makes us feel afraid to drive down the road is terrorism.  We may be the World's Police as a country, but we have lots of internal issues that need to be dealt with and NOT in therapy.  Sigh.  I think there should be lottery...interested groups put their names into the hat, and when people are arrested for different types of crimes and proven guilty, such as in this highway shooting spree, then a group is picked from the hat.  The group chosen gets the convict for one week prior to the convict serving his/her jail term.  I suggest highly many theater groups sign up for this, so they can stage re-enactments of the crimes with the convict as the victim(s).  

October 25, 2004 - It was all quite devastating, really.  As you may recall, I had upgraded my two year old goldfish to a ten gallon aquarium.  Freddy was getting WAY too big for a bowl.  Fred and Bill were doing just fine in their 10 gallon tank with the big filter and all.  I changed the filter once a week when I cleaned the rocks.  I learned just how to feed them right so the water didn't turn cloudy.  I thought I was being the perfect fish owner.  That is, until Freddy went belly up on Saturday. 

Freddy had grown to be almost 4.5 inches in length and almost that in girth, I swear.  Billy, by comparison, was a skinny anorexic fashion model.  Freddy was hearty and stout and I could not imagine ANYTHING that could kill him short of a harpoon.  Apparently my middle name is Harpoon.  Sigh.  I had taken apart the filter to clean it Saturday morning and thought I had done a smashing job.  I thought I had cleaned out all detergent that I had used to sanitize it.  I rinsed it well.  I put in a new filter bag.   I started it back up and all was well in Fishville.  Around two p.m., however, my daughter asked if it was natural for a fish to swim upside down.  It was Code Blue at the fish tank.  I got the old big bowl out and filled it with water and got Freddy out of the tank.  We took turns petting him as it were, rubbing his tummy and talking in an encouraging manner to him.  By three p.m. Freddy had passed to the great beyond.  My daughter got out her trombone and played him "Taps" and we had a proper flushing.  (My son was convinced Fred would not go down due to his size, but amazingly enough Freddy shot down the toilet with the grace of a professional luge team.)   I did not think anything was wrong with the tank at that time.  Fred was huge - and I thought he had just had enough of life.  I told my son he could buy a new fish when he and his sister went to the store later that day.  They came home with a small calico goldfish that my son named Cletus.  Cletus was tossed in the bowl with Bill, and Bill seemed very happy that now he was Big Fish on Campus.  Cletus swam with Bill for a time until, that is, Bill went belly up. 

Bill was my daughter's fish.  She was gone for the evening.  My son and I cleaned out the death bowl in waiting and got Bill into it.  As my son talked to Bill in a calming voice to help him pass to the other side, I got out the first little bowl we had, quickly rinsed it out and got Cletus out of the Death Tank and safely into some clean water.  After Bill passed, I covered the bowl to wait for my daughter to be present as we flushed him.   In the mean time, the whole tank was shut down and I cleaned it well and rinsed the heck out of it.  I tossed out the olds stones.  I broke down the filter again and cleaned it out as good as I could.  I scrubbed the decorations in the tanks.   The tank and toys and filters were left to dry over night.  Cletus would have to tolerate a night in the cheap motel bowl until I fixed the issue.

Then I went on line to search for the care and feeding of goldfish.  There are many pages that are full of wonderful information about goldfish and how to keep them alive!  I was amazed.   For three hours I read and read.  Did you know that there are TONS of things that can go wrong with a goldfish.  They can get Dropsy (acute and chronic), bacteria infections, ick, fin rot, tail rot, clamped fin, fungus, and they can also get constipated.  Cripes!  I read and read and read some more.  I was convinced, however, after I had read until my eyes bled, that I had killed the little boogers myself.  Apparently (except for fungus, ick, dropsy, and swim bladder issues, parasites, and depression) a goldfish is rather hearty breed of fish.  The only common denominator on all the goldfish pages was that fact that soap/detergent KILLS FISH.   I had just cleaned the filter earlier in the day ... had I left some in the filter pipes?  Sigh.  I had to be the cause of their untimely demise.  I felt pretty bad.  I had grown very fond of Bill and Freddy.

On Sunday, after the goldfish research, I had a list of things I needed to ensure there would not be a repeat of the tragedy on Saturday.  The family went to the local pet store and we picked out three more fish to room with Cletus. (Stan, Lucky, and Wadsworth.)  I got a bubble stone and motor to create proper tank aeration, plus a chemical testing kit as well as a new tank decoration that had a place where the fish could go and meditate if they needed to (for we all know all goldfish are probably Buddhist.)  All in all, I spent a hundred dollars on stupid goldfish.  In the car my daughter said, "I love your little obsessions, Mom.  They are fun!" 

She did not mean it in a bad way, but I know what she meant.  I tend to go off on tangents sometimes in life with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.  Currently, keeping goldfish alive is my obsessions.  I've had others... cutting out fancy holographic paper snowflakes and forcing them on loved ones, making Velveeta cheese dip and forcing it on loved ones, and crocheting doilies.  (The obsessions all pass in time, not unlike Bill and Fred.)

November 14, 2004 - Finally, I am alone.  The last week has been quite the roller coaster of emotions.  I am exhausted and mentally spent.  I think the fact that I am alone at this early hour in a nice quiet house a luxury to be treasured, and I am sipping my cup of coffee, basking in the moment.  Wait... after sipping my coffee I must go bask in the quiet in the bathroom... (something about coffee and pooping...) 

As of 6:00 a.m. this morning, there is only one live fish left in the tank.  After the demise of Bill and Fred, we got Cletus, and then Lucky, Stan, and Wadsworth.  I have been testing the tank every day with the little strips to make sure they were in a safe and non-stressed environment.  I have been doing all the right things, but apparently not ALL the right things.  Sigh.  Lucky was the first of the new fish to go belly up.   Then we found Stan stuck in the filter.  (He was alive at this time, but unable to swim away.  We got him out of the filter, and he swam around like a mad man for a while, but then a bit later, there he was - stuck in the filter again.    He died a bit later in the 'hospital' bowl.)  A few days later, Cletus was found dead in the sea bell where they sleep.  The "flushings" have become quick and non-emotional.  I had already made plans to donate the tank and filters and such to the school and had plans for that space after Wadsworth bit the big one, but he has yet to bite anything.  He is lonely, you can tell, but he lives on.   Sigh.

November 18, 2004 - It doesn't matter what time you wake up your 11 year old in the morning, they will fart around until they have 3.5 minutes to get ready for school.  I believe it has something to do with physics;  some theory in science that states this very fact that for every 60 minutes prior to school a pre-teen has to get their poop in a group they will waste 57 of those minutes on dancing, deciding what to wear, eating cereal one tiny piece at a time, rolling on the floor with the kitten, talking to themselves in the bathroom mirror (about nothing, really) and sitting upside down on the couch playing drums on their stomach.

November 21, 2004 - Sunday Again.  I am updating this thing if it kills me.  Sitting down and typing is so relaxing to me.  Like playing the piano.  So now, I play...

They are predicting snow for Thanksgiving here.  I could use that.  I love snow, as we all know.   This time of year is always so BLAH and ICKY with all the leaves gone and mud everywhere.  I hope it snows.  I need the snow.

Sparky the Spaz dog the we loved so dearly is now running with the angels.  She had a bad spell the last week of October.  Not uncommon for her, as the fall always brought on a bout of sugar issues.  Since she was diagnosed with diabetes, fall/winter has been her worse months.  This time, however, it wasn't just sugar that was the problem, it was her back as well.  She would always have lower back problems soon after a bad time with her diabetes and we could deal with them as separate issues.  This time they came on at once.  She ended up with an infection of her intestines, too.  She was on antibiotics and a pain killer and anti-inflammatory for her back, and my daughter had gone with me for that vet visit.  The doctor had explained in detail some of our options when it came to her back and possible operations, but they all involved selling the house and living in a cardboard box to afford it.  (I know he was explaining things so well to help prepare my daughter for what must come and I thank him for that with all my heart.)  Sparky was my daughter's dog.  It was clear to all who knew them that they were a couple but who was the pet?  Sparky and my daughter were a like peas and carrots. 

By the time I took Sparky back to the vet for hospitalization on November 8th, she could barely use her back hind legs to walk nor could she control her bowels and urine.  I would go every morning to feed her and every night to feed her (as she wouldn't eat for the people at the vet clinic) and she was no better.  Her sugar was way out of control, and he was working on getting her back on track with no luck.  Every morning I would discuss things with the vet, and by Wednesday, I was emotionally spent.  Seeing her degrade so fast and not a thing I could do about it was killing me.  Thursday morning I told him I couldn't keep this up;  that it was "time."  He scheduled the euthanasia for 5:45 Thursday night. 

I stopped at a store and bought my daughter a stuff dog she could hold and cry if she needed to, then went to work.  All day long I cried at work.  I couldn't help it.  I know Sparky was just a dog, but what a dog she was.  I loved her very much.  I have had two most beloved dogs in my life, and Sparky was one of them.  Dogs who are more than 'dogs' and more like a member of the family.  Dogs that make you feel honored to be part of their pack, not the other way around.  Sigh.  Deb at work brought me a 'hug' card and a beautiful ceramic angel.  I cried harder.   Jim brought me a bunch of balloons.  I cried more.  (Jim knows that for me, balloons are required for all occasions, even the sad ones.  Jim can be very insightful sometimes.)  People were very supportive that day and I adore them for it.

After she got home from school, I called and told my daughter what was going to happen.  She wanted to be with Sparky, so she came with me.  We cried on the way there.  We cried when we walked into the doctor's office.  We cried when they brought Sparky to us.   They had a box of Kleenex in the room, and we had brought one ourselves.  Good thing.  They laid out a nice fluffy blanket for Sparky to lay on, and gave her the shot to relax her first.  The doctor and assistant left us alone for a while with Sparky as the shot took effect and to give us time to say goodbye. 

Sparky was not about to relax.  It wasn't until my daughter grabbed Sparky's face and in sobs, talked directly to her about her life, from the time we got her as a puppy until that very day, that she finally laid down.  I felt bad for Sparky, as she was covered with our tears, and we kept drying her off.  I thought my daughter was very brave, personally.   Here was her companion of sorts, her best animal friend, and even though she was sobbing, she was supportive and loving.  Finally the doctor and assistant came back in and did the euthanasia shot, and it was over quickly.  The assistant left and the doctor stayed with us as we wept and he talk to my daughter about how she had done such a wonderful job with Sparky.  (How many teenagers would learn to inject a dog with insulin twice a day?)  He also told us that we did what we could for Sparky, and that Sparky was a lucky dog.  (Sympathy can be "odd" but required for all parties involved.) 

We left the office and held each other in the parking lot and cried hard and long.  Once we could see again, we went home and we took Jim's balloons and released them as we played "Dear John" by Styx.  The first balloon flew directly into the 'squirrel' tree and got stuck.  We laughed as we sobbed.  "I shake my fist at you, squirrel tree!" my daughter yelled.  We remember how many hours Sparky had spent chasing squirrels up that tree.  Then we walked out to the road and launched the other balloons and said goodbye to Sparky.  Sparky would have been seven years old in December.

During Sparky's stay at the vet, there was a kitten that the vet's office was trying to get adopted out.   Someone had brought a litter of kittens to them, and they had homes for all except this one, who had come in with an infection in it's lungs and it's eyes were stuck shut with infection, as well.  The doctor and the girls at the office had taken the kitten under their wing and nursed him back to heath.  The doctor had done several operations to open it's eyes and treated and cured the infections the kitten had.   Stewie (the kitten) was always a nice distraction when we went in to feed Sparky, and he would play with us through the cage or play with my daughter's hair.

So, on Friday, in my reflective mood from the night before, I called them and asked if we could have Stewie.   They said they had one other person that had expressed interest in Stewie, and they had given that person until six p.m. Friday night to come and get Stewie.  I wanted Stewie.  So, after work, I stopped in to pay my bill for Sparky, give them the extra insulin needles I would not be needing to give to another person with a diabetic pet, and see if the other person had come to get Stewie yet.  The doctor said if they were not there to get Stewie by 6:01, I could have him for sure.  So I drove up and did some grocery shopping, getting a box of kitten food because I was convinced I would be going home with a kitten, and then I drove around, waiting for 6:00 p.m. to swing back into the vet's parking lot.  Just as I was turning into the parking lot, they called me on my cell phone to tell me to come and get the kitten. 

In a matter of minutes, Stewie was added to my account at the vet's, I got a complimentary bag of Iam's kitten food, and "New Kitten" welcome package, and Stewie.  They had let him out to run while they did the paperwork, and Stewie flew in circles around the vet clinic.  He was in 'prance' mode as he did this, running sideways and hunched up.   I laughed.  It felt good to laugh.  "Did we mention we nicknamed him Hitler?" they said as I parted.  (Even though he was a kitten terror, you could tell they were all sad that he was leaving.  He was the 'house' cat for months, and they had all grown to love Stewie.)

So now, we have a kitten in the house.  Odie, who is nearing 15 years old, now the only dog on site, is not pleased with the kitten, but stays away from Stewie and sighs a lot. (Odie does seemed pleased to be bigger than another animal in the house for once, however.)  Muffy, who has got to be 7 years old now and at least 18 lbs. of pure male cat, is the most tolerant of Stewie.  He is huge compared to the kitten, and seems to understand that he, too, was once a terror and able to bounce over the house with a single bound.  Muffy lays on the floor and lets Stewie maul him, and just flips his tail on occasion and after a set amount of time, sits up and thunks Stewie appropriately on the head as if to say, "Enough, Young One!  ENOUGH!"  Taffy, however, does not accept the kitten and stays outside more.  He will play with the kitten's toys, as if to say, "I'm five years old, I'm an adult, and I will play with your stupid cat toys whenever I please for I am superior to you in all ways!  Ah Ha!  Meow and Hiss!"  

So let us sum this all up.  PETA and Seaworld probably had a warrant out for my arrest for goldfish abuse.  It's fall and icky and muddy and dark and we need snow.  We put our most favorite dog to sleep, and adopted a spastic kitten.  We now have to check the dryer twice before we turn it on in case Stewie has made a leap into the thing, which he does with such accuracy and speed I'm thinking of entering him into the Kitten Olympics.   We no longer walk to the bathroom alone in the middle of the night, we have Stewie clinging to our legs, biting and flailing wildly.  Next week is Thanksgiving dinner, and I look forward to the turkey and post-Turkey consumption comas and pumpkin pie.   All in all - life is on an even keel.

December 12, 2004 - It is starting to spit snow outside!  Hurray!   I want snow. We're supposed to get some lake effect snow tonight, too!  (I would like a blizzard, but beggars won't be choosers here.  And really, now that I ponder it, what would I do if my kids finally did see a real blizzard?  My days of waxing poetic about "The winter of '78!" would be over.  No more, "Now that was a snow storm!  We had two weeks off of school, we did!  Snow banks higher than a snow plow!  There was snow piled up clean into June.  But of course, there was the winter of '66, too!  That was a big one..." would be over and I'd have to resort to spewing forth stories about their childhood when I wanted to wax poetic, and those stories are always interrupted by some smart butt child of mine claiming, "No, Mom, that wasn't me, that was him!" or even worse I'd have to talk about MY CHILDHOOD (in which the best material is mostly based on the snow storms of '78 and '66).  Perhaps just a nice light dusting of snow would be nice.

We had to get a new washer and dryer.  (That is my Christmas present.)  It has been a tradition in our house since I was married that a major appliance explodes or starts on fire on a major holiday.  Getting a new set was preventative self preservation.  The old washer's transmission was shot and everything you washed was off balance and it was leaking.  She was old, so she had served us well.  The dryer was the same age and still heated well, but had the strength of an anorexic hamster in an exercise wheel when it came to tumbling clothes.  The new set of Maytag's are doing well.  They laugh at my oversized loads, "Baaah, in my country we used to wash three times as much, but with our bare teeth!  This load is NOTHING!  Ah Ha!"

My daughter's band concert was last week and it was wonderful.  There are a lot of kids in band, so what they may lack in talent at this point is made up by the volume of sound.  'Sleigh Ride' was wonderful and the crowd gave them a standing ovation.  I cannot explain how much I adore band music.  It washes through me and makes me weep with joy.  My youngest son's first band concert is this week.  I cannot wait to here them play.   My daughter got to play with the University of Michigan Marching Band last weekend and was just amazed.  "The sound!" she will say with far away eyes, then sigh a lot.  She has been practicing like a heathen since then, which I think is the whole reason the band director sent her and several others.  Sometimes you can be good at something, and think you know all you need to know about that something when in reality learning never stops and you can always improve.  She needed this little reminder. 

I have my shopping done for the holidays for my immediate herd and as always went too far into debt.  It is so easy to point and click and order on line!  At least the shopping is done.   Christmas decoration went up the weekend after Thanksgiving, and Stewie the new kitten assumes all the Christmas decorations are up for his personal pleasure, so that has been a hoot.  I've only found one strand of tinsel in the kitty litter box so we've been successful for the most part keeping him away from the tree.  I am missing one glass ornament, however, and we've yet to find it anywhere.  I doubt he ate it, as he would be dead by now, but where in this tiny house did he hide it?  The search for this ornament would be a good Trilogy. 

Wadsworth the Survivor, winner of my own personal reality fish tank show, lives on and seems content being the only fish in the tank.  He will follow us back and forth when we're in the kitchen and if I could take him out to play with us, I would.  I have tried not to get too attached to him, however, as we all know what happens to fish in my house.  I had an idea of having a fish tank that hooks right up to the septic system...one that sets on that wax ring thingy that toilets set on and the whole works, just in case, with a flushing handle and everything.

Sometimes I feel down and out around this time of year...I have tried hard to fill my house with holiday spirit.  I feel, however, that my efforts are always taken for granted.  It's assumed that "Mom will take care of all of that stuff" and I wonder if my kids will carry it on in their lives when I am gone?  When I was in the library the other morning (a.k.a. bathroom) I was pondering how I'm the one who starts the Christmas process and decorates and is joyful and giddy and singing.  I am the one who makes out the cards and gets the presents.  I hope and pray my kids will give their kids this same feeling of magic (BUT that is me assuming I gave that to my kids to begin with. Sometimes, I wonder...)  Then, after all that lamenting and tying up the bathroom, I take my Pamprin and quit my whining and get on with the whole life thing.   After all, I did survive the winter of '78.... 

Back to the Archive Page