Life in the Poo Lane

From August, 2008

This is what I woke up to a week ago yesterday.  I went out to take Zooey on one her daily grass hunting trips (which, at last count, amount to six-hundred-and-thirty-one forays per day, only three of which resulted in any approved behavior) and was greeted by this wonderful banner, created by my equally wonderful husband.

Which got him off the hook for the "none of your business" comment I'd received from him when I asked him what was taking him so dang long in the basement the night before.

Zooey and I walked around the yard a bit, and I continued to admire the quality and craftsmanship of the banner...mainly how the letters were all of the same height and that there were no typos.

As I was reflecting on what the last twenty-seven years have brought us, I noticed Zooey doing her business - in a really major way - right underneath my beautiful sign.  "Zooey!" I cried.  She responded by bounding over to me, wagging her tail, her tongue hanging out of her mouth.  She thought I was happy with her.

Well, I thought, that's pretty accurate.  Marriage is sometimes more crap than you bargained for - in inappropriate places and inconvenient times.

But there's also a lot of stuff that makes you laugh and smile and forget about the poo.

on the road again

Ron doesn't like me to broadcast when he's out of town because I guess he thinks all of my Face Book friends are, in reality, horrible serial killers and time the plan of the demise of their victims based on FB posts.

So, for the record.  Ron's not out of town.  For real.  But he was gone Monday-Thursday this week.  First in Tennessee, then Alabama and then back to Tennessee.  And wouldn't you know it there was a time difference in each place, so in one day he changed time zones four times.

There should be some sort of Workers' Comp for crap like that.  Circadian Rhythm Relief.

Ron generally travels in spurts, being gone three weeks in a row to three different job sites.  Then he's home for a while and then he's gone.  It's not an easy rhythm to adjust to...kind of like jazz (boo).

When he tells me he's going on a trip, I get all like "Whhhhhyyyyyyy do you have to leave me againnnnnnnnnnnnn?"  As soon as I've made him feel sufficiently guilty, I start a mental note of all the things I can do when he's gone...

*stay up as late as I want
*sleep in as late as I want...OK, I do that whether he's in town or now, but I feel sneakier about it when he's gone
*eat Cheerios, Cream of Wheat or Lean Cuisine Chicken Alfredo for every meal
*bribe the kids into going out to eat with me
*watch as much bad TV as I want without him accusing me of plotting his murder.  I actually watch more cooking shows when he's out of town, but I guess adding the right/wrong ingredient...
*paint to my heart's content on my ginormous paint-by-number masterpiece.  That is, until we got Piper, who has put the kibosh on my creations for the time being.  It's hard to paint when you've got a kitten in your face.

At this point, it's rather remarkable (scary) how fast I fall into "Gone Ron" mode. There's a freedom knowing that I don't have to fix a good dinner every night, or wonder if I'll have the car for the day, or if I'll need to do some research in order to have scintillating dinner conversation.

Who am I kidding?  Our conversation is generally along the lines of "Why did you buy a vowel, you idiot???"

Yesterday he called me all excited and said, "Guess what?"  I got all prepared for something really stupendous.  "I'm getting home five hours early!"

"Awesome" is what I said.  "Crap" is what I thought.  There goes my evening of binge-watching "Chopped" and my dinner of Trader Joe's chicken Parmesan lolly pops.  Bummer, man.

That was my initial thought.  My second thought was that I was glad he'd be home early so he could get a good night's sleep after time zone hopping all week.

That, and I'd been missing his lovely kisses all week.

Next time...a Downton Abbey character study

Oh, and FYI...look for some rePosts from the Past every weekend...

America, take a seat, please

There may be some who read this that will mutter the line, "Well, if you don't like it, leave."  Let me be very clear about this.

I love my country.  I love the freedoms it affords and I love that I can worship when and where and how I choose.  Although I don't own a gun, I'm glad those who like to hunt and feel the need to protect themselves are allowed to have them.  You will, however, never, ever, ever convince me that it should be legal to sell automatic weapons to anyone other than police personnel.  Don't even try.

I have great admiration and respect for the men and women who are in far flung places around the world defending our freedoms.

Yet, for all the love I feel towards this country I also strongly feel that there is vast room for improvement.  For example:

*The US ranks fourteenth (out of forty) in cognitive skills and education attainment.*

*The US ranks second in ignorance (out of 14) about social statistics such as teen pregnancy, unemployment rates and voting patterns.* 

*The US ranks 24th (out of 65) in literacy.*

*The US ranks 17th (out of 40) in educational performance.*

*Seventy-five percent of the US is monolingual (when I was telling Kate this I said "monolithic").

I recently watched a documentary on HBO called "American Winter," which put a spotlight on eight Portland, OR families facing extreme financial difficulty (I know...I'm watching quite a bit of sobering television lately...don't worry, I watch my fair share of junk, too).

All were facing eviction and/or on the verge of having their utilities disconnected.  Most families had no income coming in, and if they did, it was one person in the family with a part-time job.

Assuming the situation is similar in Kansas, a family of of four, with one full-time minimum wage earner can expect to make $15,080 per year.  The poverty level for a family of four is $23,850.

Now, most of these families would qualify for some type of assistance, but the situation remains bleak.  

If both parents worked full-time at minimum wage AND had to pay daycare for one child (approximately $11,664 per year) that drops them back down to $18,496.

So, I've come up with a plan that could work.  Actually, given its simplicity in nature it probably never would.

But here it is anyway.

The highest paid athlete in the world is Floyd Mayweather ($105 million in 2014)

The highest paid actor last year was Robert Downey, Jr ($75 million)

The highest paid actress last year was Angelina Jolie ($30 - do you notice that she earned LESS than half than Downey?)

A thirty second commercial in Sunday's Super Bowl costs $4.5 million

The 2014 combined total income of the New England Patriot's football team is $132,745,307**

The 2014 combined total income of the Seattle Seahawk's football team is $130,532,679**

Do I really need to say any more?  I know, I know, I know that those things generate income and that many of the people involved are very philanthropic.  

But even if we took a couple hundred million from the entertainment industry, think of how many job training centers could be funded. 

Think how many little bellies would be full every night.

Think how many lives could be lifted out of poverty.

Think how much more attainable the American Dream would be for many.

I know my thinking is Pollyanna-ish.  But we really, really, really could do so much better.

And there are many other aspects of our culture/practices/ideology that I think could stand some realignment, but I'll leave that for another post.

 

This is a link to the first episode of HBO's "Newsroom."  Will McAvoy, a CNN-type anchorman (played brilliantly by Jeff Daniels) responds to the question "What makes America the best country in the world?)  It's simply brilliant (warning...the eff bomb is present)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTjMqda19wk

*Statistics from Ranking America

**Does not include $15.5 million in head coach salaries

Next time...on the road again

the sweet (and savory) taste of success

So, trying to narrow down my favorite foods to five is a lot like trying to pick your favorite child.  Which you should never, ever, ever do.  While I've never really done that, there have been multiple times when I've had "you're not my favorite child at this moment" experiences.  And I'd say it's been equally divided between all three children.

Those of you who know I only have two children can figure it out. (Love you, honey!)

But...on to the goodies, in no particular order, but I'm going to number them so I don't lose track.

Number One...Strawberry Creme Soup
I've probably talked about this before, but I'm hoping that you, like me, can't really remember if I have or not.

This particular concoction makes an appearance on our breakfast table exactly one time per year.  Or maybe two, if we're having fancy company for breakfast.  On Christmas Eve I whip it up and on Christmas morning we each enjoy a small bowlful of this decadent creaminess.  Each of us except my kids, who haven't yet developed the sophisticated palate necessary to appreciate its lusciousness.

(This would be an example of both Kate and Tyler not being my favorite child, because, despite years and years and years of trying to cultivate a cultural diversity of taste, I have been unsuccessful.  And that's their problem, not mine.)

Back to the glory...There are so many components of this once-a-year favorite that it's hard to put a finger on what makes it unique.  Maybe it's the sour cream.  Maybe it's the whipping cream.  Maybe it's the exact combination of powdered sugar, regular sugar, lemon juice, vanilla and grenadine.  Maybe it's the cinnamon sprinkle and mint garnish.

Maybe it's knowing that this could very well be the last meal you eat due to all the saturated fat involved.

Whatever it is, it is other worldly and makes me groan with every mouthful.

Number Two...Macarons from Paresi's Cafe
These delightful little morsels are a new favorite.  Kate first told me about them (so maybe her palate is more sophisticated than I give her credit for), and they are AMAZING.

Sandwiched between the crisp and chewy top and bottom cookie is a velvety smooth creamy center that melts in your mouth.  They come in all sorts of flavors...my favorites are raspberry, chocolate mint and salted caramel.  And they're just as pretty as a picture, with a stunning array of beautiful pastels.

Now I've had some macarons that are a bit too chewy and the filling too grainy, so when I found these gems I was in heaven.

I am so enamored with these that when I saw a post on Face Book from Martha with a recipe I thought "I could save myself a bunch of money if I could learn to make these."

I got to the part where it said to bake them one sheet at a time, and once they were done to heat up the oven to 375 for five minutes and then lower it back down to 325 when I figured my time is too valuable to waste.  It's worth the occasional trip south to get my fix. (Also a winner on Paresi's menu is the goat cheese and fig croissant...they warm it up for you and my, oh my.  YUM!)

Number Three:  Gnocchi with Alfredo Sauce 
I haven't had this is a few years and that's probably a good thing.  It's so sinful it's divine.  Paulo & Bill's has gnocchi on their menu, but it's with red sauce.  I always used to ask for Alfredo and, being the consummate hosts that they are, they would accommodate me.  The gnocchi are boiled and then gently sauteed until they're a nice nutty brown with a little bit of crispiness on the outside, soft as butter on the inside.  Alfredo sauce is then ladled on until the whole pile is swimming in a spectacular puddle of unctuousness.  (I learned that last word on "Chopped.")

And I'm just remembering why we haven't been there in a few years.  Last time we were there, our dinner was complete and we were just sitting there, too full to move.  About that time, a long-legged brunette sashayed past our table, causing Ron to slowly turn his head, not unlike Reagan in "The Exorcist," but in slow motion.

Just then our waitress arrived to inquire whether we'd like dessert.  I said, probably not very nicely,  "I think he just had his.  Check please."

Number Two:  Cinnamon Toast
There is nothing quite as comforting as a slice of piping hot cinnamon toast.  Brings me right back to my childhood, when my dad would make us this spicy, buttery treat.  Slathering the white bread (of course) with a nice even layer of margarine (not too much, though), he'd sprinkle the top liberally with a cinnamon/sugar mixture.  Then he'd pop it under the broiler until the top was brown and bubbly.  A crunchy top and super soft underside...I'm gonna go make me some right now.  But with butter.

Number One: Biscuits and Gravy at the Ritz
It's now called the Interncontinental Hotel here in Kansas City and it's been probably twenty years since I had this delicious plate of standard comfort food, but it was seriously the best thing I think I've ever tasted.  The gravy was ultra smooth, with just the right amount of sausage bits.  The biscuits were light and fluffy and really just exquisitely perfect.  And I think I had fresh squeezed orange juice, too.

Ah, those were the days.  I don't eat food like that much anymore...which is fine.  These days a nice sauteed tilapia with caramelized onions and peppers, drizzled with a bit of citrus gastrique is what fires up my taste buds.

Which is just as well...if I ate those foods on a regular basis, I doubt I'd be sitting here dreaming up ways to make your mouth water.

Bon Apetit!

Next time: Why America Needs A Time Out

let's talk about _ _ _

OK.  Deep breath...

I blame it on this month's cover of Vogue, which arrived at our home last week.  It has a picture of Dakota Johnson on it and I have no idea who she is, but I do know (because it's right there in black and white) that she's in the upcoming film adaptation of "Fifty Shades of Grey."

I also blame it on Showtime's "The Affair."

Blame what, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you.  It was first a discussion just between me and Kate, and then Ron came in, so I dragged him into it and two hours later Tyler came over so I dragged him (quite unwillingly, I might add...at least at first) into this discussion of SEX.

Because I've lived over five decades and have been a keen observer of human behavior and have read a lot of books and watched a lot of television and movies, I feel completely qualified to make these very general statements.

I got through about a third of the way through "Fifty Shades" before I chucked into my nightstand drawer.  I've watched four or five episodes of  "The Affair" and I told Kate this weekend I wasn't sure I could finish it.

Why?

Because both portray an absolutely ridiculous and fantastical (root word "fantasy") version of what the male/female sexual relationship actually is.  And there's the whole adultery thing, too ("The Affair").  Which is really my main complaint, but the whole sex thing is more titillating.

Can we be honest?  I will admit that perhaps in the first days and months of a relationship, sex can be quite charged with eroticism.  Hell, it may continue in that vein for a year or two or more, but quite frankly it's been so long that Ron and I have heard waves crashing on the shore or seen fireworks shooting into the night, that I might just be jaded about the whole thing.

Don't get me wrong.  Ron and I have a healthy, thriving sex life.  Although Ron would probably ask me to define "healthy" and "thriving."

But I don't think I'm far off the mark.  I think books and movies that glamorize sex as wild, crazy and insatiable romps in multiple locations in one 24-hour period are doing great damage to the normal, REAL sex lives of Jane and John Doe.  I think it's a setup for failure and disappointment for most long-term relationships.  And I think it creates a perfect storm for affairs to take root and grow into really dangerous and damaging situations.

I'm not saying that discerning adults are unable to differentiate between fantasy and reality.  I'm saying that these forms of media that are constantly bombarding us are basically brow beating us to want what we don't have.

But is it really what we want?

Is there any woman out there who really believes that getting banged (literally and figuratively) against a bedroom wall is pleasurable?  I saw that recently in "The Affair" and it didn't make me ache with passion.  It made my lower back hurt.

What I want is an intimacy that transcends the actual mechanics of sex.  I would go so far as to say that I think most women want that.  Men?  Not being one, I don't feel qualified to answer, but I'll go ahead and say not so much.  Case in point...

So, as I'm having this conversation with Kate (who kept yelling, "MOM!" when I'd divulge anything the least bit personal about Ron and me), I went on to explain that the unfettered reciprocal dynamics of these cataclysmic love scenes are also completely unrealistic.

At this point Ron came in from the garage so I decide to use (aka entrap) him in defense of my emerging theory. I asked him if he thought, on average, that men - unless schooled or encouraged or nagged - would voluntarily put the needs of their partner above their own.  "Nope," was his answer.  Tyler concurred.

There you have it.

Men and women are inherently different.  Well, that's no surprise to any of us, is it?  It's been the topic of numerous books and talk shows and movies over the years.  But - and here's what's so telling - who's reading those books and who's watching those talk shows and who's dragging their boyfriends/husbands to all those chick flicks?  WOMEN!  We get all armed and dangerous with statistics and suggestions and techniques, and, well, the menfolk ain't havin' none of it.

I remember making a small suggestion to Ron during an intimate moment and he did not like it one bit.  OK, so it was probably more like an instruction manual, not a small suggestion.  We both took notes.

I was talking to my friend, Kim, about this whole difference in hard wiring in men and women and she said that it was one of the questions she has for God, when it's her turn in line.  Why is this most important relationship between men and women so often fraught with anxiety and ambiguity ?  Why are we so, so different?

My answer?  In the beginning, we were told told to go forth and multiply.  God gave man a strong sex drive to make sure the seed(s) was planted.  God gave woman the capacity to nurture the seed and make it thrive.

My question to God?  Why isn't there an "off" switch on the guys?  Or at least a "pause" button.

Post Script:  If you want a frank, scientific and clinical discussion on all matters of sex, YouTube "Sex Talk With Sue"...she's a very educated, grandmotherly-type woman who pulls no punches and cannot be shocked by anything her callers throw at her.  It's a very matter-of-fact discussion about this sometimes very touchy subject.  Think Dr. Ruth on steroids.

Next time...my five favorite foods

i'm more ready than you think

Maybe a Day Late...

Picture this...my mother, in the bathroom, standing in her slip with a curling iron in her hair.  "I'm more ready than you think."  If I've heard this line once, I've heard it a million times.  Not even kidding a little.

My mother is famously late.  Never been on time to anything in her life.  I told her my wedding was at 4:00, not 4:30, so she'd be on time.  At 4:15 she's still at home, with our guestbook in hand.  I have no idea how many people were at our wedding.

I've heard her say that line so many times I've threatened to have it engraved on her tombstone...

...But NEVER a Dollar Short

Being the good Norwegian that she is, my mom is a saver.  Nothing goes to waste.  I cannot remember a time when there weren't margarine (not butter) wrappers in her fridge to grease the cake pan, folded up aluminum foil in the drawer and a little container of used twisty things (but no more than six, because she read an article on organization/decluttering that told her that six was the ideal number).  

Lately, she's taken to having an empty cereal bag up against the back splash as her "scraps" receptacle.

The kids have learned - the hard way - to carefully check expiration dates on anything they consume from the refrigerator.  Kinda scary, kinda funny.

Now, I know most of this comes from growing up during the Great Depression, and I greatly admire her ability to stretch a dollar.

But...there was a year in high school when all I wanted for Christmas was a make-up mirror.  You know, the kind with all the lights around it.  Mom gave me one she found at a hospital bazaar for a quarter and three of the bulbs were burned out. 

Cursing

For years, my mom, also a good Christian woman, would only - occasionally - swear.  But she'd spell it...d-a-m-n.  That was about as bad as it got.  Then, one year, Ron and I brought a video recorder to their house and I was filming her.  She asked me if it was audibly recording what she was saying.  I said, yes, it was.  There was a fairly long pause as she stared blankly into the lens.  "Well, I'll be damned."  Makes me laugh even today.

Technology

Hates it with a passion.  Has never used an ATM, has pumped gas maybe once or twice in her life and, until very recently, asked every store clerk she encountered if they accepted debit cards.  I finally told her, "Mom, EVERYONE accepts debit cards."

My dad used to have a computer and if was going to be out of town she'd make him turn it off.  Because it made a weird noise.

When I told her I could Google her name and stuff would come up, she was appalled.  She'd be even more appalled if I told her among the things that come up were financial contributions, her address and phone number and an obituary of someone with her name (now that I find odd...her name's not that common).

As much as she deplores the Internet, she is completely fascinated by Face Book and frequently asks me to find people, which I'm happy to do.  I love being able to show her pictures of friends from long ago (or their children).  She gets the most incredulous looks on her face...priceless.

I love my mom to pieces.  She has more wisdom than most people, a fabulous sense of humor and the patience of a saint.

And she still has the power to make me laugh so hard I need to borrow her Depends.  Well, not exactly borrow.

Next time...an adults only conversation about S-E-X (if I have the guts to do it)

scraps of cloth

My mom has a degree in Home Economics, which was a fairly common pursuit for women who went to college in the late 1940's.  I'm not sure one could even obtain that kind of degree these days.

I've no idea what courses she took to get that degree, but I know for sure quite a few involved cooking and sewing.

She, for the most part, is a very "by the book" cook, using recipes for most meals.  I have nothing against that...many of my favorite recipes come from a Pillsbury cookbook I got for a wedding gift.  And, I have a fair share of my mom's recipes in my culinary repertoire.

When I was a kid, we had evening meals as a family and all the food groups were represented...every night.  And we always had some sort of dessert, even if it was only jello.  She knew her way around a kitchen.

Sewing was another matter.  It did not come easily to her.  But, she didn't let that stop her.  Probably once a year she would create something for me.  I remember standing for hours as she pinned the patterned pieces around me.

I hated it.

I did not like standing still for that long and I did not being poked by the straight pins she used.  Getting the thing off once it was pinned was pure torture.

And, I'm sad to say, I didn't really like any of the clothes she made me, because, well, they always looked homemade.  Sorry, mom.  I admit I was relieved when I got to the age when it was no longer cool to wear homemade frocks.

So, last week she told me she had something to give me.  Something she'd moved from house to house to house since 1971.

It was a plastic bag filled with scraps of cloth from every piece of clothing she'd ever made for me.

That kind of melted my heart.

When I saw it, I immediately identified most of the pieces and could remember the dress or skirt she'd made.  It was a wonderful trip down memory lane (with just a few niggling pin prick sensations).

I wasn't that surprised that she'd kept it.  She's a pack rat.  When we went on a trip to Williamsburg, VA when I was in college, she brought along a Woman's Day or McCall's from the 60's to read.  I'm tellin' you, the woman is a trip.

I'm going to do something with the fabric...maybe make a framed collage.

I think I'll make two...one for me and one for the seamstress who lovingly stitched every hem and seam for her daughter.

Who didn't appreciate it then...but does now.

Next time...more funny stories about my mom

disillusioned

I watched a show on PBS Sunday night, part of their Independent Lens series.  It was called "Kill Team," the story of American soldier Adam Winfield and his attempt to stop war crimes against unarmed Afghani citizens.  The men carrying out these heinous crimes were members of his own platoon.

For months he'd been messaging back and forth with his father about the situation, not sure what to do.  Knowing that if he tried to work the usual chain of command it would just come back down to him.  At home, Winfield's father, himself a veteran, made repeated calls to military officials, eventually being told that "stuff like that happens."

In Afghanistan, the body count of innocent civilians was rising.  Individuals were targeted, gunned down and then soldiers would plant weapons on the victims in order to defend their actions.  When word of the incidents was leaked by a Pfc, he was beaten and the platoon leader threatened to kill him, saying he would go home in a body bag.

Winfield was similarly threatened, his SSG saying that they could cut him up in little pieces and feed them to Afghani dogs and no one would know what happened to him.  In May, 2011, another target was selected and Winfield was told to shoot him.  According to Winfield, he was among the soldiers who fired at the man, but he didn't aim at the 45-year old.  Once a pineapple grenade had been planted near the body, the SSG walked up to the corpse and fired two shots into his head.  He then made Winfield and another soldier pose with the body.  Not unlike a hunter poses with his kill.

In the end, Winfield was charged with murder, but plead guilty to a lesser charge.  He received a three year sentence.  The SSG was sentenced to life in prison and a Cpl was sentenced to 24 years in prison.

The Pfc who first leaked the information about the killings said (here I paraphrase) that "from the moment we enter boot camp until the day our tour is up, they are taught to kill, kill, kill.  So why, then, when we do it, do people get pissed off?"  As if to say, our whole mission is to kill.  When there's not enough legit action, we feel like we're failing.  So people get creative.

Apparently, it's also a big deal to get a Infantry Combat Badge.

I'd like to think that this is an isolated case, but soldiers interviewed for the film indicate that their platoon was not the only one involved in this kind of activity.

Something's wrong here...very wrong.  No wonder the incidences of PTSD are alarmingly high.

Somebody needs to fix our military.

Here's a link to the documentary trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9uMa8ztGGk

lost...and found - the rest of the story

Seven years went by without any contact.  The hurt was still there - a dull ache that reasserted itself often, sometimes when I'd least expect it.  A song on the radio...a funny card...a glimpse into their lives via a mutual friend's Facebook post.

On a Saturday in November, 2012, Ron, Tyler and I ventured downtown to the West Bottoms to scour the eclectic collection of vintage-stuffed warehouses open the first weekend of each month.  (If you've never been, you MUST go...food vendors, new merchandise every month and a guaranteed walk down memory lane as you see stuff from your childhood that you'll immediately wish you'd kept).

Anyway, we were wandering through Good JuJu and Ron came up behind me and whispered, "They're here."  I knew immediately who he was talking about, and my heart started racing a mile a minute.  My first thought was "Don't lose it, don't lose it."  I'd thought about this moment many, many times and was quite certain I would just fall to the floor in an awful mess.

But, I didn't.  We greeted each other with hugs and spent a good while talking.  It was a perfect place to have this chance encounter (aside from the place being called Good Juju - I knew juju, good or otherwise, had anything do to with it; there was a far greater presence at work) - public, crowded, low stress, perfectly timed.  I did tear up a bit when I spoke with my friend briefly about her mom.  We promised to get together soon.

A week later, my friend and I sat in our living room and talked for probably a good three hours.  We talked about our kids, our husbands, our parents...and she shared with me the story of her mom's final days.  Something she hadn't shared with anyone.  Ever.

In that moment I knew that God had repaid the years the locusts had eaten (Joel 2:25).

It was as if no time had passed.  Soon the four of us were sharing meals together, hitting the West Bottoms, and spending much time reflecting on the journeys our lives have taken.

This past summer, Ron and I traveled to St. Paul to witness their daughter's wedding...it was mercifully sweet.

A few months later, we grieved together at the passing of another parent, so grateful for the opportunity to support and love on them in person.

 At Christmas both families reunited for hours of talking, eating, laughing and sharing.

I'd always loved our gatherings in the past...now I cherish these moments, knowing that we've all been given a gift of a lifetime...that cliched second chance.  Cliche or not, it's not to be underrated.

Never - ever - take a cherished friendship for granted.  Nurture it.  Be honest and vulnerable.  Admit your mistakes.  Apologize.  Friendships, like any relationship, need attention...face-to-face attention.  Emails and texts are fine in the busy world we live in.

But nothing beats seeing your best friend smiling back at you.  I love you, my dear, dear friends!

lost...and found

There are few things rarer in life than a true, lasting friendship.

One that stands the test of time.

One that sees you through life's joys and life's sorrows.

One that's as comfortable as your favorite pair of jeans.

It's the first person you think to call when you have good news, or bad.

It is honest, constant and precious.

I've been blessed to have some really close friends in my lifetime.  I talked to my very first friend in the world just the other day.  We met when we were toddlers, grew into teenagers and were in each others' weddings.  Our moms love it when we get together because we act like we did when we were young.  Even though we don't see each other often, the bond is still as strong as it ever was.

I had another good friend...my best friend, really.  We met at church in our early 30's.  We really got to know each other on a choir retreat; we stayed up until 4 a.m. talking about everything under the sun.  There was an instant connection.

Our families became good friends.  We spent many hours in each other's homes, going on antiquing adventures, numerous family outings, celebrated our 40th birthdays with a trip to Chicago with our hubbies...our life's memories were melded together on so many different occasions.  We talked about going to Italy together.  They were a huge source of comfort when Ron's brother died, and then, a few years later, his mom.

We also served in ministry together, singing together in a small ensemble, ultimately recording a CD and traveling to Costa Rica on a mission trip. During that time I also worked alongside my friend's in our church's worship and arts ministry.  It was a time of tremendous spiritual growth for me, largely in part to the influence of the two people and their own experiences in ministry.

And then, in what seemed like a heartbeat, it was gone.

The details of the rift are really unimportant.  I will say that I bear the lion share of the blame. I remember vividly when I realized that our friendship was over and just sobbing, sobbing, sobbing.  I was heartbroken.

It was like a death of a whole family.

At first, I thought about it daily.  What was she doing?  How were the kids?  How was my former colleague doing?

The pain was fierce, raw and, at times, debilitating.

But, as it is wont to do, life went on.  I still thought about them often, probably weekly.  I thought of the family on their birthdays...January 18, March 18, June 17, October 4 and November 4.  I thought of them on their anniversary...exactly one week after ours, same year even.  Ron and I had made it a yearly quest to find the ugliest possible gift for them each year.  Even the realization that it was no longer a part of our summer punch list was painful.

Graduations came and went, each family celebrating separately. Years went by.  I kept thinking surely, someday, we'd run into each other somewhere.  But it never happened.

I'd heard through a mutual friend that my friend's mom had been diagnosed with cancer.  I was devastated.  I always thought we'd be sharing those moments together.  A year or so went by.  One day, I felt an overwhelming sense that her mom had died.  It was July 7, 2008.  I did an Internet search and found her mom's obituary.  She had died July 5.

Again, I was overwhelmed with grief.  For my sweet friend and her loss, but for my loss as well.  I couldn't bear the fact that I wasn't with her to hold her hand, to listen to her, to comfort her. I think I sent her a note.  I think I remember she sending me an email, thanking me.  And I hoped that it would be a new beginning.

It didn't happen that way.  Not yet...

Next time:  the rest of the story.

my ambien(t) life

The stories you are about to read are true.  No names have been changed to protect the innocent because, frankly, I'm about as guilty as they come.

Several posts ago I alluded to certain physical changes to which I was introduced when I met Ms. Menopause last year.  One of her more nagging colleagues - by far the rudest house guest of all - was Mr. Insomnia.  He has no regard for internal time clocks, or the next day's "to do" list or the fact that a body just needs time to relax and recharge.  A very selfish fellow.  It's like he'd taken over my brain, paying no mind to that my body was beyond the point of being able to stand upright.  Stay up, stay up, stay up...it was a constant battle.

I decided to fight fire, not with fire, but with drugs.  My doctor prescribed Ambien for me and casually mentioned that some people have incidences of eating things during the night that they don't remember the next day.  "Fat chance that'll happen to me," I thought.  I'm much too much of a food lover to not enjoy every single morsel I put into my mouth.

For several months, that little white pill worked wonders...I had found the solution to my sleeplessness and life was good.  Mr. Insomnia had moved on.

Until one morning when I woke up and I noticed some bright red streaks on my forearm and on my nightgown. And on the sheets.

For a little more than half a second I thought I'd inflicted great harm to someone in my family (Ron).  I couldn't find his body anywhere, so I looked for other clues.

Upon closer inspection I realized it was...red velvet cake batter.  I found the evidence in a bowl on my nightstand.

Apparently, I got out of bed, went into the kitchen, found the cake mix (which I will blame on Tyler...he left that and a brownie mix in our pantry after he moved out), poured a little in a bowl, added some oil and water, cracked an egg and mixed it up. And just ate it straight from the bowl.  There was a spoon in the bowl, but judging from the mess I created I'm not sure I even used it.

After I saw the evidence, I had a very, very vague recollection of doing it. I didn't tell anyone for weeks.  I was horrified, mortified, terrified.  But a little part of me was, "Cool. I'm one of those side effect statistics."

As unsettling as it was, it didn't stop me from taking my sweet dreams tablet every night.  Things were swell for another couple of months.

Then...I woke up one morning to see a little snack bowl on the nightstand with an itty bitty spoon and the tell-tale remnants of chocolate something.

I'd done it again.  This time it was the brownie mix.  Damn it, Tyler!  Same scenario.  Made a tiny bit of the mix, even added walnuts.  I have no memory of this episode at all.  Nothing.

To make matters worse, several days later I was cleaning out the fridge and found a plastic container of my "leftovers."  Hold the phone! (That's what my mom says when she needs time to process important information.)  It was more than a bit unnerving.  My children have threatened to get me fitted for a straight jacket and/or put locks on the bedroom door.  I tell them they're not the boss of me and to pipe down.

Did I stop taking my Ambien?  No.  I just threw out the rest of the cake and brownie mix and called it good.

I'm determined to keep my dreams sweet-less from here on out.  So far, so good.

(For the record, I've been taking Ambien for over a year and this black out eating has only happened these two times...unless I've gotten really good about hiding the evidence, which I don't think is possible because I'm not that crafty).

Next time: the blessing of friendship

sick

My first serious cold in a few years has hit me head on.  Without so much as a by your leave, I might add. Watery eyes, one nostril sealed shut, raucous noises coming from my chest.  It's SO much fun!  I feel like a fish that's somehow landed on shore, my mouth gasping for air and my eyes just staring blankly at nothing.

It's the kind of cold where all of the sudden you realize that one nostril is running, running, running and the Kleenex are out of your reach.

The kind when you sneeze and automatically cross your legs (OK, I do that every time I sneeze).

The kind where your head feels like a bowling ball and your sinuses feel every movement of your body.

That paints a pretty picture, huh?

I told Kate the other day that once you've birthed a child you kind of lose all sense of modesty.  I mean, strangers have witnessed something pretty spectacular happening in a very private area of your body.  This really has nothing to do with me having a cold, but it's a conversation we had the other day.  Thought you'd like to know.

As I was saying...

I also found that once I hit fifty, I kind of lost the energy to put on make up every day, shave my legs more than a couple of times a week and really give a rip if I wear the same sweat pants two days in a row (more like three or four...I worked from home, what can I say?)  There are days when I just don't care.

So I post this picture, in all its cold-induced glory, with the hope that more women will feel less constrained by society's ongoing pressure to be a perfect ten.  I do think things are slowly changing...this here picture is just my way of helping the movement along.

Speaking of real...Ron and I watched "Boyhood" tonight.  Its simplicity was very thought provoking.  Just the lives of one family, the trials of life with warts and all.  Stuff I could relate to.  Reminding me of things I would change if I had the chance to do it again.

In the end, it really is less about us seizing the moments and more like the moments seizing us. 

As soon as I can breathe again without my mouth gaping open, I'm ready to be seized!

Next time...my ambien(t) moments

doing church

I recently read an article, written in the form of an open letter, to "the church."  Here's the link if you're interested in reading it:

http://www.churchleaders.com/outreach-missions/outreach-missions-articles/244545-dear-church-heres-people-really-leaving.html

While I don't wholeheartedly agree with everything Mr. Povlovitz describes, there are some things that really resonate with me.

My dad's a minister.  When he was involved in ministry, he was called a minister, not a pastor.  What's the difference?  I'm not sure.  It may be regional, it may be generational.  Doesn't really matter.  I grew up in church.  I would say my character and moral compass have been set by biblical standards.

It wasn't until my early thirties, though, that I realized that it wasn't enough to be brought up in the church.  I needed to DO church.  It was more than just showing up on Sundays, singing hymns and hearing a sermon and going out to breakfast afterwards at Village Inn (only the best breakfast in town).

I needed to live it.

We got really involved in a church that was growing spiritually and eventually was hired to be on staff.  I attended Bible Study Fellowship for several years and felt like I was really growing spiritually.  I consider those years absolutely responsible for a deepening understanding of God and His teachings.

Our worship was a rich blend of traditional and contemporary - not an easy task, but once you've experienced it done well, it's hard to beat.

I could sing the hymns of my childhood and feel comforted.

I could sing praise songs with joyous abandon and feel set free.

I developed strong, real friendships with wonderful women, who taught, shared, loved, prayed for me.

I learned how to become vulnerable and felt stronger once the veneer was stripped away and my soul laid bare.

Ron and I led classes in our home for strengthening marriage, and as a result, grew even closer and committed to one another.

But.

The more involved we became, the more readily we saw the fractures in our church.  It wasn't perfect, which is fine, because the presence of perfection doesn't leave a lot of room for God's plan to unfold.  But, the not-so-nice politics of church (which I've always maintained are equal to, or greater, in snarkiness than actual politics) eventually took its toll on us and we left the church.

Then came the task of searching for a new church home.  It is not for the faint of heart.  The bar had been set incredibly high.  In my naivety I thought we'd be able to replicate that experience wherever we landed.

I was wrong.

I've come to realize that to every time there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven...That period of time of rebirth was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  It's not meant to be replicated.  One's spiritual journey would be very dull, indeed, if it was like "Groundhog Day".  There are new journeys to take, new people to meet, new truths to be learned.

So, knowing this, why is it that Ron and I have yet to find a new church home?  Mind you, this was over ten years ago that we left.  We've attended a variety of churches for significant periods of time (one church we attended for a couple of years, left and then went back).

Without naming names or pointing fingers, here's a thumbnail of the churches we've attended:

*Fabulous teaching, exciting worship, "members only" kind of vibe.  If you weren't born and bred there, sorry.

*Small church, nice people, not much direction.

*Larger church, HUGE emphasis on kids and teens, very little in the way of adult education.  Worship time not so much a time of worship but a time of guitars, amps and PowerPoint presentations.

Each one had its good points (some of them were great points), but I realized that it takes A LOT of effort to get to the point we'd reached at our first church home.  And I'm not a young thing anymore.

It's a completely selfish attitude and I'm certainly not proud of it

And, as the article I referenced earlier alludes to, church seems to have become a watered down version of what I grew to love.  The theater of church, oftentimes, has replaced the authenticity of Word and living out that Word.  It seems that bigger is better.

I think deeper is better.

That's what I'm looking for.  Deep, real, honest, transparent.  We're all sinners, folks.  No use trying to cover it up with big screens and and videos and donuts and coffee in the worship center.

The church needs help.  And there are a lot of people outside the church that need help.

Perhaps a bit of "reaching across the aisle" is in order.

ten things I won't likely experience in my lifetime, part 3

5.  Being Able to Understand Anything Spatially...My brain has not one single fissure dedicated to understanding anything remotely connected to spatial relations.  I hear that term and I think the person speaking has a pronounced southern accent (I have a spatial relationship with my kitten, Fluffy).  If I had a dime for every time I said, "That doesn't mean anything to me" during a conversation with Ron where he's explaining the length of an inch, I'd be in a cabana on some remote south sea isle.  It's not quite that bad, but almost.

When we were in the process of buying our town home a few years ago, Ron said that the upstairs living area (minus the bedroom and bath) was the same size as our then-current home's living room.  LIAR, LIAR, LIAR I screamed.  No way, no way, no way.  Well, a tape measure wielded by an exasperated husband proved me wrong.

If you tell me something's thirty feet away, I'm lost.  If you tell me it's from here to that desk over there, I'm OK.

Just leave the numbers out of it.

4.  Fitting Into A Size Two...Pretty sure I was born a size 10 and it just expanded with time.  Six years ago I had gastric bypass surgery and lost a bunch of weight.  It was great.  I walked like a fiend, drank water like an elephant and ate teeny tiny portions.  And I got a ton of new clothes.  Last year, things began to change.

 I hit menopause full on.  I didn't experience the waves of hot flashes multiple times a day or mood swings (although I'm sure there are some loved ones who would disagree), but I did notice a little more around my middle.  Then, I had knee surgery and my days of walking and yoga were strictly curtailed.  And more stuff showed up around my middle.

I have to admit...it freaked me out.  Is still freaking me out.  I feel like I'm careening down a slope that has all kinds of oil (butter) spills and sand (sugar) traps along the way.  Some days I'm like Bode Miller, twisting and turning, avoiding all those nasty pitfalls.  Other days I feel more like Barney, ambling along, singin' a song and deliberately stepping into the forbidden morass of sin and wickedness, stopping occasionally to lick my fingers.

I'm sure the ride's not over.  But I'm strappin' myself in and goin' for the big moves.  Hold on!

3.  A Love of Jazz (with sincerest apologies to my friends who are accomplished jazz musicians)...I've tried.  Seriously.  But I can't just sliiide into it and get all mellow with it like most people seem to do.  I blame it on American Bandstand.  All those Rate-A-Record segments where music was given a thumbs up or thumbs down according to its dance-ability.  Who can dance to jazz? Who can even find a rhythm?  It alludes me.  And, I know, I know...that's kind of what defines jazz as an art from.  Still...makes my brain hurt.

Words help.  It gives me something to focus on and I can memorize words.  Can't memorize a beat that's constantly changing.  (See issues of control in previous post.)

And to think...the very first music I ever recall hearing was Ella Fitzgerald on my parent's hi-fi.  Go figure.

2.  Another love like my Ron Martin...After thirty-three years of marriage we've had our share of highs and lows.  And I expect there will be more to come - that's just the way marriage rolls.  When I think of all we've experienced - both the good and bad - I cannot imagine doing it all without Ron.

We work like tag-team wrestlers.  I'll do my best until I can no longer breathe - or be civil - and I'll slap him on the face and say, "Hey, sweetie...it's YOUR turn."  Then he'll quite masterfully juggle whatever balls are in the air until he sees a fishing pond or new bike route and then it's back on me.  Back and forth.  Yin and yang.  Realist and dreamer.  Glass half empty, glass half full.  It takes two to tango.

And as long as it's not jazz tango, we're good to go.

1.  A Wink from George Clooney...need I say more?

Next time...doing church

ten things I won't likely experience in my lifetime, part 2

8.  The Grace and Precision of Dorothy Hamill (yes, that's how old I am)...There's nothing I love more than watching a lithe, athletic (can those two words be used to describe the same person?) figure gliding across the ice in a carefully orchestrated routine.  'Tis a thing of beauty, really...until they fall.  I then cover my eyes and groan, thinking if it were me I'd just crawl off the ice and hide under all those stuffed animals that seem to be so prevalent these days at ice skating competitions.

When I was in junior high in Jefferson City, THE PLACE to be on wintry Friday nights was the local ice rink.  I'd tiny-step out onto the ice, ankles stiff as boards, arms out to my side to aid in balance.  I took lessons, but I was never able to master the pigeon toed stop, much less the more impressive quickly-turn-both-feet-in-the-same-direction, accompanied with an equally impressive spray of ice.  No, the only way I could stop was to run into the metal bars along the outer perimeter of the rink.  It's a wonder my shins aren't permanently bruised.

I used to stand along the fence, one hand behind my back, very firmly gripping the bar, gazing at that beautiful little patch of center ice.  It was reserved for those advanced skaters who could do figure eights and spins and jumps, all without falling on their bums.

I've come to accept that my body, lithe or otherwise, is not meant to be pushed to those types of physical limits.  As long as I've got the Olympics (and Bob Costas sans pink eye) I'm good.

7.  World Peace...Humanity, since its inception, has been warring against itself pretty much non-stop.  I'm pretty sure that there's never, ever been a day when there hasn't been some kind of conflict going on in the world.  Having a degree in history you'd think I'd know this unequivocally, and be able to back it up with a boatload of dates and details, but you'd be wrong.  But I'm pretty sure I'm right.  However, with my highly honed diplomatic skills and thorough understanding of world politics, I think I've determined the root cause of all conflict (that's more than a bit of sarcasm, dear readers...).

Arrogance.

Everybody thinks their **** doesn't stink.  My country is older than yours is.  My leaders are smarter than your leaders.  My belief system is better than your belief system.  My rights supersede your rights.  My gun is bigger than your gun.  My color of skin is more palatable than the color of your skin.  My side of the track is prettier than your side of the track.

Enough already.

No belief - no matter how righteous or true or defensible - makes it okay to kill other people just because they happen to disagree on the issue in question. I've had enough intolerance to last hundreds of lifetimes.  Everybody just needs to hold hands with their enemy until the anger has subsided.  I know it's a simplistic solution.  I know it's more complicated than that.

But does it have to be?

6.  Meet My Birth Mother...I've known I am adopted since I've been able to know stuff.  They gave me all the information they had about my birth mother...name, where I was born, the circumstances that led to her decision to drive to St. Louis the day after I was born and leave me at the St. Louis Children's Home.  It's always been with me.

Sure, I wondered from time to time what she was doing, if I had siblings...the normal stuff.  If my mom and dad hadn't been such awesome parents, I might have been tempted to try and find her.  But back then pre-internet - there wasn't a lot I could do on my own.  And Magnum, P.I. lived too far away.

It wasn't until my own daughter, Kate, was born that I realized the magnitude of my birth mother's decision.  I realized how brave she was and how hard it must have been.  And I realized what a blessing she had given me.  About that time my parents gave me my adoption papers.  They didn't really contain any more information than I already knew, so I tucked them away in our safety deposit box, knowing that if I really wanted to, I could pursue it.  From time to time, I'd search for her online, but never got a hit.

About seven years ago, I Googled her name again.  The first thing that popped up was an obituary.  I read it, heart pounding.  It was her.  All the facts I knew about her lined up.  Her name (Teresa Anne; when my parents picked me up in St. Louis, my name was Teresa). Where she went to school.  What church she attended.  She'd died just a couple of years ago.

As I read, I was able to cobble together a bit of her life's history.  Her birthday was just a few days after mine.  She was twenty-three when I was born, the same age I was when I had Kate.  I have a half sister.  Two sons died in infancy.  She spent her life as a teacher and hospital administrator.

The name of the officiating pastor at her funeral was listed in the write-up, so I sent him an email.  He responded rather quickly, saying that he's only been at the church a short time and my birth mother was in a nursing home, so he didn't know her very well.  He put me in touch with the church secretary, who'd known Anne her entire life.

We started a marvelous email correspondence and I got to know more and more about Anne.  She sang in the choir (alto, same as me).  She crocheted (I used to cross stitch).  My half sister was born eighteen months after I was born. She and her ex-husband had remained on friendly terms (I'm not sure if he's my birth father or not; my birth certificate has my mom and dad listed as the parents).  She died of emphysema (so glad I quit smoking in the 80's).  The church secretary became a touchstone to Anne.  One day, two packages arrived on my doorstep.  One contained a few old church pictorial directories.  I know I must have held my breath as I thumbed back to the "W's."  All these years I imagined that there was someone who looked a lot like me wandering the planet.  We didn't look at all alike.

The second package took my breath away.  It was a crocheted wall hanging sampler.  Made by my birth mother's hands.  The church secretary had purchased it several years earlier at a hospital bazaar where Anne worked.  It hangs in our bathroom and I see it every day.

And I think, "You made the right decision, Anne."  Bless your heart.

Next time...the list is finished

ten things i won't likely experience in my lifetime, part 1

It hits me at some point every week...Wow, I think, I'll never ever know what that's like.  Sometimes it's something for which I'm grateful, sometimes it's something I kinda wish would cross my path.  Most often, it reminds me how blessed my life has been.  I challenge you to make your own list.  It's a good exercise in how to be content with what you have (which is also the title of a great book by Timothy Miller).

10.  Abject Poverty/Extravagant Wealth
I watched a very stark documentary entitled "Rich Hill" last night on my PBS app.  It was produced by Tracy Droz Tragos and chronicles the lives of three teenage boys in Rich Hill, MO.  Their stories are poignant and at times, seemingly hopeless.  Living conditions are bleak, as is the prospect of a brighter future for these boys and their families.  Andrew, the most optimistic of the three, says he's confident that God will someday recognize him and help him.  Broke my heart.

Juxtaposed against a scene where the father (the only one present among the three families) was heating water by a variety of means - (sitting a pan of water on an inverted iron), microwaving water, dipping a curling iron in a jug of water (!) - to fill up the bathtub was a scene at the county fair where pies were being auctioned off for $3,200 a pop...

When Ron and I were first married, we didn't have much.  Ron was in school and I made $134 a week.  When Kate was born 13 months after we got married, I quit work, and Ron quit school to work full-time.  We lived in a trailer and it was hard.  When Ron did go back to school, I got a job on staff and, because of that, tuition was free.  We lived semester to semester on Pell Grants and my $8,500 yearly salary.  We try not to take the comfortable life we have now for granted.  But it's awfully hard to be content when there are advertisements like this... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGJSI48gkFc

On the flip side, gluttonous wealth is appalling to me.  Every once in awhile, maybe while I'm paying bills, I wonder, what's old Paris Hilton up to right now?  Probably not payin' bills.  Probably not doin' much of anything.  Ron and I are fans of the "Million Dollar Listing" franchise on Bravo.  It's INSANE that people - a lot of people - have enough money to pay cash for $11.5 million homes.  And many times it's for a vacation home.  I know there are lots of wealthy people who are very philanthropic and I applaud them for their efforts.  So...really...you wouldn't miss a few thou so Ron and I could get away this summer once he's nursed me back to health after my upcoming knee replacement, right?  For the scores of millionaires who read this humble blog, 'twould be a nice gesture.

9.  Playing at Carnegie Hall
I love hearing a good grand piano's rich, mellow tones, played by grand masters of the art.  I once dreamed of being able to tickle the ivories with great polish and flair.  But, alas.  My pianistic accomplishments died early on when my teacher - how can I put this delicately?  Well, she died.  (And her name was Mrs. Dyer... that should have been my first clue that piano prowess was not to be a talent I possess).  Actually, I don't think she died (I'm sure she has by now), but she did have a heart attack right before my first recital.  I'm loathe to think that it was because I showed absolutely knack for 3/4 time or figuring out what all those black dots and funny squiggles were for.  Years and years later I acquired an iota of ability to read music, but mainly I just listen to it for weeks on end and memorize the stuff.  Trying to keep time AND read music was is way above my pay grade.  All you band dandies out there...I am humbled by your abilities.

Next time...a couple more

Side note: Tracy Droz Tragos also produced "Be Good.  Smile Pretty," a heart wrenching documentary about her efforts to find out about her father, who died when she was three months old, in Vietnam.

piece of work

I get dangerous when I'm left alone with my thoughts.  Perfectly normal conversations in my head (that IS normal, right?  To have conversations in one's head?) can derail and fly down any number of rabbit holes within a mere split second.  The other night Ron and I were driving to Trader Joe's and for a few moments there was silence in the car.  Ron asked me what I was thinking about, so I told him.  I would love to be able to recount that conversation, but neither of us can remember what it was about.  What I do remember it, that within those brief moments I had formed, in this brain of mine, a pretty detailed plot (complete with subplots) of something very random and convoluted.  I'm sure in the future Ron will think twice before he asks what's on my mind.

Being alone with my thoughts also leads to intense introspection and evaluation of character.  Hence the compulsion to share my character flaws with you.  Ron tells me my posts are too long.  I tell him it's only five minutes of his life.  However, for the sake of brevity I'll just highlight a few.

But, really, I don't have more than two or three.  What's that?  OK.  Add pride to the list.

Here I go, in no particular order...

I'm Just A Girl Who Cain't Say No...I'm a people pleaser by nature - although this trait has, like my hormone levels, has dropped the older I get.  I hate to disappoint anyone so I agree to do things that I really don't want to do.  When this happens, one of two things have been known to happen (sometimes both).  I complain about it incessantly, driving any possible joy that could have been derived from the task before me straight into the bowels of hell.  Or, I beg Ron to do it. Moral of the story?  If you care about the longevity of our marriage, never, ever again ask me to do anything.  Ever.  I'm only kind of kidding.

How can I spin this into an asset?  Ron was glad I didn't say no.

So am I.

Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies...This is completely misleading, but it was a clever quote and it has to do with questions...I alluded in a previous post about my mother's inquiring mind.  Well, this apple (me) has not only fallen pretty close to that proverbial tree; it might very well still be attached.  During the same trip to TJ's, Ron told me about a news story he'd heard earlier on NPR.  I asked him a question.  Then another.  And another.  After about the third question he kept saying "I don't know," which, for most people, would be the clue to move on to another topic of discussion.  Not for me. No sirree, Bob.  At one point we were at a "no turn on red" stoplight and, after the eighth question to which he had no answer, he actually took his foot off the brake and thought about turning...I could just hear his brain screaming "I've GOT to get out of this car NOW before I commit a heinous crime and spend the rest of my life in solitary!"

It was pretty funny.

Because I love my husband, I decided to tell him how I handle my mom when she puts on her 20,000 Questions game face...I tell her - right up front - before I even begin the story "This is all I know.  I don't know any more than I'm telling you."  It works about fifty percent of the time.  Poor Ron.  He'll probably forget this little trick.

I tell myself I heard too many "National Inquirer" ads in my youth...inquiring minds want to know.

Asset?  I always have the last word because the person in the glare of the interrogation light has passed out.

Blame It On Dr. Seuss...He's the one who said "Only you can control your future."  I know that because I just Googled "control quotes" and this was the shortest one I could find.  Had I read this in
my youth (and not five seconds ago) I would have translated it to "Only you can control everything and everyone around you."

I like order.
I like planning.
I like routine.
I like control.

Not ashamed of it, though my kids and husband have been praying to the heavens and anyone else who will listen to the heavens that I would loosen up a little.  And, OK, my life would be less stressful if I could learn to just roll with the punches, go with the flow...whatever.

I knew the problem was serious when I began a written prayer journal and caught myself editing my prayers after I'd written them.  Like I had any control of what God knows of me.  HA!

Here's a picture of me when I feel control slipping out of my tight little fingers...a (cute) cartoon figure with a bee buzzing around my head.  My eyes are zigzagging try to follow its course.  More and more and more and more and more and OFF pops my head.

End of story.

I'm not even going to try and spin this flaw.  Please accept this apology in advance if you have ever been a victim of my controlling ways.

It's just because I love you (and I know what you need and I know how to fix it).

Next time...ten things I'll likely never experience

the reason for the title

"I've been lately thinking about my life's times, all the things I've done and how it's been."

That's the first line of John Denver's song "Poems, Prayers and Promises."  About seven years ago, life-long friend and former State Treasurer employee Marilyn Parrish, decided it was time to have a reunion of office and campaign staffers who worked with my dad during his tenure as Treasurer from 1972-1980.  So, one Saturday in April, the whole family (my kids included) drove to Jefferson City to reunite with folks we hadn't seen in almost thirty years.  It was, in a word (or five), a balm to the soul.

We laughed.  We cried (I cried).  We told campaign war stories.  We remarked on how old we all looked, though I'm sure it was phrased "You haven't changed a bit!."  I was a teenager during those years and, though I didn't realize it at the time (who remembers much of anything besides how may state championships we won - two - or who was dating whom at that age?), these folks had a profound impact on my life.  Dad had a really remarkable staff of young men and women who worked alongside him; I did some calculations and most of them were in their mid- to late-20's when they were hired.  They were on the front lines of administrating millions and millions of dollars of the state's funds and charting/carrying out campaign strategies.  I'm sure glad I wasn't doing that at that age...

My friend, Michelle Able, and I used to hang out and shoot the breeze in the offices of Bob Jordan, Rick Ravenhill and Bob Holden (now former Governor Bob Holden).  Truth be told, we were really supposed to be doing legislative research for a high school class.  Don't tell anyone.  The night my dad lost the primary election for the 1980 governor's race, it was Bob Holden who held my hand and listened to me blubber about not doing enough during the campaign. He still calls to check in on mom and dad from time to time.

Hearing people talk about Dad was especially touching and, I think, gratifying to him.  Every person who spoke testified to Dad's honesty, integrity and fairness, qualities that seem to be in short supply when we think of our leaders (or would-be leaders) today.

They also spoke about the model he provided for the course of their lives.  They spoke of my mom's support and her generous spirit, which are still central to her character today.  I've always known these things about my parents, but it was wonderful to hear that, after all those years, these people still had such high regard for them.

In the days that followed, I reflected on how blessed I was during those formative teenage years.  Oh sure, there was plenty of teenage angst and I gave my mom more than her fair share of grey hair, but really?  How many people can honestly say that they love their parent's colleagues from years gone by?  How many people even knew their parent's colleagues?  Being a public servant - and going through multiple campaigns - is sometimes a grueling experience.  But it's also galvanizing - pulling together to achieve a common goal.  And as magnificent as it was to win, it was equally devastating when the efforts fell short.  Either way, friendships and bonds were made that have stood the test of time.

It was a rich, satisfying way to grow up.  So, thank you.  From the bottom of my heart.

And talk of poems, prayers and promises
And things that we believe in
How sweet it is to love someone
How right it is to care
How long it's been since yesterday
What about tomorrow?
What about our dreams
And all the memories we share? - John Denver

(I purposely left out the refrain, which includes a reference to sitting around the fire with his old lady, passing the pipe around...that sort of stuff DID NOT happen on my dad's watch...I don't think).

NEXT TIME...my character flaws.  And you can bet I'll be working my darnedest to convince you that they're really assets.

petting, prayer and paroxyms of laughter

Have you heard of this rather sensational new game, "Cards Against Humanity?"  It's not for the faint of heart or the prim and proper, which makes it a perfect candidate for one of our rare family game nights.  It forces you to say things that you never, ever in a million years thought you'd say, much less in front of your (grown) children.  It was a night of ribald comedy, groans, and one or two words mumbled so softly we had to ask the offending person (Kate) to repeat herself.  At one point I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe.  Don't ask me what it was...1) because it's not fit for print on these hallowed pages and 2) I can't remember what it was anyway.

That sensation of laughing so hard that tears start streaming down your face and, for us ladies, the unmistakable urge to cross your legs lest other parts start streaming is cathartic.  It reminded me of another story that happened ten years ago, but still makes the giggles start - at least for me.

Ron and I were taking part of a 24-hour prayer vigil at our church and were scheduled to pray from 1am-2am (as I said, this was ten years ago...no way would be able to do anything holy at that hour these days).  As I walked out of our home into the quiet darkness, I was greeted by a semi-large dog of questionable breed.  He was wagging his tail, tongue hanging out so I started down the stairs, talking to the pup in a friendly manner.  Ron, who had just stepped outside, saw the "situation" and ordered me to stop and come back up on the porch.  I froze, turned around and looked at him, my jaw dropped to my chest.  "Excuse me?" I asked, with a bit of an attitude.  Ron asked, "Do you know that dog?"

I should explain right now that I grew up in a dog family.  Well, not strictly speaking, but we'd had dogs since the day I was born.  Ron, however, never had a family dog.

Back to "Do you know that dog?"  I found the question extremely funny and continued my approach to the dog, holding out my hand, palm down, like I've been taught.  Again, Ron ordered me to get back on the porch.  He obviously was acquainted with this particular canine (he was not) and knew that I was in grave danger of having my hand severely licked.

We finally got in the car (without my having touched a hair on the dog's head) and it was silent as a tomb.  Ron was still irked by my unsubmissive wifely behavior and I was trying to prepare for an hour of prayer instead of an hour of mentally composing a "Listen, mister, we don't be ordering me to get back porch" sermon.

About a half mile from the church, I started giggling.  It quickly turned into one of those honking, gasping, tear rolling, legs crossed bouts of hilarity.  Ron saw nothing even remotely funny about it.  I finally managed to get out, "Do you know that dog?"  He shot a deathray my way and yelled, "Well, did you?"  By this time I was screaming laughing and I was pretty sure I'd never be able to focus my thoughts on the Almighty.  Thankfully, Ron started laughing, too, and by the time we reached the church we had calmed down enough to participate in the prayer vigil in an appropriate manner.

I had already decided that if I got the giggles during our prayer time I would just chalk it up to laughing in the Spirit.

Side note:  You'll no doubt noticed that I've been tweaking with my blog design.  Last night, after begging and pleading and finally offering compensation, Kate sat down and helped me finesse my space and now it's here to stay.  At least for a good amount of time.  A couple of explanations...the quotes from the wall are from a wall in my office that we've graffittied with memorable life quotes.  The flower du jour comes from either our travels or from our garden.  It might not change every day, but it will rotate frequently.

Next time...the event that inspired the title of my blog

the talk...continued

First, thanks for all the kind words of support and empathy for this situation.  I know that I am just one of perhaps millions who are navigating these tricky waters.  It's a huge comfort to know that others have walked the same path.

Second, all of the comments about trusting your kids to do right by you makes me realize I need to seriously dial back my "mommy dearest" tendencies before the dye is permanently cast.  Alas, that ship has probably already sailed.  (I've made it a goal to see how many cliches I can effectively use in this post.)  Actually, Kate and Tyler are right there with us as we experience the many layers of this transition and I'm confident they're taking notes...at least I hope they are.  Recently I watched a really fascinating and moving documentary entitled "Alive Inside."  It chronicles the efforts of Dan Cohen, the founder of the non-profit organization Music & Memory (you can view it on Netflix).  The project provides memory loss patients with iPODS filled with music of their generation.  The reaction of patients when they hear the music of their prime is really very remarkable.  I told Kate the kind of music I'd want to hear if I ever got to that point (she said, "Not if, mom...when), but now neither one of us can remember what it is.  Not a good omen.

Back to the "talk"...I called mom and told her that Ron and I would like to come over to discuss their long-term goals and plans and she was receptive.  I then compiled a list of questions to ask, so notebook and cheat sheet in hand, we headed out into the great unknown.

I began by telling them that Ron and I both want to respect all of their wishes as they relate to their future, but that in order for us to do that, we need to know what those wishes are.  Long story short...they really have not made any long-term plans.  They want to stay in their home as long as possible and know which options are available, but have not determined a benchmark as to what would compel them to take the next step.

Next I asked about funeral arrangements.  This part they have given some thought to.  They both want to be cremated and scattered under a beautiful sugar maple in the field behind their home, which I'm pretty sure cannot happen.  Perhaps the most poignant moment of the discussion was when I asked dad if he had any particular scripture in mind.  Keep in mind that most days he can't remember what he had for breakfast or what they watched on TCM the night before.  Without missing a beat he said, "John 14...Let not your hearts be troubled.  Believe in God, believe also in me.  In my Father's house are many rooms..." and went on to quote the first four verses verbatim (but in the King James version).  My notes became very blurry and hard to read at that point.

Finally, I asked them about financial issues (OK, here it comes, says my mom).  Other than having a will and trust in place, not a lot has been done.  They want to make a few changes in their will and are under the impression that their accountant can do that for them...I've found that if they "like" the person (doctor, accountant, nurse, delivery person, receptionist) those persons suddenly become all-knowing, all-capable, invincible beings.  I told them that an attorney was necessary to make changes to a will (I'm right, right?).

I felt much less confident leaving than I had upon arrival.  I thought surely they had been acquainted with some of these formalities what with all the passings they've witnessed over their years at Foxwood.

But no.

I'm pretty sure Mom only heard half of what was being discussed and I can't rely on Dad to remember all the details.  So, a couple of weeks later, I made up a "to do" list.  When I was young, mom's primary responsibility on Saturday mornings was to make me such a list, so I thought what's good for the goose...My list included everything we'd talked about, plus I added a few in for fun...empty the dishwasher, clean and dust your bedroom (both of which really irritated my mom until she realized I was just kidding).  The last thing on every single one of my Saturday chore lists was "be nice to your mother."  So I ended mine the same way, edited, of course, to direct the niceness my way.

Since the "talk" not much has changed.  I did go to a doctor's appointment with dad when mom was feeling under the weather (armed with her list of questions for the doctor...her inquiring mind is a thing of beauty and exasperation for those under fire...and will be explored in a future post), and mom has started ordering groceries from HyVee for home delivery.  They have a cleaning lady who comes twice a month, but the day before mom scurries around to tidy up and throws stuff in the garage so it won't put it away where she can't find it.

In the end...I have miles to go before I sleep.  But that's okay.  The more miles, the longer I'll have mom and dad with me.

(And if you're counting, I think there were eight.)

Next time...a story about a dog, a prayer vigil and how wildly different Ron and I assess the same situation... after ten years, still makes me laugh 'til I cry and still makes Ron get a little miffed at me.

the talk

I'm not sure which was harder...the "talk" with my kids about sex or the "talk" with my parents about their future plans.  Since I just had the latter conversation a few weeks ago, I'm going with that discussion being the most difficult.

I'd been putting it off for quite awhile, but the recent passing of a dear friend's mother and hearing of his journey made me realize that time is not on my side in this situation.

A little back story...Mom is 87 and dad is 86.  After dad retired many years ago, they moved to a lovely mountaintop home overlooking Beaver Lake in Rogers, Arkansas.  After about ten years of loving life in the Ozarks, they received wise counsel from friends that if they were contemplating another move to an official retirement community they should do so when THEY were still capable of making that decision for themselves.  After much deliberation they chose to move to Brookdael, a wonderful community in Raymore, MO (formerly Foxwood Springs).  They have a whole snorkel of retired pastor friends there and it offers graduated care...from independent home living, to apartments to full-time residential care. They settled right in and we love having them so nearby.

Several years ago, dad's health began to decline.  He's had macular degeneration for many years and his vision has continued to deteriorate.  He knows us by the sound of our voices, but watching TV, reading and crossword puzzling is no longer possible.  He also has Parkinson's, which has weakened him significantly...he's tired all the time (he calls himself feeble) and doesn't understand (or won't accept) that weakness and Parkinson's go hand-in-hand.  Add to that increasing dementia, multiple physicians, constant fine-tuning of medications and the new discovery that he has almost zero testosterone and it's a situation that's rapidly deteriorating. It is extremely difficult to see my dad - an invigorating, dynamic, huge persona who had a remarkable career in ministry, politics and education - in such distress, sadness and resignation.  It truly breaks my heart.

Mom, on the other had, is doing fairly well.  She can't hear worth a darn and is a fine example of procrastination when it comes to getting hearing aids.  Judging by the blank stares she gives us because she can't hear what's been said and the resultant clarification by my dad, I'm guessing there's a fair amount of shouting heard on a daily basis in their home.  She also has some issues that she's just not addressing, and I'm sure it's because she doesn't feel like she can attend to herself because dad requires so much of her attention.  She is carrying the burden for his care and every time we visit I can see signs of increased stress and strain on her.

I have repeatedly offered my help and we go visit them several times a month and talk regularly, but they (and by "they" I mainly mean my sweet mama) are bound and determined to be independent until they draw their last breaths.  That would be my hope as well.  But, I'm afraid it's not their reality.

It's a very tricky situation.

More on the "talk" and what's happened since...next time...

time for a comeback

Having recently retired from the overly strenuous job of working one day a week at a fabulous photography studio (epagafoto.com), I find myself with a bit of time on my hands (and hopefully also on my side, but statistically...).  For the last two days I've been re-reading posts from a previous blog and have been, alternately, laughing and crying and wondering why the hell I said some of the things I said.

As I await knee surgery and lots of time to ponder what the next chapter of my life shall entail, I'm finding the urge to pull the stopper out of those creative writing juices and let them flow once again.  To which - I'm sure - you are all completely and utterly overjoyed to hear.

Here's what I can promise...
It will be real.  Life at this stage is full of funny, poignant and difficult moments.  I promise not to hold anything back.

To that end, some posts will be inappropriate for small children.  And men.  And possibly some of my relatives.

I also promise to be semi-regular in my posting, much like my bodily functions these days.

I will request - from you, dear readers - a small time commitment to read my musings...brevity is not my forte.

Until I can get the stove firing on all burners, here's a previously published post about our beloved black lab, Zooey, who gave us companionship, wet kisses and lots of life lessons.  Enjoy...

Zooey, the Kong Addict
(disclaimer...the following is in no way intended to minimize the devastation of addiction.  It's simply meant to make you smile)

Her name is Zooey.  Z-O-O-E-Y.  Pronounced zo ee.  She's six and a a half years old.  And she's a Kong addict.  For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red, hard-as-nails rubber "ball" that could, quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust.  Some people cram peanut butter into its cavity to give their dog a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.

The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable.  She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jowls (OK, that doesn't happen...but it makes for good tv/blogging).  She goes from room to room, frantically, in search of her stash.  Usually when she gets this way it means her Kong is in a room with the door closed, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar."

When we, a family who - honestly - has consistently enabled her by opening doors that should clearly remain tightly closed, can no longer stand her agony, we grudgingly respond, saying "Zooey...this is the LAST time.  For real."  

And we open the door.

Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a chair or table, making the smackball even more of a forbidden pleasure.  She sees it.  We see it.  She knows we see it.  We know she knows we see it.  And what do we do?  I can't count the number of times I've been on my knees, reaching through dust bunnies, spider webs and discarded Twinkies wrappers to retrieve the very thing which could ultimately destroy her.  (Sorry...I sometimes get caught up in the drama and can't help myself.)

Oh, sure, she makes empty statements that she can give it up at any time, that it really is NOT a problem at all.  But, as sure as the new dawn appears every day, she comes padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth, carefree, dosed and happy to be a dog.

She needs help.  We need help.  We need...an intervention.

We had to put Zooey down a few years ago.  It was a heart wrenching decision, one many of you have probably experienced.  We still have her Kong.  RIP, Zooey.  We miss you.