this wasn't in the safety meeting!

I woke up Friday with only a slight stiffness in my neck.  I was very pleased that my efforts in preventative medicine were a success.  I even got up a few minutes early and never slipped behind in my morning rituals.  I remembered my oatmeal so I could eat a healthy breakfast; I ate a very healthy lunch, and even managed to make it through the dinner hour without splurging on naughty food. (I did have a few Hershey’s kisses at the bank, but I decided to let myself off the hook for those this time.) Other than being a ridiculously long day, it was a good day! 

Nothing even remotely bad happened to me while I was at work. 

After work, I went home to get my daughter and we ran out for something quick (and healthy) to eat, before I took her to a friend’s house for the night.  My husband is out of town, and all of my friends were otherwise engaged, so I went out for a few rounds of karaoke (and not a single round of liquor) and was back home by just after nine. 

After shedding my work clothes in exchange for one of my husband’s t-shirts and a pair of my dwindling panties, I set out to feed the dogs and run them outside one last time before bed.  I wasn’t worried about being underdressed for the backyard.  The rear of my house is pretty private and my dogs have all seen me naked before, so seeing me in underwear and a t-shirt wasn’t anything new for them.

Admittedly, I am a little afraid of the dark, so I turned on every light outside before going out there with the dogs.  And because my husband is gone for the night, I also ran around locking every door and window in the house.  I have three sets of French doors that lead out to the rear courtyard and I was afraid the kids had left one unlocked.  I may have been a little overly paranoid, but we had a safety meeting at work today, and it covered all the ways to be safe outside of work too.  I wasn’t going to stop with the doors and windows either.  I had every intention of arming the alarm, including the motion detectors and the outdoor cameras once the dogs were safely back in my room with me so they wouldn’t set anything off. 

Unfortunately for me, in my haste to lock every possible entrance to my house so that no one without a key could gain entry, I failed to pay attention to the door I went out and locked that too. 

So there I was.  Locked out of the house without a key.  In my underwear.  Without my cell phone.  And even if I had my phone, my husband was over five hours away visiting his sick grandmother, and the kids were sleeping over with friends.  At least the dogs were with me.  They would protect me from renegade squirrels and the occasional owl. 

But I certainly couldn’t stay out there.  I had to work in the morning.  And it was supposed to rain after midnight.  And my BlackBerry was on the table inside! 

I had no choice; I had to make a break for it.  I had to pray that I had missed a door or a window somewhere that I could reach without having to scale the arbor to reach the roof. 

I tugged the t-shirt down until it covered most of my bottom and stepped down from the deck onto the pea pebbles below.  Pea pebbles on bare feet are not comfortable.  I don’t know how the dogs do it.  I swore under my breath as I tiptoed carefully around the back of the house, terrified that I would run into a nocturnal rattlesnake or a perverted stranger (because NONE of my neighbors are in the least bit perverted!) I didn’t run into either, but I did hear rustling in the bushes that could have been a rabid opossum or a bear! 

I ran the rest of the way to the gate to the side yard.  I had to leave the dogs behind, inside the privacy fence, otherwise I would easily lose them in the dark.  I yanked up one of the solar landscaping lights to act as a torch to light my way on the last several yards to the driveway.  I went straight to my car to see if I had left the door unlocked.  The garage door opener would be my saving grace! 

Locked!

My only hope now was to run around the front of the house to the front door.  I hadn’t checked that door yet, so I held on to the hope that the kids had left it unlocked this evening.  I had yet to share with them all the information from my safety meeting, so hopefully they were blissfully unaware of the dangers of leaving doors unlocked. 

To get to the front door I had to traipse through the flower beds along the front of the house (in bare feet!) with nothing but my makeshift torch to light the way.  Hardwood mulch is no gentler on bare feet than pea pebbles, and I don’t even want to know what might have been living in it.  I vowed to myself at that moment that I would take a hot shower if I ever made it back inside my house again. 

I made my way through the beds, trying to keep low enough behind the bushes that the Joneses couldn’t see me running around in my underwear.  I didn’t think they would confuse me with a peeping tom, but I didn’t want to take any chances just the same. 

Once I reached the front porch I had no choice but to run up the stairs, risking a momentary flashing of my emergency underwear (the ones reserved for the day before laundry day or other such emergencies) I only had one other pair clean, and I was saving those specifically for the morning.  The porch light was off, but every light inside the house was on, so I could see my way clearly to the door.  I gripped the doorknob and gave a quick turn, preparing myself mentally in the event that my children had actually done as they were told and locked the doors as they were leaving. 

Thankfully, they hadn’t. 

I’m not sure if I should scold them for leaving a door unlocked or give them a bonus in next week’s allowance! 

I didn’t waste any time in locking the door behind me and running to let the dogs in the back door.  I armed the alarms, the laser motion sensors, and the outdoor cameras and locked myself in my room with all four dogs.  I will likely get little sleep tonight between the constant licking and the chewing.  I can only hope the grandpuppy sticks to his toys and not my shoes! 

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping with my eyes open!

the blogger in the plastic bubble

I have been spending the entire evening working on the “I Survived the Bikini Wax Disaster” t-shirts, and didn’t work on a blog at all!  I did get some interesting feedback tonight however.  It seems that some of my readers have missed the humor in the near constant predicaments and incidents that would appear to be hazardous to my health.  Someone actually thought it was sad that I was regularly falling, hitting my head, having spontaneous muscle spasms in my neck, and other seemingly horrible events that befall me on a daily basis.  Depressing was the word used, I think.  Well, I certainly hope no one out there is feeling a sense of depression after reading about my practically life threatening clumsiness.  Some of us just have equilibrium issues, and honestly, I think it’s funny!  I wouldn’t sit here typing up tales of destruction to gain sympathy.  In fact, if I didn’t think it was hysterical, I would hardly put it down in print. Besides, having a bad day, or a sad day, or just a disasterously clumsy day is just a great measuring tool to help us appreciate the truly wonderful days life has to offer.  Can’t have the good without the bad, can’t have the happy without the sad…(or something like that.)

I would also like to address the comments I have received asking if I am really that clumsy.  Yes.  I am.  I am easily surrounded by more than ten people during the business day, and at least nine of them have witnessed my clumsiness first hand.  They all find it very funny too.  I tend to think that one of my gifts in this life is to make others laugh at my minor misfortunes.  And they are almost always minor.  I’ve never even broken a bone!

Today for example…I closed my hair in the car door.  I was wearing a neck brace.  It was really, really hard to disentangle my hair from the door while wearing a neck brace.  I was simultaneously frustrated and amused.  Do these kinds of things happen to other people or is it just me?  

And about that neck brace…

The pain in my neck has prompted me to wear said neck brace to prevent spontaneous spasming.  This new practice has brought with it an onslaught of questions as to “what did you do now?” and “you really are a hazard to your own health.” Everyone has assumed that I have fallen, or crashed, or otherwise caused trauma to myself thereby bringing about the neck pain.  The truth of the situation is far less exciting than what everyone imagines.  But the explanation is so long winded and tedious that I’ve found myself just nodding (limited nodding in a cervical collar) and smiling and promising that they “don’t want to know.”  And honestly, they probably don’t want to know.  It’s not exciting, or even funny.  It’s unfortunate, and uncomfortable…and somehow congenital if I am to believe my mother, and I have no reason not to.  Lucky for me it’s a rare thing to have muscle cramps in my neck.  It’s only happened once in each decade of my life, and apparently I was due!  But because no one believes the truth, or because they would just rather it was something more comical, I’ve decided to come up with creative excuses.  For example…I think next time someone asks me what happened, I’ll just say…”there are some things one should not do in a moving vehicle.”  Or maybe I’ll just ask them, “Did you realize you can get whiplash from dancing on a stripper pole?”  I could toss out the old standby, “You should see the other guy!”   Today I just left them with the simple truth.  “It’s just one of the many benefits of being me.”  It didn’t satisfy the questions, but it was met with an understanding nod. 

So I guess I’ll have to be more careful sleeping from now on.  Even a poorly positioned pillow can be a dangerous weapon if I’m around.  Someone suggested that I get one of those protective bubbles to keep out germs and sharp corners.  I wonder if a nice big roll of bubble wrap would do.  Hey, it couldn’t hurt!

Until the next time…I’ll be rolling myself in bubble wrap before heading out of the house!

valium anyone?

Today was a rough day.  Right off the bat, I almost broke down in tears in a room full of coworkers.  Instead, I retreated to my office where I quietly sulked until the tears evaporated.  I would blame it on the medication I was taking for muscle spasms in my neck, but since I hadn’t taken it yet, I guess I can’t.  I suppose it could be said that I was being overly touchy, but I think I’m entitled to be sensitive once in a while.  I am a woman after all.  I’m not going to talk about the muscle spasms…mostly because it isn’t funny.  I didn’t fall down, I didn’t trip or bump into anything, I just woke up with a major pain in my neck.  (That could be funny if I could think of a way to tie it into the tears, but I’m taking muscle relaxers, and that messes with my funny bone.)

So much happened today, but unfortunately, I don’t remember any of it.  Other than my morning cry, today was a big blur.  I probably shouldn’t have taken medication on an empty stomach.  After eating a light breakfast consisting of a handful of chocolate kisses and a few pistachios (I left my oatmeal on the counter at home) followed by a healthy lunch (chicken salad with nuts and grapes) I was ready for some comfort food for dinner.  Of course, I wasn’t so ready for it that I was willing to cook.  I ran out to the grocery store to the hot deli to get fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese.  I will have to eat salads for the rest of the week. (I don’t know what is worse…a Charlie horse in my neck or dieting, but at the risk of making a bad pun, I’m going to say they’re neck and neck.) 

The good news is, the prom dress is safely hanging in the hall closet, the shiny silver shoes are tucked safely in their box, and the teenage girl is still thrilled with her choices.  That alone will make me rest easier tonight. 

Then again, prom is just over a week away and I have a sinking suspicion that my weekend will consist of additional shopping trips for the accessories necessary for a perfect evening.  Oh, and did I mention that she has decided to take her sister as her date?  If you didn’t catch the ramifications of that, let me fill you in…there is another girl to buy a dress for!  

I remember a time when I was so excited to have a baby girl.  I couldn’t wait to dress her up in frilly dresses and hair bows. I delighted in buying her cute buckle shoes, and pretty little earrings.  I vaguely remember being warned, but I didn’t listen.  I was so certain that my little girl would NEVER grow up to be a horrible monster, hell bent on making my life miserable.  She would NEVER use a cross tone with me.  She would always be the pretty little princess who wanted to be just like her mommy.

Everyone tells me she’ll change back once she recovers from her teen years.  I do see brief flashes of that little girl from time to time.  She was there in the dressing room when we’d found the perfect dress.  It was like Christmas morning.  It reminded me of what’s important.  And every temper tantrum, every screaming match, and every slamming door is worth it in the end.  It’s all about that smile your daughter wears when she sees the little princess in the full length mirror.  It gives me hope. 

Until the next time…I’ll be dreaming of a new day.  And a winning lottery ticket!

there's never a fairy godmother when you need one

To say that today was quiet and boring would be a total fabrication.  A straight up lie.  But at the same time, I’m at a loss to put the day into words.  Today was almost entirely devoted to prom dress shopping with my daughter. She dragged me out of bed at nine and sent me to the shower to get ready.  The plan was to make a quick run to the mall before her class at noon.  Everything would have been fine, if it hadn’t been raining.  Rain water and freshly straightened hair do not mix!

I didn’t get breakfast, and we never even made it to the mall.  Instead we drove around through the rain shouting at each other about everything and nothing.  I was seriously thinking the early PMS warning system may have come in handy for me today! 

We ran out of time, so the mall was out.  Instead we hit the little shops in the area.  There weren’t any dresses, but there was a pair of purple high top converse sneakers that would look absolutely ridiculous under a prom dress, so of course we had to have them!

I was still hungry when I dropped her off at class but I had to wait an hour before meeting a friend for lunch.  After lunch it was back to class for the teenager and back to the house for me…for an hour.  Then it was pick her up again…run to another boutique…and back to school for her last class.  I had another hour to kill. 

My day off was scattered due to an impossible schedule that I did not create, and couldn’t control. 

Once she was done for the day, we finally headed to the mall. 

Prom dresses are ridiculously expensive, and I’d already bought two formal dresses for other occasions that she refused to wear.  She wanted the “perfect” dress.  And how could I deny her?

Perhaps I couldn’t deny her, but that didn’t mean I had to spend what could easily be a car payment (for a very nice car) to buy a dress that once worn would be forever hung in the closet untouched.  Girls can’t wear the same dress twice.

We set off through the mall, and she dragged me to every shop that carried long dresses.  She tried on every dress in every store until we set upon “the dress.”  Of course it is always the last store and the very last dress tried on that turns out to be the perfect dress.  It is very “vintage Hollywood” and absolutely perfect for my little drama queen.  It looks magnificent on her, and it was even on sale.  What more could a mom ask for?

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for a relaxing day off!

and then there's maude

It’s been a whole month since the last book club meeting.  I guess time flies when you don’t read the book.

Mrs. Jones hosted book club this evening, but luckily for me, this time I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the book.  Apparently it wasn’t a very good book, no matter what Oprah may have said.  So instead of answering the book club discussion questions, the evening started out with a lively discussion about potty training, and how long is too long to hold it in between trips to the restroom.  This was followed by a comparison of the differences between underwear, panties, knickers, bloomers, and undies—we all had our own preferences—and I think one of the ladies said she preferred none.  (She was joking I’m certain.)  And a debate on whether one should bury one’s grandparents in the backyard (specifically next to the pool) or just have them cremated. In our defense, we were all against burying Grandma in the yard. 

Once everyone had shuddered off the creepiness of burying anything larger than a hamster anywhere near our homes, Mrs. Jones pulled out a game for us to play.

I had never played Scattergories before.  The object of the game is to match categories with words that all start with the same letter.  And you don’t get to pick the letter…it’s all in the luck of the roll…and it’s timed! So in one round the categories might be “things found in the refrigerator” or “famous politicians” and if the letter is the letter I, you need to remember that ice cream is found in the freezer and Eisenhower begins with an E.  Oh, and you don’t get points if someone else picked the same word you did for each category, so originality is vital to your survival in the game. 

The Battle of Scattergories.

I was ready to play.  I love games.  Especially when I’m winning.  As it turns out, I’m not the only one who likes to win.  Mrs. Jones is quite fond of winning.  And as it happens, so is our mutual neighbor, Miss Congeniality (not her real name.) Miss Congeniality is probably the friendliest of all the neighbors on my block.  And I have several friendly neighbors.  Most of them were in attendance at tonight’s book club. 

The first round was without a doubt the hardest.  The letter was I, and no matter what the category, I is a difficult letter to come up with when a timer is ticking out the seconds and you can’t duplicate your answers.  I only got three points that round, but I was just getting the hang of things.  In the next round, once we were all clear on the rules, the gloves were off. 

The letter was M. 

Mrs. Jones and I were disqualified by our answer to the category “things made of metal.” I chose “machinery” and she chose “machines.”  We both argued that the words conveyed different things, despite their similarity.  We were voted down.  We vowed to be as picky with the others if the opportunity came up, which it did.  I still think “gelatin” is to “green jello” what “machinery” is to “machine.” After all, green jello IS gelatin.  I was voted down on that argument too.  But that was ok, because Mrs. Jones was not happy that we wouldn’t give her the points for “monkey boy” when someone else picked “monkey.”

“Machine…machinery.” I reminded her. 

We rolled M again, and I am still convinced that Maude was a woman in the Bible no matter what the others say.  I can’t find it yet, but I’m going to keep looking.  That’s what Google is for! 

Down went the thumbs and the battle raged on. 

Miss Congeniality threatened to leave after every round.  She doesn’t like to lose.  And she didn’t like the rules.  She always seemed to pick words that someone else had used.  I don’t remember if we gave her the points when she named “elves” as “heroes”, but her argument was that Santa’s elves were always heroes to her, so we may have given in.  What we refused to cave on was her “parts of a car” answer.  She chose “gas tank” which is perfectly acceptable as a part of a car, but one of the other ladies chose “gas hole” as her answer.  Miss Congeniality argued that a “gas hole” was hardly the same as a “gas tank” to which I replied that the gas hole was really just the vagina of the gas tank.  That set her off further, and she argued that a vagina and a uterus are two separate body parts and therefore so should be a “gas tank” and a “gas hole.”  We didn’t agree, to which she decided that we were all a bunch of “gas holes.” And she said she was going home. 

After the next round.

She didn’t leave.  We all stayed to play six rounds.  It was the most fun I’ve ever had at a party that didn’t serve alcohol.  But then again, I did win the game.  Winning is always better than not winning. Miss Congeniality came in dead last.  But we told her that finishing dead last was impressive.  Only one person could possibly finish dead last, so she won at losing.  I think she accepted that as a consolation prize.  She still won’t give me Maude.  I’m still going to look it up.  Just not tonight.  I’m too tired tonight.  I played really hard with my friends.  I’m ready for bed.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to convince my neighbors that the Simpson’s bible counts for the game. After all, a bible is a bible!

what are you wearing under there?

It’s an old joke, with a simple punch line. 

Underwear.

I’ve talked about underwear before.  The pretty ones versus the functional.  How it is always a wise decision to heed Mom’s advice and wear nice clean underwear whenever leaving the house (in the event that you may have occasion to be caught with your pants down.) Underwear is important.  It is the foundation of all things garment! 

So where the hell have all mine gone???

I gathered up my clothes this evening to do my weekly laundry only to discover that despite having worn a clean pair each day this week, I could only find three pair to wash.  I searched in places I wouldn’t ordinarily leave my panties—under the bed, in the back of my closet, behind the bathroom door—yes, I even looked to see if they were tangled up in the sheets.  But no luck.  I didn’t find even one stray pair that had escaped the laundry basket to wander the house alone.  So that begs the question…what on earth would be gained by stealing my underwear?

I immediately ruled out my family members as suspects.  My deductive reasoning skills are honed enough to know that no one in my house would have cause to wear my panties.  First of all, I have two teenage girls in the house, and as much as it pains me to say, they are much smaller than I am in the panty area.  They might be inclined to steal from each other, but definitely not from me.  My son (even if he would be so inclined…which I’m certain he is not) would not fit into my panties either.  Thankfully I am smaller than he is.  The same is true of my husband.  He would not be able to squeeze into my underwear even if he wanted to.  So who would have reason to snatch my undies? 

It was late in the evening when I decided to scream the question at the top of my lungs throughout my house.  “Has anyone seen my underwear?” 

They thought it was a joke.

Once I convinced them it that I wasn’t kidding, the theories started rolling in.  The only one that made any sense is that the grandpuppy has stolen them.  I have caught him tearing up socks, so it would make sense that he would have branched out to underwear.  I’m going to have to set a trap to catch him.  My son said I should just keep my door shut.  That’s not nearly as fun.  And I really do like to get to the bottom of a good mystery.  Like a detective.  Like Sherlock Holmes.  Or Hercule Poirot. 

I’ll keep you posted!

Until the next time…I’ll be brushing up on my Agatha Christie!

if the shoe fits

I was on a mission today.  To find summer shoes—specifically casual sandals, but I would have been delighted to find a pair that would be suitable for work as well.  I recruited my husband and our youngest child for the insane expedition.  After all, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.  And I was determined to find the perfect pair of sandals for my hard to shop for feet.  It was that resolve that fueled my quest.   

The first stop was Kohl’s.  They don’t have a wide selection, so leaving there empty handed wasn’t much of a blow to my confidence.  In fact, the few cute sandals I found there inspired me to widen my search. 

My husband, despite his gender driven desire to steer as clear from shoe stores as humanly possible, steered the car toward the next department store that carried ladies shoes.  And there was even a sale!

Flesh eating zombies might be easier to fight off than a crowd of women at a shoe sale.  There was a line in place just to try on a shoe in the right size.  I requested no less than seven different pairs of shoes in my size.  They only had one.  But did I give up?  No!  I was motivated by the $3 pair of flip flops on my feet that were all but falling apart.  With each step, as they slapped against my bare feet, I was propelled forward through the crowd searching for the elusive shoes that came in my size.  I was confident that they were out there.  And I would be the first person to find them.  I mentally dared anyone to try to wrestle them away from me.  That is if I could find any. 

There were shoes everywhere.  Boxes stacked up on the chairs, boxes stacked up on tables, boxes in the aisles.  If only these boxes held my sandals.  The sandals that would make my feet say “ah” the minute I slipped my toes in. 

I was digging through these boxes of sale shoes when I was run over by an old lady in a wheel chair.  In her defense, the old woman wasn’t driving.  It was her daughter pushing her that caused her to slam into my ankles at a dizzying velocity.  It was like being run over by a grocery cart filled with frozen turkeys. But I’ve been run over by grocery carts more times than I could possibly count, and never died from my wounds.  That’s what I told her when she asked me if I was ok.  I was certain I would live.  She was very sweet about it.  In fact, she stalked me around the department for the rest of my visit making sure I wasn’t bleeding out of my Achilles tendon or something. 

Admittedly it hurt pretty badly, but I wasn’t going to make an old lady feel guilty all day.  She reminded me of my grandmother.  Of course, my grandmother was known to chase the grandchildren around in her wheel chair from time to time.  I don’t know if she ever caught anyone, but it didn’t stop her from trying.

I left the department store empty handed and slightly dejected, but hardly ready to give up.  There was a Famous Footwear just across the street, and there was still plenty of daylight left. 

I have blisters on my feet from all the shoes I tried on.  I felt like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister, attempting to squeeze my enormous feet into the pretty little sandals in one size smaller than I needed.  I no longer cared about the perfect shoes, or even pretty shoes.  I was simply looking for my size shoes.  Ok, that’s a lie.  I did find several pair in my size that reminded me of the old woman in the wheel chair, and I am definitely not old enough for those kinds of shoes!

We didn’t leave the store empty handed this time.  We bought our daughter a pair of sandals.  They were on sale.  She was delighted.  I was decidedly not delighted.  And after more than three hours of his life that he will never get back, my husband has declared that I will be shoe shopping on the internet from now on. 

It would seem that, much like the alcoholic who has to admit he has a problem, I must make a sobering admission as well.  I have big feet.  Size eleven.  That’s almost unheard of in women’s shoes.  But because I’m very tall, it seems perfectly proportional to me.  I do trip a lot, and it’s entirely possible this is in some small part due to my Sasquatch-sized feet.  But unlike the size of my jeans that can dramatically fluctuate depending on my Girl Scout cookie consumption, my feet do not change sizes by more than a fractional amount when I diet.  So, as my husband has stressed to me more times this evening than I care to relay, I need to just accept my shoe size and deal with it. 

I may need a little time to get used to that.

Until the next time…Google shoe search here I come!

i’m a rock star!

I had an interesting Friday night. I spent the entire evening singing in front of a live audience.  I love singing, almost as much as writing.  We creative types just love attention I suppose.  There are worse things, I’m sure. 

My husband’s weekend trip to visit his grandmother was cancelled when he suddenly came down with a migraine headache, just hours before he was set to go.   After taking a nap (and a few antihistamines) he felt somewhat better, so I dragged him with me.  It’s funny…he’s the one person who is never overly impressed with me.  He doesn’t rave about my writing, or my singing.  I guess you could say he keeps me grounded.  It’s hard to get a big head when those around you everyday aren’t impressed.  I think he secretly thinks I’m wonderful, but he’s afraid if he flatters me too much, I will become impossible to live with.  I’m sure he’s right. 

I was going to take a little break tonight, and maybe snuggle up with my husband to watch a movie.  But instead we’re watching a documentary on Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.  Nothing like a dead president to bring out the romantic in all of us.  Maybe not.  So instead, I’ve decided to go to sleep early so I can wake up ready to tackle my day—a work day Saturday.  And then I can officially start my weekend.  All one day of it.  It’s supposed to be a beautiful sunny day tomorrow.  I may even stay out in the sun for a while.

I can’t wait! I love the weekend.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking for the highest possible SPF available!

what a taxing day!

April 15^th. 

All things considered, I think I might prefer April 1^st.  I wish tax day was just a really good prank someone was playing on me.  Unfortunately, the IRS doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Mike stayed up late last night completing our taxes and submitted them electronically only to get an email first thing this morning telling us that they had been rejected.

Rejected!

Someone had already submitted a tax return using one of the kid’s social security numbers! The impossibility of this was staggering to us.  Who does this?  Now we have to submit our return manually.  So off to the post office we go before the midnight tax filing deadline.  Of course, there was a line.  And they didn’t sell the stamped envelopes.  How does the post office not sell stamped envelopes? So we were back in the car to drive to the local drugstore to buy envelopes. This is what we get for waiting until the last minute.  If we had filed our taxes in February, like we did last year, this would have never happened. 

On the up side, it was another beautiful day.  There was just a slight cool breeze in the air and beautiful clear blue skies with not a drop of rain in sight.  Another day to leave the windows open. 

I didn’t get to enjoy much of the beautiful day though.  I was stuck inside all day at work.  It was another one of those days where I felt torn between my duel identities.  Not a struggle between writer and wife, as I have dealt with recently—it was a struggle between being a mother and being a banker.  I guess that means I have a quadruple identity—I’m a writer, a mother, a banker, and a wife (not necessarily in that order.)

It is very difficult to maintain my identities simultaneously, so I have to engage in a bit of a time share relationship with myself.  I often feel like I have multiple personality disorder, but I’m still me no matter what personality I’m wearing at the time.  The roles just each have their own massive demands.  Today the job was holding me back from being a mother.  That is without a doubt the most difficult position to be in.  I can juggle everything else, not easily perhaps, but without horrible feelings of guilt.  When I can’t keep the “mother” ball in the air I feel like a failure no matter how successful I may be with my other balls. 

Speaking of balls…my little bull dog mix absolutely loves tennis balls.  It has no less than a dozen of them around the house.  He carries one in his mouth almost everywhere he goes, and he tries to talk with his mouth full.  It makes his voice sound like he’s growling even when he isn’t, so I always tell people about his love of tennis balls so they don’t freak out when they meet him. 

We often call him “dogdini” because of his uncanny ability to escape from the yard magically.  One minute he can be inside the walls of our six feet tall privacy fence, and in the next he vanishes.  He has a very descriptive tag hanging on his collar for this reason.  He has his name, phone number, address, and a message that reads “very very friendly.” 

The last time he escaped I did what I always do, I drove around the neighborhood stopping to speak with anyone who might be outside—especially children.  Children who might be playing with balls.  Balls of any kind…any size.  I stopped at a new neighbor’s house.  We hadn’t yet met.  They had just moved in.  There were several children playing in the yard.  Playground balls bouncing against the driveway…baseballs tossed through the air into leather gloves…and a tennis ball bouncing against the garage door. 

I asked the father if he had seen my dog.  I described him in full detail.  He hadn’t seen him.  But I knew that with the kids playing so close by, there was a good chance that my doggy would show up eventually.  So I felt I needed to be sure he knew the dog was friendly.  There was nothing to fear from my sweet pup.  He would just want to play ball with the children.

So, with a big smile, I lightheartedly cautioned him, “You just have to watch your balls.  He’ll be after your balls for sure.”

My daughter was sitting next to me in the car and she choked back laughter and told me to “just drive away Mom.”  Which, after nodding stupidly toward my neighbor’s shocked reaction, I did. 

I have no idea how I get myself into these things. 

That neighbor has lived down the street for over a year now.  I have never spoken to him again.  I don’t know how I could ever top our first conversation!

What do balls have to do with tax day you ask?  I guess it’s just a subtle reminder that the IRS has us all by the balls every day of the year…

Until the next time…I’ll be starting my 2010 taxes to get a jump on next year!

who shaves a cat?

It would seem that there is more than one way to shave a cat.  Although I can’t think of a single reason anyone would WANT to shave a cat.  It can’t be much fun for the cat.  And it would likely be dangerous if that cat had claws—as does Henry Chow, Ninja Kitty. 

I have often said that no matter how much Henry Chow sheds (often more than enough to build an entirely new kitty) he never appears to be missing any fur.  That is no longer the case.  Henry Chow now has not one, but two bald spots.  One of the bald spots is undoubtedly a battle wound.  There is some evidence that he may have been attacked from behind by the other cat, and a nice chunk of his fur has been ripped out.  The spot is healing nicely, and I hope the hair will grow back in time.  The other spot is not one caused by battle.  I am certain that spot was caused by an electric razor.  I’ve asked the guilty party to step forward and come clean, but they are all denying knowledge about the shaved bald spot on the kitty. 

They have implicated each other. 

But this was not an accidental shaving.  These are not toddlers.  Everyone who lives in my house on a regular basis is either an adult, or just outside of the parameters of adulthood.  They should know better.  I will continue to dig for the truth until I manage to get one of them to cave under the pressure.  If only the cat could talk!

Talking cats aside, it was another beautiful day.  The weather seems to have cycled back around to the normal warm, dry, and sunny weather we are accustomed to here in Atlanta.  And the weather isn’t the only thing that was back.  My “back to healthy eating” diet has been going well all week.  Today I had oatmeal for breakfast and a salad for lunch only to discover that someone brought two boxes of Girl Scout cookies to work.  They just left them open on the table in the break room for anyone to eat. 

This was cruel and unusual punishment.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the bank is just a giant mousetrap and the constant flow of chocolate is the proverbial cheese!

As for me?

I’m like this fancy mouse trying to get the cheese without springing the trap.  I got snapped at least once today.  Ok twice.  They were Samoas!  How does anyone pass up a Samoa?  I’ve decided to stay out of the break room going forward. It’s just safer that way.

I made it through the rest of the day without burning, breaking, or flooding anything.  I did find myself going against the traffic in the grocery store at rush hour.  Navigating a grocery cart backwards through the store is never a smart idea, but luckily, no one got hurt.  Despite my successful trip to the store yesterday, I found myself missing the key ingredient for dinner.  I made spinach and goat cheese pizza.  It was very tasty.  I skipped the soda, and I didn’t even have desert! I feel as if I’ve made up for the two Samoas (and the two Thin Mints I found stashed in the break room freezer.)

It would have been a perfect day if on the eve of the tax deadline our taxes had already been completed.  But they weren’t.  So my husband is doing our taxes beside me in the bed. (We are a two laptop couple and we know how to use them!) I fully expect him to be working on taxes long after I post my blog and go to sleep.  I don’t know how otherwise rational adults make it through tax season without getting divorced. I don’t know what possessed us to wait until April 14^th to dig out our documents and attempt to piece together an entire year’s worth of tax information in a few hours time.  I guess it’s the challenge. And who doesn’t love a challenge?

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the clicking of his keyboard and the whispered obscenities of a man doing taxes!

mission: day off

I absolutely love having a day off.  From the moment I was awakened by my wonderful husband (who was afraid I was going to oversleep because I was still in bed at seven thirty) all the way to the moment I climbed back into bed at nine-thirty—completely exhausted—to write my blog…it was a wonderful day.

A wonderful day with a plan. Or better yet…a mission!

My mission for today was to clean my bathroom, color my hair (a task that is several weeks overdue), write another chapter of my book, take my blouses to the dry cleaners, wash the thick layer of pollen off my car, and cook a wonderful dinner for my wonderful husband. 

Barely an hour after my husband left for work I was awakened yet again by my daughter, who reminded me that I had promised to help her write her essay on Napoleon Bonaparte.  Being the writer in the family, I get a lot of requests to help with papers, essays, dissertations, resumes, and the like.  I never say no.  I usually just grumble my way through the project muttering to myself about how I can’t even take credit for the A I’m about to get. 

As it turns out, after “helping” her bang out a very good essay about the petit general, I was informed that her Titanic project was also due today. 

Off to the internet I went, searching for pictures for her poster while she worked on the presentation.  And then I had to print them all so she could attach them to the poster board.  And I had to help find markers, and glue, and did I mention that this is my sixteen year old daughter?  Why are we still doing posters for history in the eleventh grade?  I have no idea. 

Once I’d gotten “my” homework done, we ate lunch and I dropped her off at school.

Finally, I was free! 

I had a tiny window of time to squeeze in some writing.  I didn’t have time to write a whole chapter, but I did spend a nice quiet hour writing.  I still had a laundry list of things to do, but I was out of time. 

My teenager had her own list of plans for my day off, and at the top of her list was bleaching a streak of her hair to turn it blue.  We bleached, but ran out of time, so blue will have to wait. 

Finally I could start on that wonderful dinner I had planned. 

I filled a stock pot with water using the pot filler.  I did not flood the oven this time—a success—and the pasta was cooked to perfection.  I just had to turn it out of the pot into a strainer to drain the water.  As skill goes, this task required very little.  But one thing I am quite skilled at is finding ways to injure myself.  I have no idea how, but as I was pouring out the pasta, I managed to rest my entire forearm against the bottom of the stockpot—the part of the pot that had just been resting in the fire.  I don’t think I need to mention how much that hurt.  I really shouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen. 

Dinner was started, my arm was scalded, the kids were busy doing whatever teenagers do when they aren’t asking me to do something for them, and I still had errands to run—I needed something from the grocery store, and I still had dry cleaning to drop off.

I was backing out of the driveway before I realized that I hadn’t been to the bathroom all day long, and I had to pee. But I’d waited this long…I could wait until I got back from the store. 

There is no such thing as running into the grocery store for one item.  Inevitably I ended up with a cart filled with things I didn’t even know I needed.  All things that were vital to my existence in their own little way.    

I don’t even know what I bought.  I just know I had to have everything I picked out.  But I forgot to get the one thing I actually went to the store for. 

When I got home, my bladder was beginning to revolt.  As I unloaded the last of the bags onto the kitchen island, I had to stop cold and concentrate to keep from wetting myself and my hardwood floors.  Once the first wave passed and I was able to move again, I set off in a full out run to the powder room at the end of the hall.  I couldn’t get my pants undone fast enough, well…I did get them undone fast enough, but it was close.  It reminded me of the time my zipper was jammed and I had to use the bathroom at work.  I had to run to the back to have someone unzip me in the vault.  Of course, I’d forgotten about the cameras until it was too late.  At least there were no cameras at home.  Then again, it might have been entertaining to watch me jump up and down trying to unzip my jeans and wriggle out of them without breaking my concentration.  I suppose the simple solution would be to follow my mother’s advice and go before you leave home.  You can never go wrong with that advice. 

I didn’t do anything on my day off list other than dinner.  It wasn’t the wonderful dinner I had originally planned, but no one complained.  My blouses are still dirty…so is my car and my bathroom…my hair is still in desperate need of color and my book is still not finished.  Not that I expected to finish the whole thing on one day off, but it would have been fabulous if I had. 

It’s back to work tomorrow.  I won’t wake up with the same excitement I did this morning, and I won’t be able to sleep through the alarm, but I’ll get up and get dressed and get out there like I do every other day.  Because life is really wonderful even if you have to go to work everyday.

Until the next time…I’ll be counting the days until my next day off!

et tu cindy loo?

I had a very exciting blog planned for this evening where I was going to talk about springtime and Dairy Queen, and cherry dipped ice cream cones (something I had craved since my childhood only to discover that it wasn’t nearly as good as I had remembered.) I was going to share a cute moment between my husband and myself where we were texting back and forth on our BlackBerrys while watching the same TV and working on our laptops.  It was silly, and it made us feel like teenagers flirting back and forth.  It may have even led to a little old fashioned romance.  But instead of going into several hundred words devoted to mating season…I have decided that I need to address something just a little more important.  Tonight I’m going to write about misunderstandings and the price of fame.

Now, I would never profess to be famous in the way of the cast of Twilight, or even the Brady Bunch, but in my own way, it would seem that I have reached a level of fame that I was not expecting.  Specifically with regard to my Pole Waxer’s University blog. 

Lately I have seen a great deal of web traffic directed to that particular blog, and there have been a few comments that were unflattering.  It seems as if my blog has touched on a nerve or two.  Other students of Pole Waxers are convinced that my experiences were fabricated, or exaggerated, possibly even mean spirited.  It reminded me of a little incident several weeks back where someone who called themself Cindy Loo left a nasty little comment on one of the daily blog entries. 

I’m not sure exactly how to take the negative feedback.  Obviously people are entitled to their opinions.  No one is required to find the blogs funny, nor are they going to agree with my recollections of every situation.  That’s understandable.  But I find it disconcerting that anyone would assume that I was being disingenuous or mean spirited in any of my posts.  I promise that I meant no disrespect to the staff or students at the Pole Waxers University.  I am just far too clumsy to find anything but humor in a trip to an exotic dance studio. 

I think the problem is that people are very protective of things they love.  I admit that I get protective of Edward Cullen when my son starts bashing on Twilight.  I find myself defending the sparkling vampires against the old fashioned burn in the sun variety.  I’m sure I don’t need to jump to Edward’s defense.  I’m also sure I’m not the only one who does.  We all seem to champion causes that need a champion. 

My daughter is always defending the underdog.  I admire that in her.  Especially when I’m the underdog.  She is a vehement champion.  I know there are few more like her that frequent this very blog.  I feel just a little safer knowing you’re out there. 

I really do wish the patrons at Pole Waxer’s University would realize that my blog may actually increase the volume of people that want to try a cardio pole class.  I have had many readers ask me how they can take a class, where it is, when I’m going again so they can come watch me fall down.  I might just be willing to give it another shot if I had enough people to go with me.  You know…like a posse.  Can’t be too careful now that I’m famous. 

But whether or not we go to Pole Waxers or someplace else, I definitely think it’s time for the daily blog to go on another fieldtrip.  I’m formulating a plan as to where we should go.  It goes without saying that my regular crowd will accompany me, but perhaps I should make an announcement in advance.  Who else might want to go?  What should we do?  I haven’t been roller-skating in years, throw a margarita into the mix and I can almost guarantee an exciting time.  I may need body armor.  In fact, armor might be entertaining.  We could organize a roller derby!  It might shatter my “no broken bones” record though.  I don’t know if I want to ruin that streak just yet.  And hey, we might just go back to Pole Waxers after all.  It was definitely a good workout.  I just need some sort of clingy suit to help me stick to the pole.  Maybe a pair of rubber gloves…you know…so my hands can get a better grip.  I hear they have a Girl’s Night Out with rum punch on Saturday nights!

Until the next time…I’ll be planning our next outing!

just call me the yard princess

If you haven’t noticed, I have decided to continue writing my daily blog every day.  I enjoy it too much to stop, or to skip days.  I just had to accept the fact that some blogs will just be shorter than others.  It all depends on the day I guess.

That way I still have time to devote to my book, my job, my children, my husband, and my array of crazy animals.  Oh…and the yard.  Let’s not forget about working in the yard.

Speaking of the yard…this weekend has kicked my ass.

We did more yard work today.  And if I’m not mistaken, yard work actually burns a lot of calories.  So technically, I worked out all weekend.  I can officially go back to sitting behind a desk on Monday.  If I can even get out of bed in the morning. 

Without as much as a single zombie in sight, I wielded an ax. I never actually cut through anything, but I made several passes at a fallen tree.  It looked like someone had taken a bite out of it…like a sandwich.  It is much harder to cut through trees than it looks on Little House on the Prairie.  In fact, I told my husband today that I feel certain I would not have survived life on the prairie.  Not if I had to use an ax on a regular basis. 

Once I had thoroughly worn myself out with the ax, I was reassigned to raking.  And raking is not as easy as it looks on HGTV.  Even leaves are much heavier in a large group than when they effortlessly wafted down from the treetops one at a time, and I wasn’t raking leaves.  My assignment was to rake rocks and sticks and assorted debris left over from my husband’s firepit project.  I was much more interested in arranging the outdoor furniture around the firepit in a pleasingly balanced way. 

I got fired from the raking when Mike needed the rake back.  He was adding the tomato plants to the raised planting beds in the back.  So I was tasked to shovel dirt.   

Mostly I watched dirt being shoveled.  The dogs actually dug deeper holes in the yard than I did today, but I had a shovel in my hand, and I have sore muscles from the work I did with it.  Dirt is also very heavy after the first few shovels full. 

I don’t want to say I’m a wimp when it comes to yard work, and as it turns out, I don’t have to.  My husband says it for me.  I told him to look at my genealogy again.  I come from nobility…we don’t play in the dirt.

He wasn’t buying it.  He handed me the rake again and asked me to spread out the topsoil in his planting beds.   

Now I have dirt under my fingernails, dirt in my hair, and dirt between my toes. 

It’s time to hit the showers. 

And then time to work on the book.  I’ve set a goal for myself to finish it by the end of May.  I’m going to have to spend a lot of time writing to make that deadline. 

Until the next time…I’ll be coating my muscles in Icy Hot!

burn baby burn!

My Saturday was severed in half by the fact that the entire morning and a little bit of the afternoon was spent working.  Not working as in writing, but rather working as in, at the bank.  But once I left for the day…my weekend could officially start. 

And, it was a beautiful day!

I think we’ve finally navigated completely out of winter and into spring. The weather was perfect today.  Not too hot, not too cold and the sun was shining. I had “accidentally” taken both sets of keys for the cars, so Mike was unable to get any of his morning errands done which meant he was raring to go the minute I walked through the door.  First stop…?

Pike’s Nursery.

I have to admit, I love going to look at plants.  I love planning the garden, love picking out flowers, love every step of the process…except for the actual planting. I do not like playing in the dirt.  I’ll rake.  I’ll stand out there and point to where I want the flowers to go.  I’ll even help clean up the yard debris.  I just can’t take a live plant and sink it into the ground…not without killing it.  My husband is very good with plants.  And he can stay in the sun all day without turning to dust.  Unlike me.  I’ve already established that I ignite in the sun—like a vampire.  I avoid the sun as much as possible.  It’s really better that way. The sun is bad for your skin.  I like my skin.  It needs to last for my entire life.  I can’t afford to let it burn up in the sun, and you just can’t plant a garden after dark, it’s hard to see what you’re doing.  Plus, there is likely a mother rattlesnake somewhere in my yard, probably seeking vengeance for the loss of her young, and I’m not about to run into her in the dark of night when I can’t see to run away.

Despite my desire to stay away from the sun and the dark shadows of the yard at night, I ended up doing both!

I don’t really mind yard work.  I would like it a lot more if it didn’t involve being in the yard.  There are mosquitoes and ants…and bees in the yard.  And our yard is devoid of any good shade trees so I was forced to stand directly in the sun for over an hour. There just isn’t enough sunscreen in my moisturizer for that.  My lips are sunburned…and believe me when I say, that is miserable! Our yard work detail ran over from daylight to evening as my husband decided that tonight would be the perfect night to test out our new fire pit. 

The sky was pitch black.  The only light was coming from the circular pit in front of me.  As my husband piled limbs, branches, and other natural yard debris into the fire it lashed out at the sky with what looked like silent fireworks.  Orangy embers floated through the air, resting on my favorite sweater. 

I was convinced I was on fire.  I jumped up out of my chair every so often to brush away what I was certain was a glowing ember poised to set fire to my clothes. 

I guess it could have been worse.  I didn’t actually burn up or anything.  I’m sure the neighbors were ready to call the fire department.  Luckily the house is still standing.  I am ready to fall down though.  It’s been a long day.  All that fresh air and smoke will take it right out of you!

Until the next time…I’ll be doing it all over again tomorrow!  

brain freeze? what brain freeze?

It’s the weekend.  Finally.  Not that I get to fully enjoy my Friday night, I have to work on Saturday morning…and I have a sinking suspicion that tomorrow will be a long five hours.  That’s why a bunch of us decided to go out for margaritas after work. 

I am not a big drinker.  Or should I say, I can’t hold my liquor and therefore I don’t drink much.  I have a one margarita limit, and tonight it was only a fraction of one. 

Half to be exact.  One half of one frozen margarita. The frozen drinks are the best! 

Of course, it’s important to note that any time a group of people partake of frozen drinks, it is inevitable that someone will get a “brain freeze.”  Except for me.  I never get “brain freeze.”  It’s true. I’ve eaten ice cream quickly with no effects.  I’ve guzzled slushies with no consequences.  And I could easily slurp down a frozen margarita without a single twinge in my head—at least not until the next morning.  The simple truth is that I appear to be immune to the infamous “brain freeze”—although no one, including my husband believes me.  That was why I was forced to prove to everyone that rapidly sucking down a frozen margarita would have no immediate effect on my brain.  My friends offered up a challenge.  A full glass of frozen margarita…a straw…and a table full of bankers chanting for me to “CHUG…CHUG…CHUG!”

I chugged until the entire table cringed like I was running my fingernails down a chalkboard.  They were expecting me to make a face…to grab my head…to moan in agony.

Nothing.

I didn’t feel a thing! Well, I did feel a little woozy after drinking half a margarita in a single breath. And I did have a bit of a headache a few hours later…once the tequila worked its way into my bloodstream.  It was worth it though.  It was a scientific experiment, and I proved my point.  I won!

The rest of my evening was far less exciting, but it’s hard to be exciting when you’re halfway hungover on half a margarita. On the up side…I’ll likely sleep very well tonight.  And we all know how much I could use a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is supposed to be a very nice day, and I’m sure my husband has much for me to do after work.  I should probably go to bed right now. 

Maybe not just yet.  I have a book to finish, and there are still a few hours before the stroke of twelve.  Writers write…and I am definitely a writer.  Through and through.

Until the next time…I will be taking a few aspirin…drinking a lot of water…and writing a book!

is that a time bomb in your pocket?

It was back to normal today.  I managed to get a sufficient amount of sleep last night, and dashed out of the bed this morning with a spring in my step.  Or at least I got up without a grumble and got straight into the shower. It was another busy day at work.  I had stacked up appointments added to a full schedule of training classes, and there is never enough time in a day for everything I need to do. 

I was full of energy…running full steam ahead…until midday.  That was when my steam finally ran out.  It was coincidentally right around the time I was stuck in my office doing a three hour learning module on my computer. 

After the umpteenth slow motion computer simulation, I was starting to drift.  I had given up caffeine so a nice cold diet Coke was not an option.  There was no choice but to suck it up and get through the program as fast as possible.  I had to pay attention—there was an assessment at the end.

I rested my elbow on my desk and propped my head up by leaning into my hand—the way one does when pouring over mind-numbing materials in an online format. 

It wasn’t more than a minute before I realized that I was hearing a strange clicking sound.  I sat up straight and the sound disappeared.  I didn’t think much of it until I leaned my head against my hand again and the clicking started up again.  It seemed to be coming from inside my head. 

I pressed my hand against my head and the clicking got louder. I sat up straight again and the sound stopped.  I rested my hand on the side of my head and the sound was back.  I could feel a panic attack coming on.  There was something very wrong with me.  My brain was making a clicking noise when I pressed on my head, and it was now more than a week since I’d hit my head on the car door.  I was certain that this meant I had truly done it—I’d cracked my skull and when I put any pressure on it, it would crack wide open.  This was bad.  I tried cupping my hand against my ear without more than a whisper of pressure and I could still hear the clicking. 

I jolt of anxiety coursed through me. 

I got out of my chair and I was going to march straight out of my office to inform the branch manager that I was heading to the hospital.  Or maybe I would have them call me an ambulance.  After all, should a woman whose skull was cracking from the inside out even get behind the wheel of a car?  My brain was a ticking time bomb and I was…

As I reached for the door handle I stopped cold.  I lifted my hand—the one that had been the resting place for my weary head just a minute ago—and I looked at it. 

I turned around and sat in my chair. 

Thankfully I hadn’t made it out of my office.  Thankfully I hadn’t gone out to tell everyone I was minutes away from disintegrating into bone dust and brains.  My skull wasn’t clicking.  My head wasn’t coming apart.  My brains weren’t minutes away from falling out.

I was wearing a watch.  A new watch.  And it was ticking.

Do these things ever happen to anyone but me?

My husband told me I should absolutely not admit to anyone that this happened.  I disagree.  I think it is a very important public service announcement.  It should be on the packaging for anyone who purchases a new watch. 

“Enclosed watch may emit a ticking noise that is faintly perceptible when placed in the vicinity of the ear.  This is normal.  Do not panic.  Watches do this.”

I would have benefitted from that warning. 

Until the next time…I’ll be leaving my watch on the bedside table!

so much writing...so little blog

I slept like a baby last night. 

I will never complain about my bed again!  At least not for a good month or two.  I was so happy to be back in my own house that I threw my clothes into a pile on the floor, pulled on one of my husband’s white t-shirts and fell into the sheets without another thought. 

I slipped into an almost instant coma and didn’t come out of it until my alarm went off at seven.  In only six short hours I had slept better than I’d slept in the three previous nights combined.  No tossing and turning, no stiff back, no lying awake trying to find a comfortable position.  And I can’t wait to do it again tonight!

I had used up my excitement allotment on the treacherous drive home last night, so I’m afraid today was miserably boring.  It was all I could do to keep my eyes open while at work.  It was a good enough day, as work goes, but I was delighted when the last customer left the bank and we locked the doors. 

I spent several hours working on my new book, “For the Love of Katie.”  (The sequel to “To Katie With Love”)  So much time, in fact, that I didn’t have much left to give to my blog tonight.  I’m wondering if anyone has checked out the sample chapters on the books page yet.  Any input from my readers?  Anyone interested in reading more?  I would very much love to get your feedback.  Until then, I’ll keep writing.

As for me…I have big plans for tomorrow. 

But for tonight, I’m going to go to bed early and regenerate. 

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping…a lot!

the long road home

The drive home from Panama City should have taken us five hours.  I think it took seven. 

Mike was exhausted, as was I, from a long several days of hospital vigils, family, and last minute room renovations.  We didn’t mind, this is what family does.  When someone needs you, you just dive into the fray and start treading water.  We just happen to be excellent water treaders.  But once we were piled into the car, ready to head back home, the exhaustion finally caught up to us.  After about an hour on the road, my husband looked at me and said, “I’m having a hard time staying awake, can you drive?”

For the record, I can drive.  I’m actually a very good driver.  As long as the sun has not gone down.  And since we were still a good hour from sundown, I was fully prepared to trade seats with him to take the wheel.  Lucky for me my daughter piped up with, “I’ll drive!” 

At long last…a perk of having teenagers!

She has logged many hours of driving since getting her permit in January so we agreed.  I cranked up the GPS, let my husband crawl into the back with the other two girls, and we were off. 

After another hour or so on the road, I was very glad to have someone behind the wheel that could see after dark.  I worked on my book while she drove.  My husband was snoring loudly in the back and the other two girls were taking turns charging their iPods on the mobile charger.   

Once the sun had completely gone down and the sky was at its blackest, our other daughter asked if she could have a turn at the wheel. 

We pulled into a McDonald’s in Eufaula Alabama and switched drivers again.

The drive between Eufaula Alabama and Columbus Georgia is the darkest, blackest stretch of road I can ever recall being on.

I am, without a doubt, blind as a bat at night.  And I have no sonar whatsoever.  Trying to play navigator to a student driver was an exercise in futility, and probably very dangerous.  She was driving at least fifteen miles under the speed limit, and I was counting in my head to calculate how many extra hours this would be adding to our trip.  I wanted to go home badly so I was torn between telling her to speed up to get there or slow down to not die.  It was a tough call at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night several hours away from home and my comfortable bed. 

The problem with switching drivers on a dark and scary road is there is never a place to pull over.  The blackness swirled in front of us like it was alive, and while the white lines were barely visible, the shoulder vanished into what could have very well been the abyss!

I had a chocolate shake in the drink holder that I was too freaked out to drink and I had closed my laptop to grip the “oh shit” handle until my knuckles went white.  And if the situation itself wasn’t bad enough, my husband had woken up in the back seat and was shouting instructions to the driver until she was shouting back at him that he was freaking her out.  I had no choice but to tell him to shut up!  I was the navigator, and there would be no backseat driving, and no speaking directly to my student, lest we all die!

It was a harrowing sixteen miles to the nearest town. 

While we were stopped Mike checked the tires because they were making an ominous sound as we sped through the darkened highway.  Apparently there were two loose lug nuts on the rear tire.  As if I didn’t have enough going on to freak me out! 

All things considered, I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow.  Being a business banker is way less dangerous than riding in the car! 

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping…finally!

there's no place like home

It was another day in paradise with little green palm trees.  All things considered, I think I might miss the snow.

Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Florida?  It’s hot, and it’s sticky, and there are bugs the size of small dogs.  The beach is beautiful, but I can’t stand the sun long enough to spend much time in it.  I can get sunburned on the way from the house to the car.

I ignite in the sun…like a vampire.

My girls love the sun.  They spend as much time as humanly possible in the sun, and argue with me when I dole out instructions to coat their skin with sunscreen.  It would seem that it is their goal to look like a leather belt with eyes in their old age.  They don’t believe in the fairy tale that is skin cancer.  They do however believe in the fairy tale about how they could survive on their own in the wild.  How ridiculous!  I’m still waiting for someone to come up with the cure for teenagers.  I hear it will be available in a few years time.  Not nearly soon enough for my taste.

We had a nasty little run in with the teenagers today.  Much to my chagrin, they had friends from Atlanta who were spring breaking in Panama City.  They had begged us to allow them to “hang out” with their friends for the day while we continued our vigil at the hospital, and commiserated with the rest of the family.  While I spent the day with the in-laws, the girls enjoyed a day at the beach. 

That was where they concocted their diabolical plan.  

They were determined to be left at the beach without us for the remainder of the week.  They had devised an entire scenario that involved a pregnant aunt, a bunch of teenagers, and a large dose of faith.   

It never ceases to amaze me how they find it surprising when we say no. 

Unfortunately it looks as if they may have gotten their wish.  As much as I miss my own bed, it seems as if I will be sleeping in the horrible bed for one more night. 

Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for our family—and my husband’s grandmother is worth one more sleepless night. 

As for tomorrow—there will be no beach for me.  Instead it will be time spent on a much higher purpose.  I will be the last person to sleep on the horrible bed.  We’re taking it out of the house to make room for a hospital bed so they can bring Grandmother home.  It’s important to be home.  It makes everything feel just a little bit better.  I wouldn’t mind being there myself.

Until the next time…I’ll be clicking my ruby heels together!

so much for the holiday inn

I woke up in Florida this morning after tossing and turning all night long on the most uncomfortable bed I have ever slept on in all my life.  It was like sleeping on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag.  And I will have to do it again tonight. 

Despite my impassioned pleas, we did not stay in a hotel near the beach; we stayed at my husband’s grandmother’s house.  And because she was in the hospital, we slept in her bed.  If I had to sleep in this bed many more nights, I too would be in the hospital.  I am sore from head to foot. 

It’s always a little awkward and uncomfortable to stay in someone else’s house, especially when you don’t know them very well—family or not.  Add a large dose of OCD and you have yourself a recipe for disaster.

Just like every morning, the first thing I did after silencing the alarm (that I forgot to turn off again) was to take a trip to the bathroom.  I’m sure that’s a first stop for more people than just me.  After doing what one does in the bathroom, I pressed down the handle to flush.  The water started to swirl a little then stopped. 

I flushed again. 

The water swirled around a little before settling again.  This was not what was supposed to happen. 

I flushed a third time, holding the lever down for a solid minute while the water swirled in the bowl.  This time it actually looked like it was going to complete the task, but nothing happened.  I started to panic.  How can the toilet not flush?  That is its primary function!  I couldn’t just leave the toilet like that!  We weren’t the only ones staying in the house.  I lowered the lid and carefully slipped out of the little room, closing the door behind me, and found my husband in the kitchen making coffee.

I grabbed him by the hem of his shirt and tugged him toward the back of the house.  “Help!” I mouthed. 

It flushed for him with no trouble.  He obviously had experience with that particular toilet and knew the trick to get it to work.  I had no intention of figuring it out.  I would use the other bathroom next time. 

The other bathroom was worse.  It didn’t have a flushing problem, but it had armrests—the same kind of armrests that you would find on a wheelchair—I’m not used to having armrests on the toilet.  It was very distracting.  I decided to use the temperamental toilet instead. 

For the record, the toilets weren’t the only awkward plumbing fixtures in the house.  Mike’s grandparents had bought the house sixty years ago and it had not been remodeled in more than thirty years, so the plumbing was a little outdated.  The sink in the main bathroom was original to the house, and only the hot water spigot worked.  Have you ever brushed your teeth with hot water?  And the funny thing is, that was the only hot water there was…the water I used to brush my teeth with.  There wasn’t enough hot water after that to take a shower, and there were six of us showing. 

I finally managed to get ready despite the challenges I faced, and the girls and I snuck out to run to the store for supplies (preferably chocolate, possibly with peanut butter or almonds.)

Everything was closed.

It was Easter Sunday; none of the shops in the neighborhood were open, so instead of getting supplies, we hit the local Wendy’s for an early lunch.  We weren’t supposed to be eating fast food, so we carefully disposed of all the evidence before heading back to Grandma’s house. 

The rest of the day was a blur—probably because I hadn’t slept the night before.  I’m going to try really hard to get some sleep tonight.  Wish me luck!

Until the next time…I’ll be sleeping on a concrete slab!