Lots of blather this year about who celebrates what and why - be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, yada, yada, yada. If you say, "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas", should I take offense?
Look, here's the deal as I see it. Just as it is my prerogative to accept Jesus Christ as my Savior and immerse myself in the celebration of His birth, it is certainly your right to do otherwise. I am neither judge or jury of my fellow man, and whatever faith or festivity you elect to observe during late December is not my business to criticize or condemn.
However, it IS my joy and privilege to tell you why I believe what I believe. God (as I understand Him) created this amazingly complex, beautiful and terrifying world, then added homosapiens who proceeded to immediately jack everything up. But He loved us and the world so much that He threw us a lifeline - a Son of both man and God, fully divine and fully human.
I believe, and I'm always ready and waiting to tell you why. I don't for one minute pretend that I understand it all, so don't expect me to have all the answers to your questions.
But I know who does, and I would love to introduce you to Him sometime if you haven't already met.
I wish you a Merry Christ-mas, and a 2012 full of hope.
31 December 2011
08 December 2011
Florid-duh, Part One
My company's corporate office is located in Florida, and as part of my new role, I now make frequent pilgrimages to the mothership.
So - I find myself in Florida. In a business suit. With a briefcase and a laptop. The irony is amusing at best.
If you were to inventory my life's catalogue of most egregious offenses, you would quickly conclude that I apparently misplace all morals and principles and good judgment when I cross the Florida state line. (I don't think I am not alone in this revelation.)
I started coming to FL as a little girl on vacation with my family. Sweet sunny summer days with sandcastles, the oddly endearing scent of Coppertone, and the promise of some type of shellfish as sustenance. Wave jumping and shell seeking and tide squatting until time to go in and shower. Sunshine and salty skin until late afternoon, then a great meal and a do-over on the horizon tomorrow.
Fast forward, past my parents divorce and my subsequent surge into adolescence and young adulthood. The beach, the ocean, the AWAY-ness of my Florida perspective became idyllic... I believed that Florida is where people go to be happy. Take that mindset, add alcohol and hormones, and you now have a crystal picture of my Florida experience, circa 1981-90.
Not spending time in that memory now. You have an imagination. Anyway, I only made it across I-10 once or twice per year, usually with a car load of like-minded "friends" in search of nirvana...be it alcohol, bikinis, drugs, sex, sunshine or an unholy subset of these hedonisms.
Apart from all that, the ocean kept YANKING on me, wanting my attention and reminding me that water has something to do with real and true peace. Not the drug or tequila kind, not the male attention kind...real true ribcage peace.
I developed a passion for scuba - maybe if I got INSIDE the ocean, I could understand why I get so much peace from it. Not just of the happy childhood family memory understanding, but of the scientific biological realization that I breathe easier, worry less and even exercise more in salt water.
Part 2 forthcoming...
So - I find myself in Florida. In a business suit. With a briefcase and a laptop. The irony is amusing at best.
If you were to inventory my life's catalogue of most egregious offenses, you would quickly conclude that I apparently misplace all morals and principles and good judgment when I cross the Florida state line. (I don't think I am not alone in this revelation.)
I started coming to FL as a little girl on vacation with my family. Sweet sunny summer days with sandcastles, the oddly endearing scent of Coppertone, and the promise of some type of shellfish as sustenance. Wave jumping and shell seeking and tide squatting until time to go in and shower. Sunshine and salty skin until late afternoon, then a great meal and a do-over on the horizon tomorrow.
Fast forward, past my parents divorce and my subsequent surge into adolescence and young adulthood. The beach, the ocean, the AWAY-ness of my Florida perspective became idyllic... I believed that Florida is where people go to be happy. Take that mindset, add alcohol and hormones, and you now have a crystal picture of my Florida experience, circa 1981-90.
Not spending time in that memory now. You have an imagination. Anyway, I only made it across I-10 once or twice per year, usually with a car load of like-minded "friends" in search of nirvana...be it alcohol, bikinis, drugs, sex, sunshine or an unholy subset of these hedonisms.
Apart from all that, the ocean kept YANKING on me, wanting my attention and reminding me that water has something to do with real and true peace. Not the drug or tequila kind, not the male attention kind...real true ribcage peace.
I developed a passion for scuba - maybe if I got INSIDE the ocean, I could understand why I get so much peace from it. Not just of the happy childhood family memory understanding, but of the scientific biological realization that I breathe easier, worry less and even exercise more in salt water.
Part 2 forthcoming...
12 November 2011
Thoughts Upon Aging Gracefully
Just celebrated my 48th birthday a few days ago. Forty-eight sure seems a lot younger than I thought it was when I was 20; I am not the geezer I imagined I would be by now. In fact I think I am way cooler now than I was back then. I am also better looking than I was back then, despite the MANY extra pounds and scads of wrinkles, sags and lumpy places.
You want to know my secret?
It's really quite simple. My secret is that I don't care what others think about me anymore. Well, I do, but not to the degree that used to drive me crazy. Somehow, not worrying about what others think about my looks, my opinions and my past offenses has given me incredible freedom in becoming who I was meant to be all along.
I have to laugh at myself here, because one of the reasons I have come to this place is because of a pearl of wisdom shared with me years ago...it's just that it makes more sense as I get older.
It is also quite simple. Other people don't think about me nearly as much as I thought they did! Nobody really cares if I go out without makeup or I have panty lines or if I said the "wrong" thing or if my laugh is obnoxious or if my car isn't cool or if I had a terrible reputation 30 years ago. The best part of this revelation is that, if there are people who do care about that stuff, I actually don't care what they think anyway. WOOO HOOO! Talk about some serious freedom!
And, as a result of all this newfound freedom, my hair is long and pretty, my skin is clearing up, I love laughing my butt off, and I just don't really care about panty lines anyway. And my heart is free to think about what is really important - being of good use to my family and my Father, who has considered me beautiful all along.
You want to know my secret?
It's really quite simple. My secret is that I don't care what others think about me anymore. Well, I do, but not to the degree that used to drive me crazy. Somehow, not worrying about what others think about my looks, my opinions and my past offenses has given me incredible freedom in becoming who I was meant to be all along.
I have to laugh at myself here, because one of the reasons I have come to this place is because of a pearl of wisdom shared with me years ago...it's just that it makes more sense as I get older.
It is also quite simple. Other people don't think about me nearly as much as I thought they did! Nobody really cares if I go out without makeup or I have panty lines or if I said the "wrong" thing or if my laugh is obnoxious or if my car isn't cool or if I had a terrible reputation 30 years ago. The best part of this revelation is that, if there are people who do care about that stuff, I actually don't care what they think anyway. WOOO HOOO! Talk about some serious freedom!
And, as a result of all this newfound freedom, my hair is long and pretty, my skin is clearing up, I love laughing my butt off, and I just don't really care about panty lines anyway. And my heart is free to think about what is really important - being of good use to my family and my Father, who has considered me beautiful all along.
27 October 2011
The Biggest Loser
One of my good friends lost his job today. Wonder why we call it that? He didn't lose anything - it isn't missing or tucked between the sofa cushions or waiting on the baggage carousel at the wrong airport. The job is not lost - but I feel like I am.
You see, my friend and I share the same employer, so in the interest of maintaining my own household income, I must refrain from writing what I really think about this situation. Suffice to say that it would include an abundance of expletives and exclamation points.
But here's the thing; there is much to be gained from the blindside shots that all of us experience. A lost job, a sick spouse, a wayward child, an unexpected death...how we perceive these things is how we will live with them.
I am by nature an overt hand-wringer; I could teach advanced placement courses in histrionics. I must admit to throwing a small private conniption fit when I first heard the news this morning - but then I prayed.
Scoff if you must, but my soul settled down and I felt God's presence. He reminded me that His ways are not my ways, and He assured me that the plans He has for my friend are wonderful. Looking out the window at a misty fall sunrise, I realized that the unpleasant surprises in my own life have immediately preceded some of my happiest and fulfilling experiences.
My friend did not lose his job - his position was eliminated so that God can lead him into the next chapter of his story.
We only "lose" something when we leave faith out of the equation. Without faith, we are all lost.
You see, my friend and I share the same employer, so in the interest of maintaining my own household income, I must refrain from writing what I really think about this situation. Suffice to say that it would include an abundance of expletives and exclamation points.
But here's the thing; there is much to be gained from the blindside shots that all of us experience. A lost job, a sick spouse, a wayward child, an unexpected death...how we perceive these things is how we will live with them.
I am by nature an overt hand-wringer; I could teach advanced placement courses in histrionics. I must admit to throwing a small private conniption fit when I first heard the news this morning - but then I prayed.
Scoff if you must, but my soul settled down and I felt God's presence. He reminded me that His ways are not my ways, and He assured me that the plans He has for my friend are wonderful. Looking out the window at a misty fall sunrise, I realized that the unpleasant surprises in my own life have immediately preceded some of my happiest and fulfilling experiences.
My friend did not lose his job - his position was eliminated so that God can lead him into the next chapter of his story.
We only "lose" something when we leave faith out of the equation. Without faith, we are all lost.
23 October 2011
Missing In Action
Wow, I haven't blogged in over four months - wonder what's up with that? A lot has happened since we last spoke, but rather than a windy, diary-like account, here's a quick summary.
-- I quit my stupid job and went back to my former employer in a much better job.
-- I am currently traveling like a crazy woman for my new job, and struggling unsuccessfully to keep up with all of my personal belongings. It seems that I leave something of significant value nearly everytime I travel. Happily and miraculously, all of my belongings have been returned to me - I am a devout fan of TSA. Search away, brave public servant!
-- I didn't think it was possible to love my family more than ever, but I do. All of this time on airplanes and in lonely hotels has given me a new appreciation of how very blessed I am to live with (and be loved by) these three wonderful people.
-- Pretty darn fond of the dog, too. Though I am jetting all over the southeastern US, eating out several times a week and accumulating scads of frequent flyer miles, my favorite place to be is on my corner of the couch, with the dog snoring on my lap and the family all hooting at some goofy sitcom.
-- Got a new (used) car. It's a black Ford Edge that I think may have belonged to a gangsta, although the car dealer tried to give us the whole "little old lady who only drove it on Sundays" routine. Little old lady, my foot. It's got some flashy wheels, Pirelli tires, and candy-apple red stitching to match the black and red leather interior. It suits me wonderfully.
Back soon...certainly won't be another four months.
-- I quit my stupid job and went back to my former employer in a much better job.
-- I am currently traveling like a crazy woman for my new job, and struggling unsuccessfully to keep up with all of my personal belongings. It seems that I leave something of significant value nearly everytime I travel. Happily and miraculously, all of my belongings have been returned to me - I am a devout fan of TSA. Search away, brave public servant!
-- I didn't think it was possible to love my family more than ever, but I do. All of this time on airplanes and in lonely hotels has given me a new appreciation of how very blessed I am to live with (and be loved by) these three wonderful people.
-- Pretty darn fond of the dog, too. Though I am jetting all over the southeastern US, eating out several times a week and accumulating scads of frequent flyer miles, my favorite place to be is on my corner of the couch, with the dog snoring on my lap and the family all hooting at some goofy sitcom.
-- Got a new (used) car. It's a black Ford Edge that I think may have belonged to a gangsta, although the car dealer tried to give us the whole "little old lady who only drove it on Sundays" routine. Little old lady, my foot. It's got some flashy wheels, Pirelli tires, and candy-apple red stitching to match the black and red leather interior. It suits me wonderfully.
Back soon...certainly won't be another four months.
23 June 2011
Cankles
The "auto-correct" feature just tried to rename this post as "Cancels". Although I wish I could cancel my cankles, it ain't happening yet.
Ever since I fell last week, my sprained right ankle just keeps getting bigger and bigger. On the one hand, this is distressing, but perversely it is also satisfying.
You see, for the first two or three days post-twist, my foot looked just fine. Just some slight swelling and a little bruising...meanwhile it felt like someone was shoving a hot rusty serrated steak knife up in there if I even put the slightest weight on it. It was difficult to elicit satisfactory sympathy out of my family and my doctor when, by all appearances, it looked just fine.
Now that I am a week out, it's starting to look all fat and purple and scary, but it's actually feeling a lot better. What is up with that?? And why am I now having sympathy swelling in my left ankle, thereby truly creating a full-blown cankle effect? Robbed, I tell you. I've been robbed.
On an unrelated but hilarious note, the auto correct feature adjusts the medication "Flomax" to read as "climax". This made for a fun exchange of texts recently between my sister and my dad, wherein she asked if he'd had his Flomax yet that day. Good thing they've both got a great sense of humor.
Ever since I fell last week, my sprained right ankle just keeps getting bigger and bigger. On the one hand, this is distressing, but perversely it is also satisfying.
You see, for the first two or three days post-twist, my foot looked just fine. Just some slight swelling and a little bruising...meanwhile it felt like someone was shoving a hot rusty serrated steak knife up in there if I even put the slightest weight on it. It was difficult to elicit satisfactory sympathy out of my family and my doctor when, by all appearances, it looked just fine.
Now that I am a week out, it's starting to look all fat and purple and scary, but it's actually feeling a lot better. What is up with that?? And why am I now having sympathy swelling in my left ankle, thereby truly creating a full-blown cankle effect? Robbed, I tell you. I've been robbed.
On an unrelated but hilarious note, the auto correct feature adjusts the medication "Flomax" to read as "climax". This made for a fun exchange of texts recently between my sister and my dad, wherein she asked if he'd had his Flomax yet that day. Good thing they've both got a great sense of humor.
19 June 2011
Lettuce Make A Decision
I have these cute black strappy sandals with a two-inch chunky heel. A couple of weeks ago, the gal giving me a pedicure talked me into letting her paint decorative flower on my big toes. Obviously, I had to show off these awesome beauties, so last Thursday I donned the sassy sandals with an art-deco summer sheath and headed out for work.
Only one thing stood between me and my toe fashion show - a sneaky orange outdoor extension cord lying quietly in wait next to my car. I stepped on it the wrong way, and voila - I felt my foot roll sideways and heard a pop before I felt someone stab me in the ankle and I fell over on the hood of my car.
Long story short, I am now on crutches and sporting a not-so-fashionable air cast. It does still do a nice job of highlighting my adorable toes, but my fat little foot is so swollen that it kind of kills the look.
Among my numerous visits to healthcare providers last week, my primary care doctor persuaded me to go ahead with a well-visit lab workup.
So yesterday I get a letter with details about the lab results. The upshot is that, after 47 and a half years of incongruously low cholesterol, I have joined the ranks of rounnd middle-aged potential cardiovascular accidents.
Between falling off my shoes and being faced with taking a statin drug to rein in my self-sabotage, it's (literally) painfully obvious that it's time to start choosing lettuce over lasagna.
Will I make the right choice tomorrow? Stay tuned...
Only one thing stood between me and my toe fashion show - a sneaky orange outdoor extension cord lying quietly in wait next to my car. I stepped on it the wrong way, and voila - I felt my foot roll sideways and heard a pop before I felt someone stab me in the ankle and I fell over on the hood of my car.
Long story short, I am now on crutches and sporting a not-so-fashionable air cast. It does still do a nice job of highlighting my adorable toes, but my fat little foot is so swollen that it kind of kills the look.
Among my numerous visits to healthcare providers last week, my primary care doctor persuaded me to go ahead with a well-visit lab workup.
So yesterday I get a letter with details about the lab results. The upshot is that, after 47 and a half years of incongruously low cholesterol, I have joined the ranks of rounnd middle-aged potential cardiovascular accidents.
Between falling off my shoes and being faced with taking a statin drug to rein in my self-sabotage, it's (literally) painfully obvious that it's time to start choosing lettuce over lasagna.
Will I make the right choice tomorrow? Stay tuned...
15 June 2011
In Search of Greener Grass
Just over a year ago, and after several months of bitching and moaning and kvetching, I quit a reasonably good job to move into another side of healthcare. This new job looked quite virtuous and philanthropic and fun; so what if it was a 1/3 pay cut and another 30 minutes further in Atlanta traffic? It was worth it to be able to feel "good" about myself and what I do for a living.
What a schmuck.
Obviously, in the interest of self-preservation and professional propriety, I can't really expand on the assessment of schmuckiness, but suffice to say that the grass I moved to turned out to be Astroturf.
I started beating the bushes about three months ago, once I'd had enough of the yuck factor in my current role. As my dearly departed mother taught me, "do it to me once, shame on you. Do it to me twice, shame on me." Well, after the tenth time of being talked to like an idiot with a hearing impairment, I decided I should look elsewhere for gainful employment.
Long story short, you will just never guess what happened next. My old company that I bailed on last June is welcoming me back with open arms and a great new role that I can't wait to take on!
Am I lucky? Maybe. Do I deserve this second chance? Heck no. Am I blessed? Definitely.
And am I grateful? "Yes" just doesn't do justice to how very grateful I am - to my friends, to my family, to my former/future employer - but most importantly, to my heavenly Father and to His son Jesus Christ. He is the vine; I'm just a scrubby branch who has the intermittent good sense to know that I didn't create this amazingly wonderful life for myself.
What a schmuck.
Obviously, in the interest of self-preservation and professional propriety, I can't really expand on the assessment of schmuckiness, but suffice to say that the grass I moved to turned out to be Astroturf.
I started beating the bushes about three months ago, once I'd had enough of the yuck factor in my current role. As my dearly departed mother taught me, "do it to me once, shame on you. Do it to me twice, shame on me." Well, after the tenth time of being talked to like an idiot with a hearing impairment, I decided I should look elsewhere for gainful employment.
Long story short, you will just never guess what happened next. My old company that I bailed on last June is welcoming me back with open arms and a great new role that I can't wait to take on!
Am I lucky? Maybe. Do I deserve this second chance? Heck no. Am I blessed? Definitely.
And am I grateful? "Yes" just doesn't do justice to how very grateful I am - to my friends, to my family, to my former/future employer - but most importantly, to my heavenly Father and to His son Jesus Christ. He is the vine; I'm just a scrubby branch who has the intermittent good sense to know that I didn't create this amazingly wonderful life for myself.
03 June 2011
You Can Go Home Again
I'm alone at my dad's kitchen table. It's a damn good thing that this table can't talk - although maybe if it could, we could clear up a whole bunch of conjecture and assumptions that have wreaked terrible havoc among the various members of this family.
It's been a crazy week or so, starting with Surgery Eve last Thursday, when we all convened over grub to try and Make Dad Feel Relaxed before his big date with the spine surgeon on Friday. (See previous blog entries for details.) Interesting that there are few things that could make one be more uptight and un-relaxed than a house full of your nearest and dearest in full-bore dysfunction. God love us.
In the last week or so, I've been doing a lot of driving, musing and observing. There are the obvious differences between Knoxville then and Knoxville now - the plethora of new eating and shopping establishments, the many road improvements including roundabouts and the new ordinances in Farragut which requires that street signage remain below eye level so as to emulate Hilton Head. As if.
I love, love, LOVE my hometown - always have, and always will. My heart gets all gassy and full as I traverse the southeastern counties en route, just knowing that I'm getting close. I drive past old stomping grounds of parks, lakes, marinas, bars, schools, restaurants, various personal and family abodes...and the scenes of MANY crimes of passion and mental defect, along with unabashed joy.
Actually, you CAN go home again. It is always there, even if it looks different. The problem is time travel, not geography. I can't go back to the 1970s, 80s and 90s; while that is probably best for my mental health on a number of levels, my past still beckons me to give it a hug.
A gentle, sincere, but BRIEF hug is in order. Then back to Georgia and the life God gave me, in spite of me. But I will be back - spotty and short-ish in duration, but back.
It's been a crazy week or so, starting with Surgery Eve last Thursday, when we all convened over grub to try and Make Dad Feel Relaxed before his big date with the spine surgeon on Friday. (See previous blog entries for details.) Interesting that there are few things that could make one be more uptight and un-relaxed than a house full of your nearest and dearest in full-bore dysfunction. God love us.
In the last week or so, I've been doing a lot of driving, musing and observing. There are the obvious differences between Knoxville then and Knoxville now - the plethora of new eating and shopping establishments, the many road improvements including roundabouts and the new ordinances in Farragut which requires that street signage remain below eye level so as to emulate Hilton Head. As if.
I love, love, LOVE my hometown - always have, and always will. My heart gets all gassy and full as I traverse the southeastern counties en route, just knowing that I'm getting close. I drive past old stomping grounds of parks, lakes, marinas, bars, schools, restaurants, various personal and family abodes...and the scenes of MANY crimes of passion and mental defect, along with unabashed joy.
Actually, you CAN go home again. It is always there, even if it looks different. The problem is time travel, not geography. I can't go back to the 1970s, 80s and 90s; while that is probably best for my mental health on a number of levels, my past still beckons me to give it a hug.
A gentle, sincere, but BRIEF hug is in order. Then back to Georgia and the life God gave me, in spite of me. But I will be back - spotty and short-ish in duration, but back.
01 June 2011
Adventures In Hospital Land, Chapter Five
Dad is so much better today! He is being discharged to NHC Farragut later this afternoon.
Here endeth the great hospital adventure of May 2011!
Here endeth the great hospital adventure of May 2011!
29 May 2011
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter Four: Morning Two
What an amazing difference a day makes. Dad had a much better night last night, with long stretches of sleep in between nurse visits to check his vital signs.
Even though its gotten less traumatic in recent years, he has always had an aversion to needles. Obviously, there is a lot of poking and prodding and puncturing associated with this most recent event; he's been too pitiful and weak to protest much in the last couple of days when they've approached him with this injection or that.
But the lab vampires are ridiculous, with three blood draws yesterday alone. Like I said, he was just not lively enough to be fractious about it then. But when some poor lab tech showed up at 4 a.m. this morning wielding her syringe and a bunch of colletion tubes, he told her to take that damn needle and go away. I do think he is feeling a tad better.
As an aside - the folks at UT Medical Center have color coded the scrubs for all the various nurses and technicians. Respiratory therapists wear brown, physical therapists wear purple, nurses wear blue, the nursing assistants wear green, and the lab folks wear - you guessed it - bright red. There's just something wrong with that.
He has had some terrific nurses thus far; Dana is his night shift RN, and Debby is the day shift nurse. Both are gentle and efficient and genuine - none of that leg-patting or talking to him like he's a toddler. They've also been exceptionally kind to me, and everybody knows that there's usually no love lost between nurses and family members.
Did I mention that I am so glad to be here?
Even though its gotten less traumatic in recent years, he has always had an aversion to needles. Obviously, there is a lot of poking and prodding and puncturing associated with this most recent event; he's been too pitiful and weak to protest much in the last couple of days when they've approached him with this injection or that.
But the lab vampires are ridiculous, with three blood draws yesterday alone. Like I said, he was just not lively enough to be fractious about it then. But when some poor lab tech showed up at 4 a.m. this morning wielding her syringe and a bunch of colletion tubes, he told her to take that damn needle and go away. I do think he is feeling a tad better.
As an aside - the folks at UT Medical Center have color coded the scrubs for all the various nurses and technicians. Respiratory therapists wear brown, physical therapists wear purple, nurses wear blue, the nursing assistants wear green, and the lab folks wear - you guessed it - bright red. There's just something wrong with that.
He has had some terrific nurses thus far; Dana is his night shift RN, and Debby is the day shift nurse. Both are gentle and efficient and genuine - none of that leg-patting or talking to him like he's a toddler. They've also been exceptionally kind to me, and everybody knows that there's usually no love lost between nurses and family members.
Did I mention that I am so glad to be here?
28 May 2011
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter Three
So I bailed out today for a while and went to the house for some shut-eye. Thankfully my sister Kim came in from Texas earlier this week to join the JGM Amateur Nursing Battalion - comprised of us well-meaning progeny who mostly just sit a spell and hope to be useful.
But gosh he is SO much better this evening! He spent several hours sitting up in the chair today; even ate a little broth with (what else) a few swigs of diet Coke. At his request, I brought him his iPad so he could play his music via Rhapsody; he regaled me with a few of his Delbert McClinton favorites and even tapped his foot along a tad.
Blood pressure is good, oxygen levels good, and despite his horror at having to get Heparin shots in his abdomen every 8 hours, he seems less and less in danger of clots in his legs. We checked out his incision before he went back to bed. It is perfect, as far as that sort of thing goes.
It's now 10:45 and he is dozing in and out while we watch the gator hunting show "Swamp People" on The History Channel. He actually chortles every time they make a kill; that's the hunting fool in his soul starting to perk back up. Wildlife beware!
But gosh he is SO much better this evening! He spent several hours sitting up in the chair today; even ate a little broth with (what else) a few swigs of diet Coke. At his request, I brought him his iPad so he could play his music via Rhapsody; he regaled me with a few of his Delbert McClinton favorites and even tapped his foot along a tad.
Blood pressure is good, oxygen levels good, and despite his horror at having to get Heparin shots in his abdomen every 8 hours, he seems less and less in danger of clots in his legs. We checked out his incision before he went back to bed. It is perfect, as far as that sort of thing goes.
It's now 10:45 and he is dozing in and out while we watch the gator hunting show "Swamp People" on The History Channel. He actually chortles every time they make a kill; that's the hunting fool in his soul starting to perk back up. Wildlife beware!
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter Two: The Morning Report
Wow, what a really terrible night! I guess in the scheme of things, it could've been a lot more disastrous from the post-op perspective, but I think Dad would agree with my assessment that it's been a pretty rough ride so far.
Turns out that coming off of six hours of surgical anesthesia bears at least some resemblance to detox, just shorter (hopefully). He went through a good two hours of constant and violent chills, shuddering uncontrollably and pitifully pissed off about it. After the earthquakes slowed down, he started fretting about his legs and his back and his general bed position and that stupid Joy Behar on the tv screen over his bed.
Around 3 this morning, the nausea set in and he has been fighting it ever since. Phenergan helps intermittently, but it isn't lasting long enough between doses. He is so miserable and it's awful to not be able to do anything about it other than a cold wet cloth and holding the bucket.
Now I ask you - what is it about open hospital room doors that lends itself as an invitation to gawk? Some bozo kept wandering the halls a while ago, staring in here like we were an interesting documentary. Despite my overwhelming compulsion to yell, "take a picture, it will last longer!!", I just got up and politely closed the door in his face.
The doggone nurses keep coming in for this and that, and they leave the door open when they leave. So, along with puke-bucket holder and cold washcloth wiper, I'm also a proud door-closer. I've had worse jobs.
Turns out that coming off of six hours of surgical anesthesia bears at least some resemblance to detox, just shorter (hopefully). He went through a good two hours of constant and violent chills, shuddering uncontrollably and pitifully pissed off about it. After the earthquakes slowed down, he started fretting about his legs and his back and his general bed position and that stupid Joy Behar on the tv screen over his bed.
Around 3 this morning, the nausea set in and he has been fighting it ever since. Phenergan helps intermittently, but it isn't lasting long enough between doses. He is so miserable and it's awful to not be able to do anything about it other than a cold wet cloth and holding the bucket.
Now I ask you - what is it about open hospital room doors that lends itself as an invitation to gawk? Some bozo kept wandering the halls a while ago, staring in here like we were an interesting documentary. Despite my overwhelming compulsion to yell, "take a picture, it will last longer!!", I just got up and politely closed the door in his face.
The doggone nurses keep coming in for this and that, and they leave the door open when they leave. So, along with puke-bucket holder and cold washcloth wiper, I'm also a proud door-closer. I've had worse jobs.
27 May 2011
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter One
I've been blessed with the opportunity to spend a few days with my dad, even though we are in unpleasant circumstances. I mean it when I say it's a blessing.
Dad had back surgery today - he's been in terrible and increasing pain for months, deteriorating to the point of full-on cane dependence. He had back surgery a year ago too - a laminectomy. As soon as he felt better, he had the bright idea of riding a 4-wheeler and (surprise, surprise) he jacked up his back again.
Several months later, he went back to see Dr. Reid, the spine surgeon, who promptly booked him for today's spine fusion procedure. We checked in early this morning and finally he went under the knife at 11:15 a.m. My sister and I subsequently adjourned to the Family Waiting Area, a.k.a. "Top Ten Destination for Awesome People-Watching" as rated by Zagat's travel survey. Not really.
The Family Waiting Room truly is a societal microcosm where people who often have very little in common find themselves spending hours on end, desperate for mindless chit-chat to divert them from worrying about their loved one's guts being sliced open for this reason or that.
Today I was fortunate to find myself sitting with the mother, sister, daughter and boyfriend of a woman who came in today to have her breasts and lymph nodes removed along with the cancer that was recently diagnosed. What great people! We did spend the first couple of hours staring at the floor, the endless CNN repetition and other waiters just waiting; but eventually we worked our way into friendly conversation.
The common bond among all family waiters is the scary thrill of hearing the family name called out - is it over? Is there news? Is it good? When it finally came our turn at 5:15 p.m. - yes that was nearly SIX hours of surgery the poor guy endured - I practically tackled the surgeon to get all The Scoop.
The Scoop is where the surgeon explains to you, as simply as possible, what he has done to your loved one without going into too much gory detail. Hopefully he has the decency to not appear bloodied - we were fortunate in that regard today. I've had a converse experience before - talk about disconcerting.
Anyhoo, it's now going on 11 p.m. and I am going to spend the night here. It isn't that I don't trust the nurses; on the contrary, they have been wonderful thus far. But thanks to the screwy economy of running a hospital these days, there just arent enough of them to look after all of their patients and keep up with things like pillow adjustments, a sip of cold water, and a friendly smile in between morphine fogs.
I am so dang glad to be here, I can't really do it justice in words. Our history was not one that would lend itself to such a situation as we are in; we disappointed each other often over the years, but these days we are fast friends and I have the privilege to be here and be here for him.
And that, my friends, is a blessing straight from heaven.
Dad had back surgery today - he's been in terrible and increasing pain for months, deteriorating to the point of full-on cane dependence. He had back surgery a year ago too - a laminectomy. As soon as he felt better, he had the bright idea of riding a 4-wheeler and (surprise, surprise) he jacked up his back again.
Several months later, he went back to see Dr. Reid, the spine surgeon, who promptly booked him for today's spine fusion procedure. We checked in early this morning and finally he went under the knife at 11:15 a.m. My sister and I subsequently adjourned to the Family Waiting Area, a.k.a. "Top Ten Destination for Awesome People-Watching" as rated by Zagat's travel survey. Not really.
The Family Waiting Room truly is a societal microcosm where people who often have very little in common find themselves spending hours on end, desperate for mindless chit-chat to divert them from worrying about their loved one's guts being sliced open for this reason or that.
Today I was fortunate to find myself sitting with the mother, sister, daughter and boyfriend of a woman who came in today to have her breasts and lymph nodes removed along with the cancer that was recently diagnosed. What great people! We did spend the first couple of hours staring at the floor, the endless CNN repetition and other waiters just waiting; but eventually we worked our way into friendly conversation.
The common bond among all family waiters is the scary thrill of hearing the family name called out - is it over? Is there news? Is it good? When it finally came our turn at 5:15 p.m. - yes that was nearly SIX hours of surgery the poor guy endured - I practically tackled the surgeon to get all The Scoop.
The Scoop is where the surgeon explains to you, as simply as possible, what he has done to your loved one without going into too much gory detail. Hopefully he has the decency to not appear bloodied - we were fortunate in that regard today. I've had a converse experience before - talk about disconcerting.
Anyhoo, it's now going on 11 p.m. and I am going to spend the night here. It isn't that I don't trust the nurses; on the contrary, they have been wonderful thus far. But thanks to the screwy economy of running a hospital these days, there just arent enough of them to look after all of their patients and keep up with things like pillow adjustments, a sip of cold water, and a friendly smile in between morphine fogs.
I am so dang glad to be here, I can't really do it justice in words. Our history was not one that would lend itself to such a situation as we are in; we disappointed each other often over the years, but these days we are fast friends and I have the privilege to be here and be here for him.
And that, my friends, is a blessing straight from heaven.
24 May 2011
It's All About Gr-attitude...
I am exceptionally gifted in the art of seeing the world through poop-colored glasses. True enough, I suppose I do have a few things to be glum about, but who doesn't? It is a shame to think about the hours and years that I've wasted on feeling sorry for myself. And then feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself. Quite the vicious cycle.
Since I've been a little more maudlin and dramatic in recent weeks, I thought I would give myself some gratitude affirmations to think about when I'm slipping into a funk.
1. Kids are fighting like crazy these days, driving their dad bananas and fueling my utterly useless compulsion to make everyone happy and kind to each other. Gr-attitude: I have kids and a husband who loves me..
2. It's already too dang hot. Gr-attitude: We have air conditioning.
3. My car is old and has 110,000 miles on it. Gr-attitude: it's paid off and runs great.
4. I am frustrated with a million things about my job. Gr-attitude: I have a job. I also have learned enough over the years in my other frustrating jobs so that my skills and knowledge are fairly marketable. All jobs are frustrating to some degree if you choose to look at it that way.
4. (a) Additional gr-attitude: I have been blessed with many co-workers in my career who are some of the smartest and funniest people I know - and some have turned out to be wonderful friends.
5. I get sinus infections all the dang time. Gr-attitude: I have health insurance and a great primary care doctor whom I love.
6. Sometimes I really don't feel like going to church or studying the Bible. Gr-attitude: I have an amazing church, better than any church I've ever been to in my entire life. And I get to study the Bible pretty much whenever and wherever I choose...there are millions of people in other parts of the globe who don't have that opportunity.
7. Groceries are expensive. Gr-attitude: We can afford pretty much anything we want, when we budget responsibly
8. I don't have everything I want. Gr-attitude: I have everything I need.
9. I have done so many things to be ashamed of that sometimes I can't face myself in the mirror. Gr-attitude: I have been forgiven and every day is a new opportunity to get it right.
10. Major Gr-attitude that is at the heart of all I am grateful for: I am loved, here on earth and most especially by the Creator of the universe, who knows how many hairs are on my head and considers me precious.
Somehow, my glasses just cleared up!
Since I've been a little more maudlin and dramatic in recent weeks, I thought I would give myself some gratitude affirmations to think about when I'm slipping into a funk.
1. Kids are fighting like crazy these days, driving their dad bananas and fueling my utterly useless compulsion to make everyone happy and kind to each other. Gr-attitude: I have kids and a husband who loves me..
2. It's already too dang hot. Gr-attitude: We have air conditioning.
3. My car is old and has 110,000 miles on it. Gr-attitude: it's paid off and runs great.
4. I am frustrated with a million things about my job. Gr-attitude: I have a job. I also have learned enough over the years in my other frustrating jobs so that my skills and knowledge are fairly marketable. All jobs are frustrating to some degree if you choose to look at it that way.
4. (a) Additional gr-attitude: I have been blessed with many co-workers in my career who are some of the smartest and funniest people I know - and some have turned out to be wonderful friends.
5. I get sinus infections all the dang time. Gr-attitude: I have health insurance and a great primary care doctor whom I love.
6. Sometimes I really don't feel like going to church or studying the Bible. Gr-attitude: I have an amazing church, better than any church I've ever been to in my entire life. And I get to study the Bible pretty much whenever and wherever I choose...there are millions of people in other parts of the globe who don't have that opportunity.
7. Groceries are expensive. Gr-attitude: We can afford pretty much anything we want, when we budget responsibly
8. I don't have everything I want. Gr-attitude: I have everything I need.
9. I have done so many things to be ashamed of that sometimes I can't face myself in the mirror. Gr-attitude: I have been forgiven and every day is a new opportunity to get it right.
10. Major Gr-attitude that is at the heart of all I am grateful for: I am loved, here on earth and most especially by the Creator of the universe, who knows how many hairs are on my head and considers me precious.
Somehow, my glasses just cleared up!
16 May 2011
Parenting Rumination #2
There is a sweet children's story called "The Runaway Bunny" which I used to read to both of our kids when they were small. While my boy liked the part where the naughty little boy bunny ran away from his mother, my daughter liked the very end the best - where the bunny realizes that the best place to be is at home with his mom.
She is my little shadow; she is the spitting image of me at ten years old, minus my snaggle-teeth and chigger bites. Somebody sprinkled her nose with faint freckles, plus she has two on her cheek that she named Sadie and Sophie. Unlike my own roundness at her age, she is slender and feminine.
Not only does she resemble me facially, but her emotional triggers and disproportionate reactions look pretty familiar too. Tears well up at any perceived slight, and she refuses to be dissuaded from her conviction that she is getting the raw end of every deal.
Her sensitivities are tactile as well as emotional; her socks are too tight, the tag in the blouse itches her neck, her headband is squeezing her brain. It really is exasperating sometimes.
And I'm having a hard time keeping up with the drama that plagues the friendships among her classmates; it seems like girls are more capricious these days with the notion of a BFF. They apparently change best friends more frequently than underwear, and it seems that at least one girl is always left out. My baby girl is extra-sensitive, so when it's her turn in the mush pot, she is completely distraught. They all hate her, she says. So-and-so is mean and spiteful for no reason and is trying to steal all her friends. The Mister has little patience with these histrionics, and so she saves up her frustrations for when I get home from work.
How do I tell her that girls are just mean and that it's probably going to be like this for a while? I remember being teased and left out by the "popular" girls and realizing that I would never be one of them. Today I am grateful for my life lessons - but back then I was shattered.
So I think that I will just pull her up on my lap, dry her tears, and then say, "have a carrot, my little bunny."
She is my little shadow; she is the spitting image of me at ten years old, minus my snaggle-teeth and chigger bites. Somebody sprinkled her nose with faint freckles, plus she has two on her cheek that she named Sadie and Sophie. Unlike my own roundness at her age, she is slender and feminine.
Not only does she resemble me facially, but her emotional triggers and disproportionate reactions look pretty familiar too. Tears well up at any perceived slight, and she refuses to be dissuaded from her conviction that she is getting the raw end of every deal.
Her sensitivities are tactile as well as emotional; her socks are too tight, the tag in the blouse itches her neck, her headband is squeezing her brain. It really is exasperating sometimes.
And I'm having a hard time keeping up with the drama that plagues the friendships among her classmates; it seems like girls are more capricious these days with the notion of a BFF. They apparently change best friends more frequently than underwear, and it seems that at least one girl is always left out. My baby girl is extra-sensitive, so when it's her turn in the mush pot, she is completely distraught. They all hate her, she says. So-and-so is mean and spiteful for no reason and is trying to steal all her friends. The Mister has little patience with these histrionics, and so she saves up her frustrations for when I get home from work.
How do I tell her that girls are just mean and that it's probably going to be like this for a while? I remember being teased and left out by the "popular" girls and realizing that I would never be one of them. Today I am grateful for my life lessons - but back then I was shattered.
So I think that I will just pull her up on my lap, dry her tears, and then say, "have a carrot, my little bunny."
12 May 2011
Repent, Repent!
Repent: to feel such sorrow for sin or fault as to be disposed to change one's life for the better; to be penitent, contrite, remorseful.
God created us out of love, and we screwed it up by wanting more than that; by wanting more than perfection. For several thousand years afterwards, we spat in His eye - actively pursuing our own desires and cravings and even creating other gods in case He turned out to be bogus.
I do not believe that God requires my repentance in order for Him to love me - He requires nothing of me in exchange for His love. I can never be good enough or sorry enough or ashamed enough to earn His love, nor is His love for me predicated on what I do or do not believe. God does not love Christians more than He loves anybody else, despite what many Christians may think. He loves everyone equally, despite our region or beliefs or proclivities. He loves every man, woman and child on this earth equally - He hates no one.
He loves us SO much that He established a way for us to be reconciled to Him, despite our selfish and repugnant state. He loves us no matter what, but we cannot be with Him, either now or in the hereafter, if we deliberately and unabashedly prefer our sin over His love. This, I believe, is what is meant by "unrepentance".
(Note - I believe that to construe the condemnation of sin as a condemnation of the sinner is misguided and prejudicial. It is the sin that He ultimately cannot abide - not the sinner. And, to be clear, we are all sinners - not one of us is righteous. NOT ONE. Not Billy Graham, not Mother Theresa, not any of the popes or apostles or monks, NOT ANYBODY.)
So, because He loved His creation so darn much and He wants to be with us all day, every day, from now and throughout forever, He created a man, who was not just any man, but the incarnate Son of God. This "man" took my well-deserved, hard-earned beating and as a result has made me acceptable and clean in God's sight.
Am I sinless because I am a Christian? NO! But I am excruciatingly aware of my sin and it grieves me to do things that grieve Him. I do believe that Jesus paid my tab and I will not face the endless damnation of my soul, even though that is exactly what my humanness deserves. Not to be too gross, but I continue to "soil" myself on a daily basis with my sin; it is my acceptance of the truth of Christ's death and resurrection which restores me to right relationship with God the Father.
I believe that this is the nature of repentance; the awareness of my spiritual poverty in the face of the compulsion to grow closer to God. Not just in hopes of the hereafter, but in my day-to-day activity. But since God abhors sin (mine and yours and everybody else's), I cannot take my sin and go plop down beside Him saying "well, this is just how I am."
I also believe that repentance is a "one-day-at-a-time" activity, wherein I ask God in the morning to help me be steadfast and sober. At night, I confess to Him my day's sins, to the best of my ability, and I thank Him for the blessing of His forgiveness. And then I get up and do it all over again the next day.
Repentance is not an exercise in guilt or self-pity; it is a fact-facing event where we make an informed, heartfelt decision. I either want to be who He created me to be – or I don’t. He will love me even if I don’t – but if that’s my decision, then I can’t be with Him today or tomorrow or in eternity.
Thus, I repent.
06 May 2011
Crappy Mother's Day
Mother's Day is this coming Sunday, and I am feeling a little glum. My mom, my stepmom and my grandmothers are all gone, and I am remorseful for not celebrating their Mother's Days with them when they were here.
Oh sure, I got everybody the perfunctory card - you know, something sappy or silly to check the box indicating that, yes, I did do something for them for Mother's Day. I bet Hallmark has key performance indicators that measure the effectiveness of guilt-induced purchasing trends associated with secular observances. Next thing you know, there will be "Happy Arbor Day" cards. Ironic that the card stock comes from trees...
We celebrated a particularly memorable Mother's Day with my mom back in 2002, when Grace was just turning a year old. We went to The Melting Pot for celebratory fondue.
We fought for the better part of the meal, and of course I don't even remember why we were fighting. I just know that I was hugely fat, crabby and sweaty, and that I had the baby on my lap as I was glaring daggers at my mother.
And then the baby exploded with the most disgusting bout of diarrhea imaginable; all over herself, all over me and my angry sweaty dress...and we had forgotten to bring the diaper bag. I snatched up her little poop-covered self and hustled the two of us into the restroom, along with several cloth napkins and an even worse attitude.
When we got back to the table, the waiter stopped by and took a polaroid picture of our special day, and it makes me laugh every time I come across it. It was a particularly crappy shot. :-)
These days, when I am asked what I want for Mother's Day, I don't have an answer - because I already have everything I want. This year, I think I want a nap and a homemade card. And lots of hugs. But not any fondue.
Oh sure, I got everybody the perfunctory card - you know, something sappy or silly to check the box indicating that, yes, I did do something for them for Mother's Day. I bet Hallmark has key performance indicators that measure the effectiveness of guilt-induced purchasing trends associated with secular observances. Next thing you know, there will be "Happy Arbor Day" cards. Ironic that the card stock comes from trees...
We celebrated a particularly memorable Mother's Day with my mom back in 2002, when Grace was just turning a year old. We went to The Melting Pot for celebratory fondue.
We fought for the better part of the meal, and of course I don't even remember why we were fighting. I just know that I was hugely fat, crabby and sweaty, and that I had the baby on my lap as I was glaring daggers at my mother.
And then the baby exploded with the most disgusting bout of diarrhea imaginable; all over herself, all over me and my angry sweaty dress...and we had forgotten to bring the diaper bag. I snatched up her little poop-covered self and hustled the two of us into the restroom, along with several cloth napkins and an even worse attitude.
When we got back to the table, the waiter stopped by and took a polaroid picture of our special day, and it makes me laugh every time I come across it. It was a particularly crappy shot. :-)
These days, when I am asked what I want for Mother's Day, I don't have an answer - because I already have everything I want. This year, I think I want a nap and a homemade card. And lots of hugs. But not any fondue.
02 May 2011
Justifiable Osamacide
My faith teaches me that we are to forgive one another and to turn the other cheek. That murder is wrong, and that we are to love our enemies.
So I'm a little conflicted over the fact that U.S. Navy Seals put a bullet in bin Laden's head last night and, as a nation, we are thrilled about it. Celebrations broke out spontaneously all over the country once the news was made public; throngs of strangers in Times Square and by the Reflecting Pool in D.C. broke out into "The Star-Spangled Banner". The news channels have now switched gears from debating the virtues of Kate Middleton's wedding dress and are instead trumpeting the fact that Enemy Number One has been eliminated.
May I say that I loathe bin Laden as much as the next person, and a part of me is also feeling exuberance. In so many ways, the man was the personification of pure evil; knowing his brains were blown out and his corpse is now fish food definitely has its good points.
But we are still celebrating murder - the murder of an enemy, yes, but murder nonetheless. I am in full favor of capital punishment myself; premeditation demands it. If one of my kids or my husband had been in one of the Towers, I'd probably want to pull the trigger on that bastard myself.
Yet, I see all these American rallies and celebrations on the news today, and it looks suspiciously like the rallies and celebrations I've seen on Al Jazeera when Americans have been killed over there. You know what I'm talking about; the flaming American flags, the frenzied cheering and chanting of death threats to the West...
Don't get me wrong - I am glad the guy is dead and I'm proud of the servicemen and women who brought it to pass.
I just think that having very public parties to celebrate the man's execution is tantamount to an engraved invitation for the next wacko to start planning his own 9/11.
Just saying...
So I'm a little conflicted over the fact that U.S. Navy Seals put a bullet in bin Laden's head last night and, as a nation, we are thrilled about it. Celebrations broke out spontaneously all over the country once the news was made public; throngs of strangers in Times Square and by the Reflecting Pool in D.C. broke out into "The Star-Spangled Banner". The news channels have now switched gears from debating the virtues of Kate Middleton's wedding dress and are instead trumpeting the fact that Enemy Number One has been eliminated.
May I say that I loathe bin Laden as much as the next person, and a part of me is also feeling exuberance. In so many ways, the man was the personification of pure evil; knowing his brains were blown out and his corpse is now fish food definitely has its good points.
But we are still celebrating murder - the murder of an enemy, yes, but murder nonetheless. I am in full favor of capital punishment myself; premeditation demands it. If one of my kids or my husband had been in one of the Towers, I'd probably want to pull the trigger on that bastard myself.
Yet, I see all these American rallies and celebrations on the news today, and it looks suspiciously like the rallies and celebrations I've seen on Al Jazeera when Americans have been killed over there. You know what I'm talking about; the flaming American flags, the frenzied cheering and chanting of death threats to the West...
Don't get me wrong - I am glad the guy is dead and I'm proud of the servicemen and women who brought it to pass.
I just think that having very public parties to celebrate the man's execution is tantamount to an engraved invitation for the next wacko to start planning his own 9/11.
Just saying...
01 May 2011
Making Scents of It All
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of sunny weekends at my grandmother's house on Kingston Pike. A stately brick mansion, with scads of bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, living rooms, bathing rooms, closets, a massive attic, an art studio, gardens galore...
and a POOL.
This was the pool where I first learned to swim. I know this because there are all kinds of pictures of me as a baby, then a toddler, then a gap-toothed kid; always with my dad, and always in the pool. So many great memories - sometimes it's good just to stop and smell the chlorine.
I do love all of my old pictures, but as I get older, it's become apparent that there is another special way to revisit the past. Sounds crazy, I know, but I treasure the smells from my life.
Along with the pool-y smell, the scent of my grandmother's boxwoods, marigolds and spearmint are stored in my mental scrapbook among my most beautiful memories. Honeysuckle? My own childhood back yard.
Jungle Gardenia was my mom's favorite perfume; this intertwined with her Marlboros to produce a cloying fog that still hangs in her scarves. My dad smells like the ocean and Nicorette gum and leather - reassuring and strong.
Polo for Women reminds me of trying so hard to fit in during the debutante and sorority phase.
Suntan lotion makes me think of a thousand happy memories on the beaches in Florida; also, there is a unique and happy smell associated with Disney World and the souvenirs from there. If you've ever been, then you know what I mean.
Funnel cake grease? The 1982 World's Fair. Brut cologne? Back seat regrets. Wood fires and hickory smoke? Several years' worth of barbecue contests and loads of fun. Fresh pine? The long-ago Christmases with real trees and the real Santa.
Many years later, I found myself cradling my baby boy, breathing in his freshly-washed hair and getting a glimpse of peace. My husband came in, took him from me and kissed him. I said, "ok, give me the baby back now", to which he replied, "wait a minute, I'm not finished smelling him".
It was at that moment, of course, that the baby let go of an explosive fart. "I'm done smelling him now", said the Mister, handing him back to me.
Olfactory memory. Priceless.
and a POOL.
This was the pool where I first learned to swim. I know this because there are all kinds of pictures of me as a baby, then a toddler, then a gap-toothed kid; always with my dad, and always in the pool. So many great memories - sometimes it's good just to stop and smell the chlorine.
I do love all of my old pictures, but as I get older, it's become apparent that there is another special way to revisit the past. Sounds crazy, I know, but I treasure the smells from my life.
Along with the pool-y smell, the scent of my grandmother's boxwoods, marigolds and spearmint are stored in my mental scrapbook among my most beautiful memories. Honeysuckle? My own childhood back yard.
Jungle Gardenia was my mom's favorite perfume; this intertwined with her Marlboros to produce a cloying fog that still hangs in her scarves. My dad smells like the ocean and Nicorette gum and leather - reassuring and strong.
Polo for Women reminds me of trying so hard to fit in during the debutante and sorority phase.
Suntan lotion makes me think of a thousand happy memories on the beaches in Florida; also, there is a unique and happy smell associated with Disney World and the souvenirs from there. If you've ever been, then you know what I mean.
Funnel cake grease? The 1982 World's Fair. Brut cologne? Back seat regrets. Wood fires and hickory smoke? Several years' worth of barbecue contests and loads of fun. Fresh pine? The long-ago Christmases with real trees and the real Santa.
Many years later, I found myself cradling my baby boy, breathing in his freshly-washed hair and getting a glimpse of peace. My husband came in, took him from me and kissed him. I said, "ok, give me the baby back now", to which he replied, "wait a minute, I'm not finished smelling him".
It was at that moment, of course, that the baby let go of an explosive fart. "I'm done smelling him now", said the Mister, handing him back to me.
Olfactory memory. Priceless.
30 April 2011
Copper Tone
It is a gorgeous spring afternoon, and I am in the backyard sunning myself. When people admire my golden glow on Monday at work, I will tell them that I "worked" in the yard this weekend to dispel the assumption that I have been going to a tanning bed.
And anyway, I DID work in the yard this weekend. Just not very much. Blowing the pine needles off the porch with the Black and Decker blower, and playing with Dave and the kids doesn't technically qualify as work, but thats my story and I'm stuck to it.
The truth of it is...I like having a tan. Being tan makes me feel thinner, prettier, healthier and downright more OK. I have always placed a goofy value on tan-ness; I don't care to think about the hours than I have wasted laying on my butt in the sun.
At least I've put away the baby oil and iodine concoction of the 1980s, which almost certainly tripled the UV intensity and damage to my skin. I don't fool around with lemon juice in my hair anymore either - these days I sweat like a pig and it just runs in my eyes and makes me cranky.
But I do look forward to those first tell-tale tan lines, the ones that result from me parking it in the backyard whilst sporting a grubby wife-beater undershirt that I reserve for just such an occasion (can't have the farmer tan lines from a t-shirt, after all...) I check my progress periodically by comparing the palm of my right hand to the back of my left hand. Looking good.
And yes, there is a definitive history of melanoma in my family, and yes, I have been sunburned at least fifty times in my life. And yes, I think about it a little bit, especially when people feel compelled to tell me about someone they know who had to have part of their nose cut out on account of skin cancer.
And no, I'm not stupid. Well, maybe I am - when it comes to having a tan.
And anyway, I DID work in the yard this weekend. Just not very much. Blowing the pine needles off the porch with the Black and Decker blower, and playing with Dave and the kids doesn't technically qualify as work, but thats my story and I'm stuck to it.
The truth of it is...I like having a tan. Being tan makes me feel thinner, prettier, healthier and downright more OK. I have always placed a goofy value on tan-ness; I don't care to think about the hours than I have wasted laying on my butt in the sun.
At least I've put away the baby oil and iodine concoction of the 1980s, which almost certainly tripled the UV intensity and damage to my skin. I don't fool around with lemon juice in my hair anymore either - these days I sweat like a pig and it just runs in my eyes and makes me cranky.
But I do look forward to those first tell-tale tan lines, the ones that result from me parking it in the backyard whilst sporting a grubby wife-beater undershirt that I reserve for just such an occasion (can't have the farmer tan lines from a t-shirt, after all...) I check my progress periodically by comparing the palm of my right hand to the back of my left hand. Looking good.
And yes, there is a definitive history of melanoma in my family, and yes, I have been sunburned at least fifty times in my life. And yes, I think about it a little bit, especially when people feel compelled to tell me about someone they know who had to have part of their nose cut out on account of skin cancer.
And no, I'm not stupid. Well, maybe I am - when it comes to having a tan.
29 April 2011
Fault Line
"Will you please stop apologizing?" says the Mister.
I think about that for a minute, and then I say, "I'm sorry" - clearly missing his point.
It is my nature to stay permanently apologetic; I don't really know why. God knows I've done a lot that I've been sorry for over the years, but for the most part I've made amends as best I can and moved on. Yet I find myself saying that I am sorry, usually several times a day.
Likewise, I am extraordinarily adept at making almost anything be my fault.
Kids in trouble at school? I am a terrible mother.
Dog getting fat? I feed her too much.
Traffic heavy? I left home too late.
Bird poop on the mailbox? I should get rid of the bird bath.
I'm pretty sure that my status as a "working mother" is the source of at least some of my guilt, but all mothers I know are "working mothers" whether they have a job outside the home or not. And those who've known me for any length of time prior to my maternal status will attest to the fact that I've been guilty all my life.
Wallowing in guilt, real or imagined, has got to be one of the most useless wastes of energy and gray matter there is, yet I find myself there frequently - not even knowing how I got there.
Hilariously enough, it makes me tired to feel guilty all the time, and then I am sorry for being tired!
This wasn't one of my better blog entries. I'm sorry. :-)
I think about that for a minute, and then I say, "I'm sorry" - clearly missing his point.
It is my nature to stay permanently apologetic; I don't really know why. God knows I've done a lot that I've been sorry for over the years, but for the most part I've made amends as best I can and moved on. Yet I find myself saying that I am sorry, usually several times a day.
Likewise, I am extraordinarily adept at making almost anything be my fault.
Kids in trouble at school? I am a terrible mother.
Dog getting fat? I feed her too much.
Traffic heavy? I left home too late.
Bird poop on the mailbox? I should get rid of the bird bath.
I'm pretty sure that my status as a "working mother" is the source of at least some of my guilt, but all mothers I know are "working mothers" whether they have a job outside the home or not. And those who've known me for any length of time prior to my maternal status will attest to the fact that I've been guilty all my life.
Wallowing in guilt, real or imagined, has got to be one of the most useless wastes of energy and gray matter there is, yet I find myself there frequently - not even knowing how I got there.
Hilariously enough, it makes me tired to feel guilty all the time, and then I am sorry for being tired!
This wasn't one of my better blog entries. I'm sorry. :-)
25 April 2011
Control Freak
I like being in control of things - as much as I'd like to think of myself as a "go-with-the-flow" kind of gal, I'm actually more of a "what-the-heck-are-you-doing-and-why-didn't-you-clear-it-with-me-first" type. I don't like surprises unless I planned them myself (which throws a kink in the entire concept of surprise), and I think this world would be a better place if everybody would just follow my script.
Life, however, has apparently not read my script, because I keep getting curve balls and unexpected complications. Interestingly, many of these are side-effects of my own crummy decisions and choices, so if I'm even remotely honest with myself, I shouldn't be surprised.
In the interest of sharing some of my recently-acquired wisdom, I am passing along these tips to you, dear reader.
1. The grass is, in fact, NOT greener on the other side. It's all dry and scratchy and brown unless you water it yourself.
2. Don't take a verbal (or email) swing at somebody then be surprised when they hit you back.
3. Don't try to rationalize with hormonal young people. You will probably get farther trying to reason with the cat. Turns out that "because I said so" is a pretty handy rebuttal after all.
4. Delegation = less frustration. Ask for help - otherwise, don't complain about how much you have to do, because nobody feels sorry for martyrs.
5. Pray. Pray a lot. Learn to meditate for at least 15 minutes a day; it's medicinal.
More wisdom forthcoming once it has beaten me into submission.
Life, however, has apparently not read my script, because I keep getting curve balls and unexpected complications. Interestingly, many of these are side-effects of my own crummy decisions and choices, so if I'm even remotely honest with myself, I shouldn't be surprised.
In the interest of sharing some of my recently-acquired wisdom, I am passing along these tips to you, dear reader.
1. The grass is, in fact, NOT greener on the other side. It's all dry and scratchy and brown unless you water it yourself.
2. Don't take a verbal (or email) swing at somebody then be surprised when they hit you back.
3. Don't try to rationalize with hormonal young people. You will probably get farther trying to reason with the cat. Turns out that "because I said so" is a pretty handy rebuttal after all.
4. Delegation = less frustration. Ask for help - otherwise, don't complain about how much you have to do, because nobody feels sorry for martyrs.
5. Pray. Pray a lot. Learn to meditate for at least 15 minutes a day; it's medicinal.
More wisdom forthcoming once it has beaten me into submission.
21 April 2011
A Perspective on Stress
I am stressed out. I stay stressed out, about work or about my kids or about my husband's health or about my weight or about my work (wait, I already said work...but it actually does deserve double mention for the amount of energy I spend stressing out about it.)
I just stay stressed out...which then turns into maudlin self-pity, irritability, victim-thinking and general unpleasantness.
During this Lenten season, I've spent an unprecedented amount of time in worship and study. (Not that it's been all that remarkable, but it's more than I've ever done before.)
In the car this morning, I was running through my schedule today and looking forward to tonight's Maundy Thursday service at church. And then I got to thinking about the significance of observing Maundy Thursday.
We know from Scripture that 1,978 years ago, after sharing what was to become known as The Last Supper, Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane tonight, on his face and asking his Father if there was some other way to pull off the salvation thing. The Bible says that he was literally sweating blood as a physical manifestation of his emotional state.
What the Bible doesn't tell us is how he felt in the hours leading up to the Last Supper - the anxiety of trying to explain to his disciples the coming 72 hours, the gut sickness that must have accompanied the certainty of impending and unimaginable physical pain...and the knowledge that the very people he was dying to save were going to spit and make fun of him.
Now THAT'S what I call stress.
I just stay stressed out...which then turns into maudlin self-pity, irritability, victim-thinking and general unpleasantness.
During this Lenten season, I've spent an unprecedented amount of time in worship and study. (Not that it's been all that remarkable, but it's more than I've ever done before.)
In the car this morning, I was running through my schedule today and looking forward to tonight's Maundy Thursday service at church. And then I got to thinking about the significance of observing Maundy Thursday.
We know from Scripture that 1,978 years ago, after sharing what was to become known as The Last Supper, Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane tonight, on his face and asking his Father if there was some other way to pull off the salvation thing. The Bible says that he was literally sweating blood as a physical manifestation of his emotional state.
What the Bible doesn't tell us is how he felt in the hours leading up to the Last Supper - the anxiety of trying to explain to his disciples the coming 72 hours, the gut sickness that must have accompanied the certainty of impending and unimaginable physical pain...and the knowledge that the very people he was dying to save were going to spit and make fun of him.
Now THAT'S what I call stress.
19 April 2011
Beep Beep
Chances are, if you live anywhere north of Atlanta, you have likely been in the same traffic jams that I sit in pretty much five days a week. It's interesting to watch how people divert themselves from the frustration of going 3 mph; I see women putting on makeup and fixing their hair; men having animated conversations with themselves (we can't see your earpiece, so it does actually look like you are shouting at yourself). I see construction workers and delivery trucks and way too many SUVs.
I used to be the person who would rudely travel down the exit lane, only to jump over in front of you at the last minute, thereby saving myself the 20 minutes that you've been waiting to get to that point. It isn't illegal - I checked. I would feel a tinge of guilt for being selfish, but I quickly recovered from each pang of conscience and instead assuaged myself with the belief that "you'd do it to me, too".
Lately, I've been slowing down, listening to good music or inspiring speakers and enjoying the quiet break between home and work. I've also been known to sing! Perspective is a beautiful thing.
On Palm Sunday, our church passed out car magnets that say "Enjoy God", and I had a moment's pause at the thought of me blowing down the exit lane at Mansell Road, then zipping over in front of somebody while sporting my cool new advertisement that I Enjoy God.
Not exactly the testimony I want to share, so I've got a choice to make. Put the magnet on the fridge and avoid the pressure of following through on what I say I believe? Or put the magnet on the car and persevere in becoming who I was designed by my Creator to be?
The magnet is on the car - a day at a time.
I used to be the person who would rudely travel down the exit lane, only to jump over in front of you at the last minute, thereby saving myself the 20 minutes that you've been waiting to get to that point. It isn't illegal - I checked. I would feel a tinge of guilt for being selfish, but I quickly recovered from each pang of conscience and instead assuaged myself with the belief that "you'd do it to me, too".
Lately, I've been slowing down, listening to good music or inspiring speakers and enjoying the quiet break between home and work. I've also been known to sing! Perspective is a beautiful thing.
On Palm Sunday, our church passed out car magnets that say "Enjoy God", and I had a moment's pause at the thought of me blowing down the exit lane at Mansell Road, then zipping over in front of somebody while sporting my cool new advertisement that I Enjoy God.
Not exactly the testimony I want to share, so I've got a choice to make. Put the magnet on the fridge and avoid the pressure of following through on what I say I believe? Or put the magnet on the car and persevere in becoming who I was designed by my Creator to be?
The magnet is on the car - a day at a time.
18 April 2011
The Evil of Ego
One of my favorite movies is a violent piece of nastiness called "Revolver". There are all sorts of bad words and blood and guts, and there is pretty much nothing "appropriate" about it.
EXCEPT.
Mr. Green, played by Jason Statham (yum) is an ex-con who amassed significant wealth prior to his 7 year incarceration. Upon leaving prison, he shortly thereafter learns that he has a terminal illness, and through a bizarre chain of circumstances, finds himself in the company of two dubious benefactors who can allegedly help him solve his problem.
I won't recount the entire plot line, because frankly I'm not sure I can. There is depth to this film that is hard to grasp, much less explain. The upshot is that Mr. Green's very worst enemy turns out to be himself and the way that evil exploits his ego and weakness. The aforementioned "benefactors" teach him that giving himself away is his only hope.
Like I said, this movie is filled with F-bombs and violence galore (it's a Guy Ritchie movie), and it's just plain weird in parts. But, it moves me in a way that is again difficult to explain - except that I am Mr. Green.
EXCEPT.
Mr. Green, played by Jason Statham (yum) is an ex-con who amassed significant wealth prior to his 7 year incarceration. Upon leaving prison, he shortly thereafter learns that he has a terminal illness, and through a bizarre chain of circumstances, finds himself in the company of two dubious benefactors who can allegedly help him solve his problem.
I won't recount the entire plot line, because frankly I'm not sure I can. There is depth to this film that is hard to grasp, much less explain. The upshot is that Mr. Green's very worst enemy turns out to be himself and the way that evil exploits his ego and weakness. The aforementioned "benefactors" teach him that giving himself away is his only hope.
Like I said, this movie is filled with F-bombs and violence galore (it's a Guy Ritchie movie), and it's just plain weird in parts. But, it moves me in a way that is again difficult to explain - except that I am Mr. Green.
16 April 2011
Parenting Rumination #1
I remember the terror that flooded my soul when we were pulling out of the parking garage at Fort Sanders hospital in our little green Honda Civic, me with a belly full of gas and staples and stitches and a tiny little male human being strapped in like an astronaut in the back seat. What are these people thinking, letting me leave here with this baby? Do they realize what a giant mess I am?
And where's the handbook, or manual, or at least a laminated handout that would tell me what to do when I don't know what to do? I guess I could've called my own mother for advice, but then again, if she'd been all that, I probably would have had a little more information going into this gig. But I digress.
Twelve some-very-odd years later, I am listening to him play some kind of galactic shoot-em-up video game in the next room and feeling terrified all over again. He is standing on the edge of adolescence, growing zits and armpit hair and a mercurial temperament that would embarrass a schizophrenic. I am overwhelmed, truly, by how much I love him and want to save him from himself. He's already been through a lot of heartache, and if my own experience is any testament, it's about to get worse, at least for the next few years.
But how do we learn, if not from our own mistakes? I think I knew a handful of people in middle school and high school who actually did what they were told, but I and most of my friends were way smarter than our parents and had to learn things the hard way. And I do mean the HARD way. And now I watch my baby boy, defiantly and intentionally choosing the hard way, and it makes me feel sad and ill.
So I pray, and ask others to pray, and I love him as best I can, even when he is being quite unloveable.
I don't suppose there is a laminated handout for this part either.
And where's the handbook, or manual, or at least a laminated handout that would tell me what to do when I don't know what to do? I guess I could've called my own mother for advice, but then again, if she'd been all that, I probably would have had a little more information going into this gig. But I digress.
Twelve some-very-odd years later, I am listening to him play some kind of galactic shoot-em-up video game in the next room and feeling terrified all over again. He is standing on the edge of adolescence, growing zits and armpit hair and a mercurial temperament that would embarrass a schizophrenic. I am overwhelmed, truly, by how much I love him and want to save him from himself. He's already been through a lot of heartache, and if my own experience is any testament, it's about to get worse, at least for the next few years.
But how do we learn, if not from our own mistakes? I think I knew a handful of people in middle school and high school who actually did what they were told, but I and most of my friends were way smarter than our parents and had to learn things the hard way. And I do mean the HARD way. And now I watch my baby boy, defiantly and intentionally choosing the hard way, and it makes me feel sad and ill.
So I pray, and ask others to pray, and I love him as best I can, even when he is being quite unloveable.
I don't suppose there is a laminated handout for this part either.
15 April 2011
My New Toy!!
As of Monday, it will have been thirteen years since I told the Mister that I'd be his Missus. This is notable for a number of reasons, but most interesting at the moment is the fact that he remembered it and I didn't. Well, I did, but I haven't gotten him anything yet. It's three days away, for crying out loud.
Tonight after supper, he says "so, do you want your present early?" Present? What present? He got me a PRESENT?? Now I'm all intrigued by this turn of events, so I ask what it is. He smiles coyly and says that I will like it - that it's something I've asked for.
Now my neurons are really firing, because I can't think of what I've been asking for. A car? Liposuction? I can't remember!!
He goes to get his iPad, comes back and sits down at the table across from me, with a sly grin on his face. He says, "well, I guess we will just play Dueling iPads tonight."
I glance over to see that he has a Brookstone box in front of his iPad, and DANG if it isn't the Bluetooth keyboard case I've been eyeing in the catalog. I blink at it for a minute, and he smiles mischievously.
"Is that for ME???" I practically spring out of my chair, seizing the box off the table and giggling like a kid at Christmas. I am so happy! He got me a present! A present that I really wanted! AND he surprised me!
So, of course, as soon as I figured out how to turn it on and pair it up, I had to type on it posthaste. Hence today's blog.
Did I mention that I'm really happy?!?
Tonight after supper, he says "so, do you want your present early?" Present? What present? He got me a PRESENT?? Now I'm all intrigued by this turn of events, so I ask what it is. He smiles coyly and says that I will like it - that it's something I've asked for.
Now my neurons are really firing, because I can't think of what I've been asking for. A car? Liposuction? I can't remember!!
He goes to get his iPad, comes back and sits down at the table across from me, with a sly grin on his face. He says, "well, I guess we will just play Dueling iPads tonight."
I glance over to see that he has a Brookstone box in front of his iPad, and DANG if it isn't the Bluetooth keyboard case I've been eyeing in the catalog. I blink at it for a minute, and he smiles mischievously.
"Is that for ME???" I practically spring out of my chair, seizing the box off the table and giggling like a kid at Christmas. I am so happy! He got me a present! A present that I really wanted! AND he surprised me!
So, of course, as soon as I figured out how to turn it on and pair it up, I had to type on it posthaste. Hence today's blog.
Did I mention that I'm really happy?!?
04 April 2011
Weather Girl
I love storms - always have. When I was a little kid, I would stand on the porch to watch the leaves on the trees whipping upside down - you knew it was going to be a humdinger if the leaves were underside-up. And the darker the sky, the better.
My great-granny would shout, "git in here, young'un, it's fixin to come a blow!" and then proceed to panic over an array of potentially disastrous outcomes. To this day, she remains one of the most impressive worriers I've ever known.
Our local weather personality would place her Velcro storm cloud on the storyboard during the 6 o'clock news, and I knew I had something to look forward to. It was rumored that Margie liked to take a nip of bug juice during the commercial break, and sometimes the yellow cardboard lightning bolt would be pointing up as if Zeus was aiming for Canada instead of Florida like usual.
Storms make me feel charged and alive; like the chaos in my gut is being dramatized across the sky, in a good way. The wind, especially in spring and summer, blows the cobwebs off my soul - an air baptism. And though I have only done it twice intentionally, getting soaked in a downpour is plain old exhilarating.
With today's technology, I can now know when it's going to storm several days in advance - giving me plenty of time to get stoked up for the show. Sometimes I feel like I got ripped off if it blows through too quickly, and it's an especially crappy occurrence to have the storm disintegrate on its travels from west to east.
What's that? Did I just hear a rumble? Was that just a flash?
Yeehaw! Here we go, boys!
My great-granny would shout, "git in here, young'un, it's fixin to come a blow!" and then proceed to panic over an array of potentially disastrous outcomes. To this day, she remains one of the most impressive worriers I've ever known.
Our local weather personality would place her Velcro storm cloud on the storyboard during the 6 o'clock news, and I knew I had something to look forward to. It was rumored that Margie liked to take a nip of bug juice during the commercial break, and sometimes the yellow cardboard lightning bolt would be pointing up as if Zeus was aiming for Canada instead of Florida like usual.
Storms make me feel charged and alive; like the chaos in my gut is being dramatized across the sky, in a good way. The wind, especially in spring and summer, blows the cobwebs off my soul - an air baptism. And though I have only done it twice intentionally, getting soaked in a downpour is plain old exhilarating.
With today's technology, I can now know when it's going to storm several days in advance - giving me plenty of time to get stoked up for the show. Sometimes I feel like I got ripped off if it blows through too quickly, and it's an especially crappy occurrence to have the storm disintegrate on its travels from west to east.
What's that? Did I just hear a rumble? Was that just a flash?
Yeehaw! Here we go, boys!
02 April 2011
Road Trip
On Thursday, the Mister called me at the office and casually inquired as to my plans for our weekend. I emphatically replied that I wasnt doing a damn thing more taxing than taking Grace to see the Wimpy Kid movie.
The Mister is highly skilled in the art of the pregnant pause, and because my own neuroses cannot suffer more than 6.5 seconds of silence in a conversation, I followed up with "why, is there something you want to do?"
He explained that he just needed TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! for a day trip and he wanted to go soon. Did I mention that the Mister is a stay-at-home dad? Not the sit-in-his-underwear-all-day-and-and-watch-SportsCenter kind of stay-at-home dad, but the kind who does the laundry and packs the lunches and helps with the homework kind. He probably does squeeze in a little ESPN here and there, but I'm down with that.
Anyway, I went with my natural selfish compulsion and said that I didn't really feel like a road trip this weekend, but maybe we could plan one soon.
So this morning was a sunny early spring Saturday, and after I rubbed the little eye boogers out of my eyes, I lay there feeling spiteful and ashamed for not being all giddy over the notion of a family outing. Despite his rhythmic respiration, I poked him with my foot under the covers and said, "you up? I have an idea."
Most husbands will not admit it, but hearing "I have an idea" from the Missus makes them all a little queasy, just for a second. What kind of an idea? they silently wonder. Will it cost money? Does it involve people I don't like?
To assuage his fear, I quickly followed up by announcing that today was, in fact, A Great Day for a Road Trip. Not only that, but I picked the place and had already formed a plan for the day. He crinkled an eye open and said, "I knew you'd come around".
The Mister is highly skilled in the art of the pregnant pause, and because my own neuroses cannot suffer more than 6.5 seconds of silence in a conversation, I followed up with "why, is there something you want to do?"
He explained that he just needed TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! for a day trip and he wanted to go soon. Did I mention that the Mister is a stay-at-home dad? Not the sit-in-his-underwear-all-day-and-and-watch-SportsCenter kind of stay-at-home dad, but the kind who does the laundry and packs the lunches and helps with the homework kind. He probably does squeeze in a little ESPN here and there, but I'm down with that.
Anyway, I went with my natural selfish compulsion and said that I didn't really feel like a road trip this weekend, but maybe we could plan one soon.
So this morning was a sunny early spring Saturday, and after I rubbed the little eye boogers out of my eyes, I lay there feeling spiteful and ashamed for not being all giddy over the notion of a family outing. Despite his rhythmic respiration, I poked him with my foot under the covers and said, "you up? I have an idea."
Most husbands will not admit it, but hearing "I have an idea" from the Missus makes them all a little queasy, just for a second. What kind of an idea? they silently wonder. Will it cost money? Does it involve people I don't like?
To assuage his fear, I quickly followed up by announcing that today was, in fact, A Great Day for a Road Trip. Not only that, but I picked the place and had already formed a plan for the day. He crinkled an eye open and said, "I knew you'd come around".
11 March 2011
The dog is at it again.
Years of wheedling and unsubtle hints finally bore fruit last summer when The Man Of The House caved in and agreed to get a puppy. I wanted a dachshund, a shiny black and tan companion who would romp in the yard with the kids and snooze at my feet in the evening. Dachshunds, you see, are the perfect breed for someone who wants a smallish, low-shed canine who isn't a yappy lap dog but is also unlikely to eat the neighbor's cat.
And I got exactly what I asked for - her name is Sarah Marie and she is a classic standard dachshund, with a long ebony frame and I adore her.
Except right now. She is under my bedroom window, barking herself hoarse over heaven-knows-what and driving us nuts. The icing on the cake is listening to Jamie shouting, "HUSH, SARAH!" at the top of his lungs.
I feel certain the neighbors are not amused.
And I got exactly what I asked for - her name is Sarah Marie and she is a classic standard dachshund, with a long ebony frame and I adore her.
Except right now. She is under my bedroom window, barking herself hoarse over heaven-knows-what and driving us nuts. The icing on the cake is listening to Jamie shouting, "HUSH, SARAH!" at the top of his lungs.
I feel certain the neighbors are not amused.
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