"I'll be sitting in the chair, Lin"

Do you know who invented Twitter? Joe. Yep, my Joe. Although he doesn't get the credit for it--well, until now.

As long as I can remember, Joe has felt the need to announce what he is doing to me--all of the time. When he is going out into the garage, driving to the store, if he is going to mow the lawn, or perhaps just watch the game--Joe has to tell me. Why, I don't know--I really don't care what he is doing and he is not looking for approval or acknowledgment, he just has to say it. In 17 words or less. And NOT online--just in person.

"I'll be in the shed, Lin" he Tweets. Or "I'll be in the garage looking at the car". Sometimes there is a "I'll be right back," leaving me to wonder what that means, but most times I don't care, and I say so.

Now, all of you pallies will say "Poor, Joe" (they always do)--he's just being nice to you, telling you where he is and/or what he is doing to help you. Yeah. But I don't care, you see. I don't need to know everything Joe is doing all the time. Really. He is an adult, I think he can putter around the yard without reporting/Tweeting (twittering?) his every move. And you don't get extra credit or anything for reporting every single thing you do around here, 'cuz if you did, I'd get an A++++++++. It doesn't count if you announce everything. Really.

So, yeah, Al Gore's got the internet, but Joe's got Twitter. Okay, so he didn't think about the online part of it--he just invented the 17 words or less of useless information regarding what he is doing. If you love Twitter--you've got Joe to thank.

Hiding Out

Like the frogs, I'm gonna be hangin' low this weekend. There are lots of Graduation parties for nieces and nephews, family to visit with, and an overall frazzled mind that needs to be tended to. Gees, if I could fit in the skimmer with the two goofs, I'd be in there tonight.

So, forgive me if I'm not dropping or commenting over at your place this weekend. If you decide to do the same, I'll give you the mulligan as these are busy days for everyone. I'm gonna try and sleep in late, relax a bit, and cut the ties to the computer. I wish you the same.

Life is an Opossum

This is my yard pally--an opossum that visits the feeder and the pond every so often. Unlike most folks, I think he's kinda cute--he doesn't bother anything, just sort of lumbers along looking for something to eat or drink. He doesn't harm the fish or frogs--he just eats seeds, plants and dead stuff.

I typically don't mind much about the little guy, except he has a penchant for pooping in some not-so-nice places--like the tops of my perennials. I'm thinking homeboy needs a place to wipe his hiney and the low-growing greenery does the job, but still, it just kinda grosses me out. Could he not do this at the neighbors sh*t-hole of a house?

Today when I came home from work I spotted a lumpy blob on the sidewalk. Sometimes those lumpy blobs turn out to be a half-eaten frog, so I kind of walk over, half not wanting to look to find my frog missing his legs or something. But, alas, not a frog--just poop. From the opossum. I know it is from the opossum because I can spot opossum scat a mile away--that is my talent should I ever enter the Mrs. America contest.

Gross as it seems, opossum scat tells me what he's been into, what he's digging out of my garbage, and why my flowers are looking half dead--he's been eating marigold seeds. I can tell when he's gotten into peanuts or red berries. It doesn't smell or anything--it just tells a story. Okay, a sort of gross story, but I find it interesting. I also enjoy dissecting owl pellets too, but that's another day. Owl pellets are the regurgitated balls of whatever they cannot digest and they are full of cool bones of mice and such. Like I said--another day.

So, all of this opossum scat has got me thinking--my little opossum friend, he's kinda like life. Maybe it's the guest post of the Dali Lama, but I'm thinking there's some deep stuff going on here.

See, this little guy comes around--some times you notice him, most times you don't. He is around all the time, I just don't stop to look for him. Sometimes I'm out in the yard, I turn around, and there he is, sneaking along the fence. Life is like that, it keeps on moving in spite of our noticing most days. Then there is the one time you stop and look at it, and you realize that it has been coming and going and you are missing a lot of it. And when you do stop, you realize how it has quietly snuck up on you. And is going on in spite of you.

And then life isn't always so fluffy and pretty and nice. The opossum has this butt ugly tail--which looks all icky, like a rat. And we all have lives like that--there are some butt ugly times, aren't there? But then he turns around and all you see is the white fluffy fur, some cute little pink hands, and that little pink nose. And you think--Hey! He isn't all bad--look at that nose! Isn't your life like that too? Don't you just go to work every day and think life sucks, but then something nice happens or your kid does something cute and you are all like "Hey! Life ain't so bad!". It's the pink nose of moments.

There are days when the opossum poops at the neighbors house and then there are days when he poops on your favorite plant. Or on your sidewalk. Life is like that too-- you can't direct your life to be poopy when and where you want it to be. Nope. Poop happens and you can't do a thing about it. You just have to bend over and look at it, scoop it up, and dispose of it. And hope he doesn't do it again tomorrow.

Most people see an opossum in the yard and go "ewwww", but not me. I like him. He's an odd sort of pally, but one I connect with. Let me go on my way, eating everyone else's cast-offs, quietly visiting the quiet yard. Let me walk barefoot to feel the grass under my toes and enjoy the damp earth. Let me wander and not have to deal with the daily requirements, demands, and expectations of what is "good" or "pretty". Just let me be.

He is life, isn't he?

Guest Post by the Dali Lama

Month end is deadline time for me, so bear with me, as I am frazzled. Writing all day is a dream job, but it fries my wee brain and come blog time, I'm scrambling. These are the days when I turn to the true pally, the Dali Lama, to fill in--a guest post per se. Although he doesn't know it. But if he did, I bet he'd gladly do it--I hear he is a follower of Duck and Wheel.

I'm going to continue on with the Instructions for Life, as per the Dali Lama. I listed a few a week or so ago, and I think they are worth adding to.

1. Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality.
2. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.
3. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
4. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.
5. Be gentle with the earth.
6. Once a year, go someplace you've never been before.

Aren't these great? My favorite is Number 5. No wait, Number 6. Oh, heck--I like all of them.

I'm a little out of it until Tuesday--after graduation, after graduation parties out of town, after all the banquets and award ceremonies, after deadline at work. I'm trying to fit it all in, get it all accomplished, and get everyone where they are supposed to be. Ugh. Crazy days.

Breathe deep, pallies. I know I am.

Appliance Smackdown

I finally broke down a week ago and bought a new stove. When we moved into this house 20 years ago, this stove had already been there about 10 years, so that makes the beast around 30 years old. And it still works.

So, why on earth would I part with my super-outdated, ultra-dorky Montgomery Ward e-lectronic stove??? Uh, I dunno. The new ones are just so shiny? I want that double-oven feature? Or perhaps I'm thinking that I'm going to go to use it one day and it is going to refuse--and that day will probably be Christmas morning or some other really inconvenient day.

I swear the appliances are talking behind my back--saying things like "Hey, let's all break down at the same time" or "Wouldn't it be funny to all stick it to Lin by not working today?". I may be a tad paranoid, but I'm starting the Let's-replace-the-ancient-appliances-here Action Plan just to be safe.

Today was the day they were to deliver my shiny new stove with the double oven and I was very excited. Delivery was scheduled between 1 and 4, so I had to leave work a couple of hours early to greet it when it arrived. Not such a bad deal except that I am paid hourly, which means I lost some big time earnings waiting for New Stove.

So, here I sat--from 12:30 on, waiting patiently and then not so patiently for the delivery dudes to come. I sat here watching the clock tick--1 came and went. 2 was approaching. Soon it was 3 and then coming close to 4.

Okay, I'm a little miffed that my scheduled delivery time window was now over and I had no new stove. AND I needed to be dressed and out the door at 5:00 for Em's band banquet.

What is the deal with delivery dudes? Can we not make the window a little less large? And do I have to sit here, waiting, all that time?? I called, made a big 'ol fuss with the store, and they promised I would get my stove in minutes, but I was still irked. I lost pay and patience, when I could have just as easily stayed at work and come home to have the darned thing delivered late.

And then the nicest delivery guys ever showed up. I was all miffy at them too, because I didn't care if they were nice--they were LATE. They hauled 'ol Montgomery out to the truck and tossed it into the back like an old shoe--it made me feel bad.

In came New Stove, all spiffy and white. Delivery Dude hooked up the electricity and gas line and went to push the bad boy in. And stopped. It wasn't gonna fit.

So, there it sat--in the middle of my kitchen. It was probably 1/16th of an inch too big and Delivery Dude wasn't about to help me cram that mother into the little opening. I signed the papers, they apologized for my bad luck, and got the hell out of there.

"Yeah, it'll be nice to be able to cook from every side of this thing," I'm yelling behind them. "Yeah, sure is convenient to have it smack dab in the middle of the kitchen!" They couldn't get away fast enough.

And there, Col and I stood, looking at the New Stove in the middle of the room. And then we looked at each other.

Colin pulled at the counter, I shoved the beast this way and that and forced that bad boy in! It's a little snug, but it's in. It's in late, but it's in. I'm all about solutions and solving problems.

And showing those appliances who's boss.

Hoopty

The definition in Urban Dictionary reads this:

Hoopty:
	Basically, a piece of shit car. Usually cheap and/or broken down. Can be any size, make or model, but must (or should) be embarrassing to drive for some reason, such as when you bump the stereo all the plastic "effects" you have hot-glued to the exterior rattle, instantly betraying the cheapness of your bling.

Hoopty wasn't always such a beater, I bought it brand spanking new and I thought it was a nice little car. It was my first car and I earned every stinking penny to pay for it, hence the very stripped down model. But it drove like a demon, well into the 200,000 mile range, and the heater kicked ass on the coldest of days. Well, maybe not near the end, but that car rocked until the very end--figuratively speaking.

I bought my Nissan Sentra right after I got my first job out of college. I couldn't afford much, so the basic model I drove out of the showroom had vinyl seats, bare bones interior, manual transmission and was completely lacking immenities such as tinted windows and a stereo. I drove around very quietly until I could afford a stereo to be installed. Yes, frugal beginnings for girlfriend--I spent exactly $7700 on that beauty.

But my Sentra started every day, even in the coldest of winters. I drove that beast for years and it saw me through the best of times: job changes, courtship with Joe, marriage, buying our first house, the birth of my first child, and was finally handed over for Joe to drive every day. It went and went, never stalling or needing repair. It was a swell little car and I loved it dearly.

There came a day when my Sentra had to go--it had over 100,000 miles on it and we needed a bigger vehicle to cart around the growing family in. My aunt and uncle expressed interest in it and we handed over the keys for some ridiculous amount, like $800 or something. And they handed it over to my cousin, Kelllliiiii.

Kelllliiii drove the beast for another cabillion miles and then she passed it on to her sister, Beth. But at this point, the Sentra earned the name Hoopty. It wasn't so lovely anymore--or maybe they just didn't appreciate its bare-bones beauty. Either way, Hoopty went on for many more miles after I handed it over.

We sat around a bonfire with the cousins the other night and after a few cocktails and a lot of laughs, Hoopty's name came up.

"Whatever happened to Hoopty?" I asked.

And soon everyone had a story from their days with Hoopty. It was a grand car, driving forever, getting us where we needed to be with dependability. Everyone had a chuckle or two, sharing stories of Hoopty like it was freakin' Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was glorious remembering that car. And as our eyes all glazed over with fond remembrance, someone brought up how it came to be that we all parted with Hoopty.

It was donated to the Cancer Society or something grand, I don't remember. What I do remember is hearing how Josh (Beth's husband) made the poor decision to put in a John Denver tape in the stereo one long road trip day. And there it stayed......forever. No button pushing, screwdriver jabbing, stereo pounding would release Hoopty from its easy-listening hell. Poor Hoopty, and whoever happened to be riding in it, was permanently tortured by the sweet sappy sounds of John Denver and his guitar.

Yes, "Sunshine" could be heard at stoplights. "Annie's Song" went for miles on a weekend road trip. "Rocky Mountain High" was taken literally as it drove out west. It was all John Denver, all the time until no one could take it any longer. There was no turning it off, for the stereo could not eject 'ol John and the FM stations couldn't be tapped. It was either John Denver or silence. And I'm not sure silence was the worse of the two scenarios.

Josh told of driving in complete silence for hours on one trip until they could take it no longer. He and Beth succumbed and turned on the endless loop of spectacled magic gratis John Denver. As their ears screamed for mercy, "Grandma's Feather Bed" and "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" blasted from the feeble speakers in Hoopty's girth. Josh actually admits to opening the windows, sticking his head out, and screaming for the pain to end.

It never did. Hoopty went on to the Cancer Society with "Country Roads" permanently lodged in its abdomen. I'm sure they could have easily had the stereo removed and had Hoopty fixed up, but somehow it just didn't seem right. It was best to let Hoopty go, and to let John Denver go with it.

Memorial Day

Remembrance and thankfulness are the thoughts for the day. It's funny how, when I was a kid, I never really gave this day much thought. Now that I am older and a parent of a young man, this day seems to strike a deep chord with me. What sacrifice some families give for our country--I cannot imagine the loss.

Thank you to all who serve, have served, and will continue to do so in our troubled world. May my sweet Henry greet you all with a warm cuddle and a gentle bite on the nose under the shade of a hosta plant in the company of God.

Gone Breathing

Back in October, I took a challenge to post every day on the blog. Before then, I was more sporadic in posting, but my mind was working on posts everyday--just not my keyboard. I thought I'd die that month, freaking out that I couldn't possibly come up with a thought, photo, or story for 31 days in a row--but I did. I posted every single day that month for the very first time and have continued ever since. It doesn't seem so very hard now, it must have been a mental thing. But it does weigh heavy some days--my computer and my life calling me from opposite sides like those little devil/angel cartoons.

Being that this weekend is a holiday weekend, I'm making today short. We're heading off to the White Sox game, again, hoping for a win today--they've been kind of sucky lately. When the seats are great (and free) the whole mindset is different when you go to the park. It's the ice cream on cake--who cares what the flavor it is, it's ice cream! So, I'm donning my White Sox gear as I type and readying the family for another day of togetherness. Yeah.....no. By tomorrow we may be ready to kill each other.

I'm turning off the computer a lot this weekend (sorry for the lack of drops and comments, pallies) and I hope you will do the same. Go, get to know those family members who are driving you nuts. Go pet the dog.....outside--they love that. Go sit in the grass and look for ants and dodge bumblebees. Listen to your idiot neighbors mow their lawn and weed-whack their ankles. Breathe deep and relax. Take a nap--I would except I'll be at the game and that would be weird. Make a quick obligatory post and turn the beast off--return to your life just for today.

If you are like me, I find myself a little too tied to the 'ol Duck and Wheel and I need to not feel guilty about writing today. I'll be back tomorrow, chock full of stories that are dull and weird.

Happy relaxing, pallies!

Meet Violet

Chuck, from Secondary Roads, once asked me about the statue who represents Duck and Wheel on Entrecard. Well, he didn't ask me that question so politely--it was more of "Who's the ugly statue and why don't you use a duck and a wheel?". So, I got all fake miffy and told him to mind his own business and then he made my button for me and I had to tell him that she is really a piece of "Art" and that he should appreciate art. That worked--he hasn't said much about my Violet ever since--well not since yesterday or the day before.

The true story of Violet is that she is "art", believe it or not. She was created by an artist known as Isabel Bloom of Davenport, Iowa. This is the area that Joe grew up in (The Quad Cities) and she is very well known in that part of the state.

Isabel Bloom was an artist that worked in concrete and river stones. She sculpted her figures, made molds, and then poured concrete into the molds to form her statues. She and her husband, John, were both artists that used very simple, almost primitive, lines to create their statuary. Their creations are mostly of animals and children, and feature Mississippi river stones placed in the pieces to accent the simplicity of the artwork. She is hugely popular in the Quad Cities area and there is actually a horrid rumor that I married Joe for his Isabel Bloom collection.

Once Isabel Bloom became so popular, she started a company that helped her to make the statues en masse. Each statue goes through a very slow, hands-on approach in making each individual statue--and no one is exactly alike. There are subtle shade differences in the wash they use, or the river stones are different colors. Picking out an Isabel Bloom to take home is painstaking--turning the statue this way and that, trying to figure out which one is the one you want. I've been known to spend hours and loads of cash in her showroom.

Corporate America took over Isabel's place years after she died. There is a new artist, Donna, that had studied with Isabel, that now does new sculptures. Yeah, they're nice, but to me, they are not Isabel. She does tons of details and is a little heavy with the sculpting tools. She does more adults, breeds of dogs, very detailed children that are lovely, but to me, she does not encompass the simplicity of Isabel. But nobody asks me, so I just don't buy them much anymore.

Add to that, they now make a cheap cast-stone version of all the statues overseas, that are super-light and almost plastic feeling--all for the same expensive price as the concrete. All the local employees have lost their jobs and they are super corporate. If you visit her Davenport showroom, you can still buy a concrete statue, but I have a hard time with supporting the new corporation. It just isn't the "local Davenport artist" anymore.

So, my house and yard is loaded with Isabel Bloom's as they are still my favorite things. I have posted Hilda--she is a large statue who stands in the garden. I have frogs, doves, turtles, large Violet (my avatar), small violet, fish, ladybugs, rabbits, you-name-its, and my very special favorite--Isajoe Blautz.

Joe used to work there when he was in high school. Some wacky kid that he worked with was goofing around one day with statues and implanted the head of a girl onto the body of a mouse. He molded it, finished it, and signed it Isajoe Blautz (a version of both Joe's and Isabel's names), and gave it to Joe as his very own statue. It is a renegade piece that we chuckle about to this day. I'm sure Joe and this kid would have lost their jobs over the darned thing--but it is pretty funny to have considering the status of Isabel in the art world. I'll have to post her picture one day, but I'm afraid there will come a knock on my door.

So, why do I use Violet as my avatar instead of a duck and a wheel? Because she represents simplicity on many levels to me. She is a simple gal, taking a huge whiff of some hand-picked flowers and completely enjoying the joy of their existence. And that is what life is all about, Charlie Brown--taking time out to enjoy the simple things. I think that is what my blog is about--finding humor or meaning in the everyday things.

Oh, and I like her.

The New and Improved Rules of the Road by Me

Driving to work one morning, I realized that there needs to be some updating on the Rules of the Road. Being that I drive along one of the busiest main thoroughfares in Chicagoland, I feel that I could be appointed Official Rule Maker. Of course, there are few who agree with me on that point, but I'd be willing to go on record saying that I have given my new set of rules a LOT of thought. Maybe I don't spend a lot of time commuting compared to most, but it sure feels that way when I'm zig-zagging my way to the 'ol grind and I have a lot of really good ideas. Well, to me anyway.

Rule 1: Teenagers and Senior Citizens should drive cardboard cars. This rule irks my son and my mom, so I'm thinking this is the best rule ever. Think about it--they couldn't go out driving when it is raining or snowing--their car would fall apart. Hence the roads in dangerous conditions would be free of the riff-raff and be open for those of us who really need to get somewhere--like the Walmart or maybe, work.

The car would also crumble when they hit someone, so they would be the ones out of a vehicle should Grandma back the Cardboard Lincoln into a crowded sidewalk or Junior smashes into the garage door. Plus they couldn't get up any real speed in a cardboard car to really kill themselves by smashing into another vehicle and my insurance rates would not warrant me selling a limb in order to pay for it anymore. And being that the car would be super cheap, they could decorate it with markers and bumper stickers to make it their own identity. It's a brilliant plan if you ask me.

Rule 2: Seniors may only drive between the hours of 9:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m.--and only Monday through Friday. Saturdays are for those of us who work and need to get our errands run without getting stuck behind 'ol Grandad and his dog going for a spin. Granny can go to the grocery store alllll weeekk long--save the weekends for those of us who cannot get there during the week. And do Seniors really need to go out for breakfast when I'm trying to get to work? Really? Do they have to drive super-slow, trying to find the entrance to the McDonald's while the work traffic is dodging their back ends that suddenly stop fourteen times? Ugh.

Rule 3: If you wear a cap when you drive, that means you are old--and you should not drive outside the above hours. I'm talking you, old guys. What is the deal with the cap? Even my Grandpa had one. And I've learned this: If they are wearing a cap--they aren't going ANYWHERE. And they are going there slow. Here's a corker--if they are wearing a cap AND they have the dog--they definitely aren't going anywhere but taking the dog for a spin. These people should only be allowed only on side streets where nobody is in a hurry. Really, you are actually getting in the car so the dog is entertained???? That's almost a "license revoke" qualification right there.

Rule 4: Teens may not speed down their own street. I tell my kid this all the time--the neighbors hate their neighbor's kid who guns it down the street. They know who you are and they HATE it. Speed anywhere else, but your own street. The neighbors will forever label you "That Smith (insert your own last name) kid who speeds down our street". Forever. Even when you are 45, they'll be saying "There's that Smith kid who used to speed down our street like a maniac" Trust me, they will.

Rule 5: Ban all cell phone usage. Not only in cars but stores, restaurants, ball games, walks with your child, at the playground, and basically anywhere but in the privacy of your own home. And it should be inside your own home because I can hear every single word of the idiot next door on his phone in his yard while he smokes. And it is rarely interesting. If that isn't annoying enough, people on their cell phones cannot drive. Really, you can't, even if you think you can.

Rule 6: You must do at least the speed limit during rush hour. What is the deal with these people who poke on the way to work? I know, I don't want to get to work either, but hell, you're dressed and half-way there--might as well press the gas pedal while you are at it. I understand some folks like a slow wake-up, but could you wake-up at the kitchen table and not in your car? Don't even get me started on the cigarette smokers and make-up appliers.

Rule 7: Volume limits on stereos in Teen Cardboard Cars. Quit that stupid Ultra-Bass on your car stereo that makes my head pound and my chest hurt. Okay, teen dude, you are really cool. Yeah, and your swear word laden music is swell, but the freakin' bass is driving me crazy!! It's making my car shake and it is annoying. And I can't hear Barry Manilow singing in my car. Save the volume for when you are old and you cannot hear anymore.

This is all I got for now--but believe me when I tell you I'm still working on it. Get me at, oh, 7:35 on my drive to work and I'm sure I've got a whole lot more, but this is just the beginning. We've got to ease into this just a bit. And sure, I understand that most of these rules apply to city driving, but with time, I think these rules can improve our driving life even in the rural areas. And when I'm Official Rule Maker, you all will be thanking me--unless you are a senior or a teen and then you'll be all miffy sitting in your cardboard car.

Beginning to Exhale

Whew! It's over--the dreaded 8th Grade Awards Night is over. The day leading into the event was a long one and I did everything I could think of to avoid thinking about every single scenario that could possibly take place. I went for a 7 mile bike ride, washed and hung out 3 loads of laundry, cut both lawns, watered the gardens, went to Walmart, got the car washed--you name it, I did it to pass the hours--and this was all before 2:00 p.m.

The evening was nice and yes, Em won the coveted Valedictorian of her class. I'm proud beyond measure and relieved that this once her heart wasn't broken. Like Joe said--it was nice for our kid to get the break for a change.

In the end, Em and her pallies are great kids and they were sweeping awards up like they were dust bunnies. Great gals, all of them--and the principal stopped to thank them for being such great students this year.

I wanted to cry, but I didn't. You'd be proud--I was gracious in winning as I would have hoped in losing. I feel bad for Hannah now, knowing the disappointment in getting the Salutatorian honor, but in no right is it any less of an achievement. She is an incredible young woman and either gal would have represented their class well. I hated to see these girls compared, measured, and put against each other--it really is a no-win situation. I can see why schools are opting out of such honors nowadays.

So, Em has to give a speech at her graduation. Of course, I offered to write her speech, and initially she agreed--but slowly, she realized that it probably wasn't such a great idea and changed her mind quickly. Rats--I was hoping to make it the mother of all speeches. Sigh.

Thanks, pallies, for the support you gave me this week. I knew I could be strong if I absolutely had to, and your words meant a ton.

My pants make me laugh

Did you ever get "messages" from odd places, like they were meant to be?

Like when my Great Aunt Evelyn died and two days later, my Grandpa died--I was really just cried-out for those 4 days lovingly referred to as the "Funeral Olympics". I don't ever remember being so sad and so overwhelmed by it all. I was young, newly married, work sucked, the wakes were exhausting, and everyone was so into their own sadness it was hard to support one another.

I remember driving home, crying some more, when I saw the car in front of me with a bumper sticker that read "This too shall pass". Yeah. And it did. But I took that silly bumper sticker as a little message to keep going, to be strong, and to know that brighter days were ahead. Okay, maybe the sticker could have read "Jeff Beck" or something just as odd, and that message wouldn't really apply and I wouldn't have felt better--it was just a silly quote at a time when I needed it's message. It was just a potluck of messages, but a message just the same. And it worked for me.

So, on my one billionth trip to the rest room at work, I got a little message today.

You see, going to the bathroom at work for me is like someone bringing in donuts to the office. Even if you hate donuts, you'll push and shove the fellow employees to grab one, only because it gives you something to do at work other than work. People will look for any excuse not to work--and food is the ultimate excuse.

I'm good with passing on the donuts, but I drink a lot of water to pass some time, so that naturally leads to about a thousand trips a day to the ladies room--which passes even more time. And poor Payroll Gal--her desk is perfectly situated to watch me come and go to the potty all day long. I wonder if she counts secretly how many times I go. Or wonders if I have a medical issue.

As I'm sitting there, I happen to look down at my new pants that I wore to work. Right there, on the little zipper flap is a secret message. Yep, a little tag with some words caught my eye. So, I'm all turning my head and trying to catch the fabric just right (while I'm peeing) to see this fortune-cookie-esque secret message that my pants were sending me.

It reads "Find adventure, find yourself". Hmmmm. My pants are pretty profound. But what the hell does this really mean? What exactly are my pants telling me?

Find adventure?? In the bathroom at work? In the office? In my life? What kind of adventure? Go look for donuts in the conference room or perhaps eat something other than yogurt and cheese sticks for lunch today? Does that count as adventure? And why do I need more adventures in my life? Is raising two teens with a montage of wacky animals not enough?

And then it says "Find yourself". Okay, I've got my pants around my knees here, I've pretty much found myself. Yep. There's my flabby thighs. There's my white knees. Yep, I'm in the bathroom, so I can mentally visualize the rest--but I don't think that's the message-- 'cuz that's a pretty cruddy message if it was.

And why do my pants need to give me a deep message? Why don't they just say--"Hey, chubs, things are getting a little tight in the booty--maybe you should do a little exercise when you get home" or "Whoa! Them is some flabby white thighs, girly"?

And who is making up these messages? And are they all different? Was it just luck of the draw that I chose this one special pair of size 10 pants with that extra-special one-of-a-kind message just for me??? Now it's got me wondering. Almost makes me want to check the crotches on all the pants at the store next time I go.

Ah, hell. I think my pants are just toying with me. Life is deep and all, but really, do the makers of pants really feel that we need some inspiration from my zipper fabric of my capris? I'm not biting, Ruff Hewn--I don't think this pair of capris is the Dalai Lama of bodywear. Somehow, I'm not buying that this bonus of Zen that comes with a $50 pair of capris is going to have some deep meaning or change in my life. Not today anyway. I'm feeling light-hearted and exhausted these past couple of days and I'm not looking for any deep psychology in a cotton/spandex blend.

Now, if you look at your kitten and he's smiling at you.......well, that's something completely different. That's a message.

Circus Cat and Where's The Kitty?

Now that Grace has mastered the kitty door, life for her has improved tenfold. The ability to go in and out a hundred times a day for a cat is like hog heaven. Okay, it only works when we are home and the actual door is opened--the kitty door is installed only in the screen door. So, it isn't like she can go in and out all the time--just when we are home to keep tabs on them. But I still let her think that she is in total control of her destiny--I'm all about empowerment for cats.

Hobbes is into "Where's the kitty?" big time, apparently it is the ultimate cat fun--right up there with "Let's throw up on the one rug in the whole house". Here's how you play: We both go out into the yard, he hides under some newly sprouting hosta leaves, and I yell "Where's the kitty?", and he jumps out and attacks me. Yeah, big fun. He thinks he's Elsa the lion from Born Free, stalking helpless bees and maple tree helicopter seeds that are floating everywhere. He pounces on the dogs next door and chases Grace until she climbs the fence to escape him. She doesn't think he's quite as funny as I do and spends half her day spitting at the guy.

Ah, Spring is here I guess. Lame, cold, and not-quite-what-I-was-expecting Spring. The flowers are blooming, the frogs are sunning, Grace is doing her circus act, Hobbes is hiding, and I'm freezing in the house.

Easing into the Week

I'm a little foggy this Monday morning so I'm turning to the Dalai Lama for a little humor and inspiration. I have a small list written by him called "Instructions for life" that I keep stuffed in the little cubby with my bills--you never know when you need a little chuckle while you are paying the "Man". There are 19 (not 20, mind you) "rules" on my dog-eared list and I'll share some of my favs to move you along in your day, if not the week.

1. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
2. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
3. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
4. Spend some time alone everyday.
5. Be gentle with the earth.

See? Not so bad, eh? I kinda like the guy, he's got some meaningful pearls of wisdom--and he makes me laugh sometimes too. Number 2 is my personal fav and if you know me, you are chuckling now.

Happy Monday, pallies. May the week fly!

Acceptance

The next two weeks will prove to be quite the adventure for Em. She's wrapping up her time at Thugs-R-Us Middle School and it cannot happen soon enough--if not for her dad and I, well, for her too. Typical of middle school girls, she has matured faster than most of her peers and has grown intolerant of their silliness and lack of respect for the learning environment. She is weary of blatant disrespect for teachers, the chaos that is the regular school day and teachers that are too tired to discipline, rushing in assignments last minute, scheduling this field trip or that assembly to pass the time. She is ready to move on, needless to say. And so are we.

This week the school has an 8th grade Award Night where they pass out numerous awards to the kids and give them yet another chance to say good-bye to middle school. They try hard to make sure everyone gets an award, so the evening is filled with made up awards like: Best Athlete, Best Science Grade, Best in Chorus, Best in Anything, and Fastest Dresser in the Locker Room--well, after a couple hours of awards, that's what it seems like anyway. It's nice that they try to acknowledge the kids that aren't necessarily strong in academics, but it does get a little silly at some point.

Em is concerned with two awards only--the Don Miller Award for band excellence and Valedictorian of her class. Em has been clamoring for both since Day One. I'm trying hard to prepare her for the small chance that she will get neither, but I dread the moment if it should happen. I wish on some level that they could give me a "heads up" so I can prepare her (and me) should the worst happen. I imagine her sitting there as they announce the award, hopes high, heart pounding, and the unthinkable happens--that they give it to her dear friend, Hannah--either award or god forbid, both. I don't even want to see her face, disappointed and heartbroken. Ugh. I dread Wednesday night.

Em has known that she is tied for Valedictorian since the 5th grade, when her teacher decided to encourage this competition between her and Hannah. Had that man not dropped dead that school year with a heart attack, I would have liked to strangle him for doing this to her. I loved him as a teacher, but I think this academic competition did a lot of damage to a young girl's psyche. She and Hannah have both been obsessed with the Golden Chalice of 8th Grade Awards ever since, and I think it has put a little chink in their friendship as well. Every grade, every test, paper, quiz and report card has become cause for tears and an ulcer. Em is freaked out at every turn that whatever she scores just isn't enough, and that just makes my heart ache for that kid. No amount of words can convince her that this just isn't that important.

So, we head into the week with trepidation, knowing that nobody really cares or remembers who the Valedictorian of their 8th grade class is or was. And the high school has banished the whole process--thank God. This academic competition has been nothing but bad for my Em--I see her doubt herself and think that Number Two couldn't be quite as wonderful or successful.

I'm feeling guilty because of my activism in the school district. I have been outspoken on many occasions, fighting and winning for safety changes and improvements in policy. I have had strong words for the Superintendent and his assistant, school board, and principle. They know us personally, by name, when we attend functions. Needless to say, I will feel guilty if my kid doesn't get the title--was it my fault?? Did they hold their disdain for me against my child?? I would like to think not, but who knows these days? If she loses, I will forever think it is me and Em will think she was never good enough. Gosh, I can't wait for Wednesday to come. Um, I'll have the extra large ulcer, please.

We've talked about it already, but I anticipate more discussions before Wednesday. I will love and adore her even if she is number 398 out of 400, and I tell her so--often. I don't care if she wins no awards, although I would be angry because I know she deserves them. I'm concerned with the new direction of the school that bends over backwards to highlight certain ethnic groups to the neglect of those who truly deserve the accolades. I'm just hoping the kid has the strength to keep her chin up and be gracious in spite of the outcome. And I hope I can do the same.

Say a small prayer for us both this week--that we accept what comes and that we handle ourselves accordingly. And maybe a little tiny extra one that Em gets what she has worked so darned hard for--she is a great kid.

I think we've won already and that's what we have to remember.

And then there were three......

I learned a very long time ago that the combination of a wee brain and giant legs sometimes leads to my frogs disappearing. There have been times when the "army" (that's what a group of frogs is called) numbers are as high as 6 or 8, and slowly, slowly, the frog pally numbers dwindle down. Not typically territorial, frogs can co-habitate peacefully, but sometimes there is a bully who chases his competition away.

Last year, I lost about 5 frogs in the skimmer over the winter. Known as the The Great Frog Disaster '08, I was heartbroken to find so many dead. And grossed out. But, surprisingly, there were 5 additional sets of eyes breaking the water's surface after the mess was cleaned out. There is always joy to be found in that, there pond.

I have two of those 5 frogs left--as the two that remain somehow bullied the others--chased them until they finally moved on to greener pastures. My neighbor has a pond, so I imagine that some actually made it over to her pad. Some aren't so lucky (or bright) and I'll find a "flat Stanley" all dried up in the garden, but that doesn't happen too often. Thank goodness.

The other morning, I peeked out my window to check on the pond, when I see this guy. Little bitty guy, actually. He is my little tadpole from last year, all grown up into a lovely bullfrog. Tiny in comparison to the Gigantor 2 that reign supreme, this guy is rarely seen--careful not to be chased out or consumed by the pond bosses. I was happy to see that he survived and that he's careful not to be too visible. Frogs can be canabalistic and he knows it.

Because of the penchant for hopping away, each year I purchase a tadpole or two to raise in the pond. There is such joy in releasing frogs back into the world--it is my personal goal to make sure a couple new frogs go out there to pass their froggie genes about. And besides, it's fun to watch the tadpole progress over the summer. Last year, the best birthday gift I received was my tadpole sprouting arms--which totally trumped Joe's buying me flowers. Gees, he made arms for god's sake--Joe just ran to the store. Who made the bigger effort here?

And this is the beauty of the pond--daily surprises. I check the thing about a cazillion times a day and then again at night with the flashlight. There are tiny baby snails to be found, dragonfly larvae dancing on the surface, fish eggs on the hyacinth roots the size of a pinhead, and froglets losing their tadpole tails. It is a world of small miracles, that pond. And although their is sadness sometimes, the joy it brings to my life is tenfold.

Bank Hostage

This must have been National Idiot Bank Employee Week as I noticed that it wasn't just me who encountered stupidity at my local branch. Don wrote about it over at Beyond Left Field and I couldn't help but chuckle at his experience. Then I find that Joe at Crotchety Old Man had his own tale of fools over at his bank. When I try to log in to my account online a couple of days ago, I find that I, too, have to deal with an idiot human over at the bank--and suddenly their stories aren't so funny anymore. And I have to ask: Who is hiring these people at the bank??

We have an account over at the bank where we have our mortgage, and that account rarely sees a lot of activity. It consists merely of deposits (for the mortgage) and electronic withdrawals (for the mortgage) and perhaps a couple of electronic withdrawals for insurance and maybe a home improvement every now and then. Not a lot of activity going on, so I don't typically go online to view the account.

When I didn't receive my statement this month, I went online to see if I could download it so I can balance the account. I know, I'm kinda anal about balancing each month. That's my first mistake.

So, I attempt to log in and I get the "security breach--you gotta answer 3 additional questions to get in" screen on my computer. Hmmmmmm, I'm thinking. Why am I getting this?? Then I remember that we switched browsers this week on the computer and it must not recognize my computer anymore. Okay. Bring on the three questions.

1) What was the last high school you attended? The last high school I attended? Does everyone attend more than one high school?? I found that an odd question. Would that be my son's high school, where we attend an event at least once a day? That would count as the last high school I attended? Or was it the "away" school I went to see him play tennis? Or is it my high school back in the day? Gees, this was proving difficult. I enter my high school that I graduated from and hope for the best. Now do I enter it as "ABC" or "ABC High" or "ABC High School"? You gotta type it in just right or they boot you.

2) My mother's birthday--Okay, she already views this as a national holiday, but really, does the bank have to go along with this? Are they part of the scheme? Gees. So I type in January 1. But then I start doubting it and type in January 1, 1800. (She's not really that old, I just hate to give out personal information here on this blog. You know how I so do not share personal details and all. Yeah, right.) So, anyway, I read the little directions thing and it says that you have to type it in exactly the way I did originally, and I start to panic. What if I put it in like this: 1-1-00 or 1-1 or Jan 1. My heart starts pounding because I so know that I am not getting into the account.

I now flip my rolodex to see if I wrote down the answers to these questions. I learned this trick a few years ago, I actually have a little file next to the computer which is my "cheat sheet" to all the freaking accounts I log into. Okay, robbers--now you know my little secret.

But to no avail. The back of my little bank log-in card is blindingly blank. Sigh. I continue on with question Number 3. I'm envisioning the scene in Monty Python and The Holy Grail where they are asked three questions to cross over the bridge. I'm hoping the last question is "What is your favorite color?" That would be easy. Or would it?

3) What is your favorite hobby? Oh, crap. That changes from day to day. Was I quilting when I first logged on? Was it "annoying the kids"? Or "photography" when I took a great photo that day? How about "gardening" or "frog watching"? Maybe it was "answering stupid bank questions". Crud. I look to my little rolodex card again, hoping that the answers would magically appear. No such luck. I think that little card was mocking me.

Needless to say, I did not pass the 3 question test. I tried it like 10 times and finally, the bank says that I am a robber and that I cannot try anymore times. No, I may not access my account. No, I may not balance this month. No, I may not look to see how my $2000 is doing. And no, I did not know my own self after answering all these questions wrong. Sigh.

Now, here comes the fun part--like that wasn't fun enough. I gotta call the dame over at the bank to beg and plead my case that she should let me access my own account. Okay, prepare for ridiculousness.

"Hello, foolish woman" she implies with her faux friendly greeting. "How can I help you?" she says with a sigh like she is all disgusted that it was her turn to answer the phone. And I proceed to tell her my dilemma. Which is all because they did not send me a statement, so it's kinda her fault, and I think I tell her so. So, she's even more annoyed with me and we are off to a bad start.

"Okay, you'll have to answer some questions," she begins. "Yeah, I know. I already tried to do that online" I explain. And I tell her the answers to the three questions online and I go into the whole thing about not answering them "correctly" like I did when I first answered them. And she doesn't care. And she kinda lets me know that with the tone of her voice. Sheesh. So I just shut-up, which I think makes her happy.

"No, I have new questions" she says all miffy. Bring 'em on sister, I'm thinking smartly to myself. I've got loads of answers to your silly questions.

1) What is your name? Check. I got that one.
2) What is your address? Okay.
3) What is your social security number? I rattle it super-fast to make my annoyance clear.
4) What is your secret word?

Huh??! Secret word?! Are you kidding me? Who is she? Freaking Groucho Marx? And is there going to be a goofy looking duck that drops down when I say it?! (I'm dating myself here--but I have to say I only know this reference from re-runs, so I'm not as old as you think I am.) And I start to laugh because this is just so ridiculous. And now, she is really mad that I'm laughing and I'm thinking there is no way this dame is going to let me see my account balance today--or any other day for that matter.

So, I tell her "Secret word? Do I win a prize if I get it right?" and she's all like "M'aaaamm, you have to know your secret word or I can't let you have access". And she's all condescending to me, so I'm irked now.

I could tell her my husband's name, social security number, mother's maiden name AND spell it (which I should get bonus points for) and how much he weighs--can I NOT have to come up with a secret word? How the hell do I know what my secret word was years ago?! I gotta secret word for her and it isn't nice. But I don't tell her that part.

She soon realizes that I don't have a secret word to give, only sarcastic remarks, so she switches to even more questions. I hear a deep sigh of utter lack of patience with me and she says "You'll have to answer more questions then". Unbelievable. How many questions can this dame come up with? Does she sit around in the drive-up window during the slow periods at the bank just coming up with inane questions to stump the patrons? Is she getting off on this. 'Cuz I'm not.

Like the Inquisition, this questioning continues:

1. What is your husband's name? Didn't I offer that already?
2. What is your mother's maiden name?
3. What is your birthday?
4. What is your husband's birthday? I'm beginning to think she's hot for Joe.
5. What is your account number?
6. What is your estimated balance in the account?
7. What color are your underpants? Not really, but it very well could have been for the state of my mind at this point. I don't even remember all of her silly questions, as I was barking the answers rudely to her now.
8. What is the date and the amount of your last deposit?

OH MY GAWD! Now I have lost it.

"I have a question for you now, lady" I'm all attitude now. "Where the hell is my statement for April? Huh? All of this ridiculousness is because YOU did not send ME a statement! I am not breaking into anyone's account. I want to access MY account so that I can balance my checkbook! ALL of this is because YOU did not send ME a statement!" I'm yelling into the phone.

"Uh, I'll have to put you on hold, M'aaaammmm" she's dragging the M'am like she'd like to drag my carcass out to the street.

I'm absolutely fuming at this point. When she returns, I have not cooled off, although I'm sure that's what she was hoping for when she put me on hold.

"We've mailed your statement. It has not been returned to us, so I do not know why you didn't get it. I can send you another right away. And I will need you to answer that last question so that I can re-set your questions on the web-site." She's still got attitude, the snot. But I wasn't thinking "snot", I was thinking a whole lot worse. But give me points for not saying it, although I wanted to.

"I PUT IN $500 ON THE 28TH!!" I'm fuming into the phone line.

"Okay, I've re-set your questions. May I help you with anything else today?" She asks sing-songy sweet, like she hasn't been in this conversation for the past 15 minutes.

I wanted to drive over to that bank and murder that woman. I did. I screamed "NO!" into the phone, hoping that their little "recording" device caught all of that silliness to use as a example of "How NOT to treat our patrons" in the company training video. Ugh.

So, like Don and Joe, I suffered at the hands of idiot bank employee. I think she was totally reading off the "Bank Scammer's Alert Question Sheet" that was posted by the phone. I imagine her all fluffed up, thinking she's got a hot one on the line and that she was going to be awarded Employee of the Month for stopping a scammer over the phone. Honestly. Don't you think the name, address, phone number, social security number, and mother's maiden name is enough? Sheesh.

I ended up re-setting my questions online, and yes, I did write the answers on the little card in my rolodex.

Love and Other Positive Vibes

Like two frogs in a suburban pond, Joe and I are celebrating togetherness today. Yep, 21 years of wedded bliss....well, maybe 21 years of ups and downs, raising kids, I-wanna-kill-you's, and lots of goofiness. Hard to believe that two young kids could make it last so long and that we'd still be having some fun all these years later. We weren't really "kids" when we got married--I just said that for dramatic embellishment. I'm kinda big on drama sometimes, ask Joe. Either way, 21 years is a long time, especially when you are married to me--and well, Joe too, for that matter. It's not all funny road signs and wacky tales of frogs here.

So, in celebration Grace learned to use the cat door this week. Yesiree. Girlfriend did a whiskery head bump (which is NOT the same as a Whiskey Head Bump, CardioGirl), opened the little screen flap, and scooted her gray self out into the freedom of the backyard and subsequent whole wide world. Yes! Finally. Only took her 4 months of encouragement, examples of how to use the door, me holding said door flap open every single time she wanted to come in or go out, and praise so loud when she finally did go through that it scared the bajeepers out of her. This is going to be a great summer--no more opening doors for cats 3 catwillion times a day anymore. Whatever will I do with all that free time?

My pally, Chuck from Secondary Roads toasted Duck and Wheel with String this week as well--I wonder how he knew it was Anniversary Week? It was a pretty funny post, that Chuck just cracks me up sometimes. Add to it that another pally, Aldon, from Orient Lodge, happened to like my Mother's Day Theory and gave me a shout-out as well. That was nice. Gees, lots of happy things going on around here.

I've had two peeps give me awards/meme's, which I am grateful. Shauni over at Juggling Teens was gracious about bestowing an award that has like a cazillion rules for passing it forward, which I think I have already blown, but I appreciate the thought. I'm so bad at returning these things. And Katherine, from One Creative Queen, sent me the 8 things meme, which I had done like a week or so ago. I think the only award I actually partake in is the Duck And Wheel Cocktail Hour--I think we are due one of these days. Stay tuned....

Gees, it's all good today. Isn't that nice? I'll save my weird bank story for another day, I don't want to ruin the happy vibe going on here.

Note to Joe (my Joe, not Crotchety Old Man Joe--now that would really be a story!):

Love ya! Here's to many more! :)

Men Working IT

Joe came home the other night cracking up. "Grab the camera!" he's yelling while he's taking off his coat, trying to tell me of this sign that made him chuckle on his way home from work. So, we hop in the car, try to find the sign that makes Joe laugh, and it is gone--missing from the spot he first saw it. The crew had closed up shop for the night--they stopped working "it", I guess.

So, Joe has been on this mission to get this photo and I've been Robin to his Batman in the whole episode. We drove around a bit, hoping to find the crew on other roads, to no avail. Joe was a tad disappointed and we drove home in defeat.

Yesterday, I was driving Col home from tennis when I spot the crew and their signs along the other side of the road. I had to read the signs in my rear view mirror, which made for dangerous driving, but a successful spotting of Joe's fav sign. And I speed up to get home fast enough to grab Joe to photograph his treasure. "Get in the car!" I'm screaming, "I found your sign!" He gets in, buckles up and we take off in the BatMobile.

So, as Joe dodges traffic and slows nearly to a crawl in order for me to focus and snap the picture, he's giggling while I'm shooting. He just thinks this is soooo funny. I did too, I have to say.

On the way home, he decided that it would be okay if I took the Duck and Wheel photo. He drove slowly, letting me focus and then came to a subtle stop for the required 3 seconds that it took for me to get the shot. We were like the paparazzi of workmen and ducks yesterday--another sign that we live a really pathetic life of hardly any excitement. And that we were truly meant for one another.

Look! Duck's a Player!

Okay, I did it. I finally snuck a picture in of the landscaping marvels of my neighbors-- formerly known as Duck-and-Wheel-with-String. You can thank Joe, my driver, while I was discreetly clicking away in the passenger seat.

See? Duck isn't by wheel anymore. And string is gone too. Now it's just sort of Wheel With Weeds While Duck Is Doing God-Knows-What With the Girly Ducks by the Stairs. Not such a good blog name, so that's why I don't change it. I just wish I had the original display--then you would truly appreciate the beauty. And the seasonal changes. I wonder if these people know that I'm fascinated by their lack of landscaping/decorating skills. Joe says he thought Hispanics were good at landscaping, but I told him that's racist so he doesn't say that anymore.

Duck is the tall guy in the back--behind Duck With Flowers in it's Back With Price Tag. Um, somebody ought to be cluing these peeps in that faux flowers look....um....cruddy. Nobody is buying that they are real. And why do we need 2 ducks w/flowers and Swan w/flowers?? I just think the whole layout is desperate for some theme or organization. I don't think I'm the one to tell them though--I'm just enjoying the ride, thank you very much.

It takes very little to entertain me, if you haven't already figured that out. It is a pathetic life, but it is all mine. I so want to add ducklings to freak these people out one day.

I wanna shoooooooot.....the....whole....day.....down

Monday, Monday. Ugh, Monday. Day after Mother's Day. Day after a stinky, boring, expensive, and losing baseball game. Day after I'd-love-to-have-my-money-back-on-that-one baseball game. Day after I got Photoshop Elements for my computer and I just want to stay home and play with it. Day after we spent some time trying to fix the leak on the waterfall and it is still losing water. Ugh.

Work beckons, have-to's are lining the calendar with red ink, end-of-the-year banquets, concerts, and I-gotta-be's are everywhere. Sigh.

On the bright side is the woodpecker on the suet this morning, freshly planted pots of color grace the patio, there's a new faux turtle in the pond (Okay, so it's a sea turtle--it's the only kind they had), and my ever-breaking outdoor clock is actually working. There is some good news out there!

Happy Monday, pallies.

Word to your mother

"I'd like to thank the little people who made me what I am"

It's my Mother's Day speech and I use it every year, in spite of eye rolls and teeth sucking. But admit it, it works. I think it's funny anyway--who cares what the kids think.

I have this theory about Mother's Day. Did you ever take a good look at the Mother's Day cards? They all show the mom with her apron on, surrounded by her family. She's standing there smiling with all the kids around her, and Dad's there--I think he's smiling too. Then there is lots of mushy writing about how wonderful mom's are and how much we love them and all that stuff...blah, blah, blah.

Then look at Father's Day cards. There's Dad on the hammock--alone. He's on the golf course--alone. Then he's taking a nap on the couch--alone. Where is the picture of him being surrounded by his obnoxious smiling family??? They always show the dad enjoying his peace and quiet, while the stupid mom cards have her spending even more time with the kids--like she needs more of that. And there are always fewer sappy words on Father's Day cards too. Always.

Me? I want the Dad card. I want to be on the hammock, on the links, or maybe taking a nap--all by myself. No kids bugging me, no cats sleeping on my chest, and no husband asking me what I want him to do now. Leave me alone, people. It's my day. Now, go away.

I don't think it's gonna work, but it was worth a try.

We are off to the White Sox game for Mother's Day. I'm not a mushy Mother's Day kinda gal--nope--I'm all about going to the game and demanding that the bratwurst and cold beers be delivered to my seat, sap free. The kids are happy, the husband is happy, and more importantly, I am happy. It's a win-win-win day, and we do it every year. So, I'm off to see the "boys" and to enjoy my Mother's Day--mush free.

I'm wishing all my blog pallies a very Happy Mother's Day. May you get the Father's Day card too.

Mutiny on the table

This place is going to hell and there is mutiny on that there Bounty. Cats are sitting on kitchen tables, sleeping on the living room couch, demanding water faucets turned on for their drinking pleasure, laying on the kitchen counters while I wash dishes, and expect the cat door to be opened for them. It's kitty chaos and I'm not sure when I lost control around here.

There are few things that drive me more crazy than animals on the table or counters. Okay, I know they go up there when I'm not home, as there are the little tell-tale footprints and placemats askew that tell me of adventures of an empty house. Animals were not allowed on either surface--ever. Every once in awhile, Grace would forget herself and plop her gray butt dead center on the table, and then look at me all weird-like when I dared to correct her. This was the rare occurance--but now......sheesh, it's happening all the time.

I'm not sure if it is the loss of 2 kittens in a 3 year span or if I'm just mellowing in my old age. Maybe it's that I have teenagers now and I realize that there are bigger issues in life. Maybe it's just that Hobbes is so darned cute that I cannot yell at him. I don't know--but I'm not all that into fighting about it anymore. They have worn me down, those cats and teens, and I'm all about embracing the losing side. And cat chaos reigns.

Even Joe has been defeated. When my stronghold went south, Joe would still fight the good fight. He would gently remove Hobbes from his perch next to the sink while I washed dishes. He would tell him "no" and scoot him down from the table. He would tell him, in his whiskery kitten face, that "kitties do not belong on the table". Ahhh, to no avail. Homeboy plops his stripey self smack dab wherever he wants it to be--and all of us just giggle. And then Grandma notices, "You never let your other cats do that" she kinda chides me. Yeah, thanks for pointing out that we've lost control to 11 pounds of fluff, Mom.

Grace would initially watch this audacity with amazement. She, the rule obeyer, couldn't believe that all cat rules suddenly did not apply to Hobbes. " Hmmmm...." she was thinking. And soon enough, I'm finding a gray blob on the living room sofa and other assorted "No Cats Allowed" places around the house. There she sits, smugly testing my authority, smiling a smirky "go ahead, lady" smirk that dares me to yell at her when Hobbes is jumping from the counters to the top of the refrigerator. She somehow knows that I wouldn't dare reprimand her while Goofball is ruling the roost and doing whatever he pleases.

It's kind of my life lately--I'm not so uptight and rule oriented. I'm tired from working and trying to maintain the household like it used to be and I don't have the time or the energy to hound everyone anymore--it's exhausting. The kids are older and they help, somewhat, but they, too, are pushing the limits of me. Things that once were verbotten, are now tolerated--not accepted, but tolerated.

Sigh. When did this begin? When did I lose the battle of authority? When does total chaos reign? And more importantly--why don't I care?

The Music of the Night

It's the end of the school year and everything needs to be cleaned up, finished up, last concerts performed, last tennis matches played, make-up tennis matches scheduled, last field trips attended, and end-of-the-year everythings taken care of. We're running to one school or the other nightly it seems, and I'm looking forward to Em being at the high school with Col, so at least the car only has to go in one direction--perhaps even (gasp!) allowing both kids to be picked up at once.

This week brought us to the band banquet, awards night, and final concert. It is nice night out--a bit long with the seniors bestowing awards on their comrades, but it is bitter sweet. It's a night for fun and gentle ribbings, while parents watch teary-eyed, knowing that this was a bookmark moment in their child's history. Kids think that life is like this normally--little do they know how wonderful these four years of high school are and how little real life reflects this on a daily basis. It's okay that they don't get it--it's good to be fairly happy and carefree once in your life.

As a parent of a Junior, I sat there smugly knowing that I didn't have to absorb every second, every note, every song of that last high school concert. I didn't have tears well in my eyes or have to hug the other band parents good-bye. I didn't have to see my child outgrow his peers and move on. Not yet anyway. I have a whole other year to prepare myself for that night.

I watched Nathan, at one with his clarinet, a lovely young man who is so very talented. He no longer looked like a boy, but instead a young man who was just really starting his life. He seemed to escape in the music, swaying, eyes closed and moved by the drama of the notes on the page intermingling with those in the air. My eyes teared for the loveliness he exuded, I couldn't even look at his parents.

Frannie, too, played so incredibly. She, with her flute, whispered fond memories of four years melded with the promise of excitement to come. Now a young lady, Frannie's experience earned her first chair and solos that floated amongst the music like an angel. A sweet, gentle, young woman, Frannie stood out amongst the girls as an icon, someone to admire and aspire to be like. Her parents were there, proud and excited for what she had accomplished and for the promise of what she will be. Fran's Dad (you know him, he's a commentator here) was beaming, and rightly so--he has a lot to be proud of here.

In all of the craziness that is May and the end of the school year, it was wonderful to just sit, relax, and enjoy the music. Forced to stillness, my tired body and mind was thankful for the hour to re-group and just be. Mr. P outdid himself with the music choices and the ability to push the kids to the limit of their talents. I have been to college and professional concerts that were no where near the ability of the ABS Band--I am still in awe that these are 14 - 17 year-olds playing the music.

The evening was a gentle reminder to stop--stop the madness that is have-tos and gotta-bes, and just breathe. It was the reminder to look back on the past year and reflect on where we've been, but to also look ahead to what's coming or what can be.

The WalMart Greeter of Weeds

Okay, I'm regrouping--staying home from work today and tomorrow to try and catch up on all that needs to be done around here. There just never seems to be enough time or money in the month of May, and the amount of work to be done in the yard is endless it seems. I think everyone is in the same boat, as I saw a few harried faces at the band meeting the other night. So, a quick post and I'm off.............!

I made this quilt last year--a toast to the dandelion, a plant that is just so underrated. Okay, so it's not very lovely, but give it points for audacity. In spite of fiendish metal weed removers and chemical deterrents, Weed Friend just keeps going. Never gives up. Nope--it spreads its seeds everywhere and pops its little yellow head up here and there to announce "You can't get me!". It's sort of the Gingerbread Man of weeds.

Author Jon Katz was on this kick last year--to appreciate this little plant that could....and does. He admires its ability to carry on, in spite of the human hatred bestowed on its leafy presence. He posted photos, wrote about its beauty and continued on a bit this year too. His thoughts inspired me to make this little quilt. In its wacky persistant sort of way, the dandelion makes its presence known, shining its little golden head for all to see--everywhere.

So, an ode to the dandelion it is. Persistant, ever-present, intrusive at times, and yet a bright Welcome to Spring--the dandelion is sort of the WalMart Greeter of weeds. No matter how hard you try, you just cannot dodge that pesky rascal.

Tell me, that in yards of green perfection, your eye doesn't travel to the one dandelion that appears. That is some power.

Boycotting the 5th

Um, is it me or is celebrating another country's battle in history sort of strange? This whole Cinco de Mayo thing is just odd to me. Okay, don't start with the hate comments, I just find it sort of strange that we are celebrating an attempted invasion by France into a small town in Mexico back in the 1800's that involved like 4000 people. And that has what to do with the United States?? And why does my kid have to take time out of her learning day to celebrate this? It's one thing to learn about the history, but another to spend half the day celebrating and waving another country's flag.

Over at Thugs-R-Us Middle School, they apparently thinks this one major holiday and we truly only celebrate two--Cinco de Mayo and Black History Month. Hmmmmm....gone are Easter and Christmas breaks, Christmas concerts, and the history of Thanksgiving. We are not allowed to discuss in length the President's birthdays or who Casmir Pulaski is (that's actually a holiday here in Illinois), and anything that I believe in or celebrate has been obliterated--but we have one hell of a blow-out for Cinco de Mayo. That blows my mind on so many levels. I'm not anti-anyone, but am pro-everyone--let us all celebrate our heritage on one set day, get it all out of our system, and be done with it.

I've actually pestered our Superintendant to instill a Heritage Celebration, where everyone could do their cultural dances, bring in samples of their food, and dress in native garb. I say fill the gym with everyone doing their bit, dancing and singing in their native style, and embrace who they are and where they came from. We all came from somewhere. Wouldn't that be great to learn about a lot of different cultures? I think so.

Me--I'd have the Lithuanian booth. There's me, pushing kugelis on the skinny folks, and greeting everyone with an obnoxious "Labas!". I'd be flying that Lithuanian flag and dressing like my peeps did back in the day--although I'd have to look that up because I have no idea how they dressed--my Grandma just wore a housecoat most of the time. I'd wear that, but I think they'd toss me. I'd be all proud and standing there glaring at those silly Irish dancing chickies with the curly hair, and they'd be jealous because I'd be selling those really cool tie-dye t-shirts that the Lithuanian Olympic basketball team wore years ago. Everyone loves tie-dye, so our booth would be a hit.

It's my dream really--Heritage Day. All races, cultures, and beliefs all together in one room. The Superintendant usually does the polite laugh when I suggest this and walks away. Sigh. I think I've got something here. Really.

So, needless to say, I didn't eat tacos yesterday or drink Margaritas. I didn't dance with a brightly colored skirt on or raise the Mexican flag. Nope. I did answer the phone at home with "Hola, como estas?" but that's just what I do anyway to be silly. My mom has just now figured out that she really didn't dial the wrong number when I pull that one on her. But, like Earth day, I had a silent protest of Cinco de Mayo too. It's just plain silly--not the holiday, just that it is so over-emphasized here.

So Happy May 6 or May 7. I hope your May 5 was nice too.

Big Time Entertainment

Saturday brought us to re-stacking the waterfall in the pond. Back-breaking hell to say the least, Joe and I listened to our aching backs and recovering hernias, and decided to pay Col and his pally, Taylor, to help out. Hobbes helped out too (you can see him between Taylor's legs), but we didn't have to pay him. The project was beastly and heavy, but made a ton easier with the boys helping out, lifting the heavy slate and boulders. Oh, and we cracked up a bit too--that always helps with any project.

The whole event was made a ton more fun by the mere presence of waders. Who would think that fisherman waders could possibly be so much fun??? We took turns putting them on and sinking our bods carefully into the cold water and laughing ourselves silly. We must have looked absolutely ridiculous to the neighbors, who I'm sure were watching out the windows. We'll do anything for fun at our place. I think they are just jealous because we just laugh so darned much.

Slowly, Col would sink in, giggling as the pressure of the water made the waders grasp his legs. He lowered himself deeper to feel it tighten around his abdomen and we all accused him of peeing in the pond. Well, he looked like he was anyway.

Taylor was next, sitting on the ledge like it was a hot tub--all the while laughing with us. Then it was Em, then me, and sure enough--Joe had to try too. We've never experienced such fun for $49.95 before!

Hee! Haw! Nothing like an 8 x 8 hole in the ground with a pair of waders on. Sheesh, you'd think we don't get out much.

And they look good too! It doesn't take much to make us happy. Really.

Viola Monday

Okay, who was outside this weekend??? Me. I was. A lot. It just felt do darned good to get some fresh air on the bod and some warm sunshine on my skin. We worked out in the yard pretty much the whole weekend, making up for a too long winter and a too short spring. Things need to get done before we are consumed with mowing the lawn and keeping up the gardens and the pond. And geesh, my body is paying for it--I think my thighs forgot about the 4 thousand squats I do each day to putter around the garden. The two of them had some choice words for me this morning crawling out of bed.

I spied a bunch of violas coming up all over--my gardens are loaded with them. I think I bought one or two many moons ago and now they just sort of spring up wherever. I think of them as little messages from the earth, a little "hello" from nature that doesn't involve the gruesome parts like squished ducklings and such. It's a little wink and a nudge to remind me to slow down a bit, to stop and enjoy the loveliness, and quit worrrying about the have-tos. We all need some of those in our lives or we drive ourselves crazy.

Monday brings us back from the brink of death from the Swine (H1N1) Flu and continuing coverage on our water issue. Folks who don't live in our village love to bring it up--almost joyfully it seems. Relieved that it is not them, everyone has an opinion and loves to ask "What are you gonna do?". Sigh. What can you do? The damage has been done. Suing the officials at this point is just a small punishment and if there are health issues related to the contamination, no money in the world can make you whole again. I'm sort of in a quiet resignation, which if you know me, is not my usual temperment. This isn't a battle to fight, it is one to remain informed and involved in current activities in the case, yet, ultimately it rests in God's hands. Like the viola who waits out late winter snows, I'm gonna stand tall and keep my face towards the sun, hoping for sunnier days ahead. Okay, so fall comes and they dry up and die off, but I'm not thinking about that part.

Gone Outside

Hey you, Blog pallies! Go outside. Turn off the computer, quit dropping, and post a picture instead of writing. Today, you can be guilt free. The winter was too long and you deserve a day of freedom from the blog world.

Go sit in the sunshine, wallow in the warmth and the good smells of the earth. Go sit in a lawn chair, close your eyes and listen to your idiot neighbors disturbing the peace with their ATV's racing up and down the street. Take off your shoes and wiggle your toes in the cool grass. Watch the birds fly and the bees visit the new spring flowers. Go climb a tree in hopes of catching a goldfinch or listen to the game on your portable radio. Whatever you do--just go outside.

That's where today finds me. Gone. Come join me and Hobbes, won't you?

Ewwww, that smell.....

I had the honor of washing Col's tennis clothes last night--and what a joy that was. I opened the gym bag completely caught off guard by the noxious fumes that would overcome me as I slowly unzipped the beast. I nearly fell over by the smell of sweat, dirt, and man-boy.

What is the deal with boys anyway? Why do they stink so much? I'm gonna invest in the company that makes Febreeze because that product is a staple in homeboy's room. A friend of mine, a mother of two boys, clued me in to that miracle stink-be-gone product years ago, and I cling to that bottle like an alcoholic clings to his flask. LOVE that stuff. And it's not that Col is unclean or anything--he (and all boys) just have this, um, "aroma" that magically appears when they are born. Girls don't have it--just boys for some stinky reason. Febreeze probably has "made for boys and everything they own" under the product description. If they don't--they should.

The "aroma" began when he was very little. I would pop in to get him out of his crib and immediately wince from the smell in his room. I'd open the curtains, crank the window open a bit, and air that little room out--and my son. It wasn't a wet diaper or sick child--nope. Just a natural stink. And it didn't smell like anything in particular--just "boy". It has only gotten worse over the years, and the smell greater as his body grew. It's like the Stink that Never Goes Away--it only gets worse. If that's possible.

I thought it was just me until the gals in exercise class (yes, I actually went to a step class for years) were all confirming the same stench with their sons.

"Oh, don't ever have a sleepover with the guys--it's the WORST!" one advised.

"I think it's their socks..." said another.

"No, I think it's their sweat, " chimed in another experienced mom.

I don't know what it is or where it comes from--I don't want to know, I just want it gone. So, I stock up on Febreeze and a couple times a week, especially in summer, I spray the hell out of that boys room. I spray the sheets, the bed, the rug, the curtains, the dresser, the walls, the desk, the books, the trophies--everything and anything that could possibly hold an odor. And if I could, I'd be spraying Col himself if I thought it would work. I wonder if they make Febreeze soap and deodorant? Hmmm......

Now, I don't blame my son for this aroma on any level--he is meticulous about his cleanliness. He does all the daily, and sometimes twice daily, shower, hair washing, and teeth brushing. He's all about hygiene--it's just a natural Pig Pen kinda cloud that surrounds boys. We even had a boy hamster years ago that had the same issue. Gees, that hamster was stinky.

I will preface this by saying that I've had hamsters before--tons of them. I know about hamsters--they chew, pee, run in their squeaky wheel all night long while you try to sleep, they stuff their little pouches with yummies, and they like to build little hamster nests. I love hamsters. I would ditch the cats in an instant if they could make a hamster that lived longer than 2 years and didn't always die a slow, painful death. Love hamsters. I do.

But we had one, Muffin, who was the stinkiest hamster EVER--and he was a boy. No matter how many times a week I put in fresh pine shavings, that boy smelled. Oh yeah, he would groom his little furry body everyday with precise routine--his little hands combing and grooming while his tongue went two-forty. He would stretch to reach his backside, and do that cute little I'm-washing-my-face-with-both-hands thingy that hamsters do. Gees, he was cute doing all that--but it was for naught. Homeboy stunk, and stunk bad.

Okay, so part of the prob with Muffin is that he would pee in his wheel.....and then run in it. We had one of those plastic cages (we have cats) with the little plastic enclosed wheel on one end. So, all of his treasures that he put in there to take on a spin never fell out. And that he did--he'd pile in all of his favorite belongings every single day, and then take them for a ride in his wheel. They would all clunk about as he ran like a fool heading for nowhere. But somewhere along the line, Muffin decided that if you peed on all your stuff, nobody would steal it from you. He'd be running and peeing, and all of his seeds, treats, and bedding would be flying along with him and sticking to his bod. It was a sight, I tell you. And a smell.

I think he was "marking". You know, animals do that stuff. The males mark their territory and then the chicks get all crazy-like and they will want to "do it" and stuff. Apparently pee is a big turn-on in the wild, so here's Muffin, thinking he's in the wild doing the peeing thing. Except there aren't any hamster chicks for miles--well, maybe blocks. But they are in their own little hamster houses and aren't coming over anytime soon, so Muffin is out of luck, big time.

"Muff, the chicks can't smell you, man." I'd tell him gently.

"Quit peeing in your wheel. Chicks do not like smelly men." I had to be honest with the little guy. And he would look at me like "Whaatttt???". And that's the part I like about hamsters is that they usually stop what they are doing and actually look at you when you talk to them. See why I love hamsters?? Respect, man. Respect. Give me a dozen of them.

Muffin lived about 3 years, a world's record I think for hamsters. And he stunk for those 3 long years. He never got the message about not running and coating yourself in your own pee. He never had a chick and he never got lucky, poor guy. He was lovely--all fluffy and cute with those big brown eyes. But he stunk--bad.

So, I guess the stink is a guy thing--for all creatures. And when I think that Col's tennis gear is putting me over the edge, I remember Muffin. And I know it could be worse.