Are My Bloomers Showing?

Extremely Lax Couponing

2011-06-20T11:19:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time a couple of Facebook friends posted about their couponing successes. Inspired by their savings, I decided to give it a go. I asked my husband to buy a Sunday paper so I could glean the coupon inserts. I cut out a few coupons. ***The End.***

Ok, that wasn't exactly the end. I did conduct a successful hunt for my old coupon organizer. It still held usable coupons for diaper medicine from when my oldest (now 20) was born and a couple for Charleston Chews and Crunch & Munch from packages of Halloween candy bought in Kentucky in 1991 (just a guess). This should've been a sign of things to come. I transferred them to a new and cheerily striped organizer, tucking the newly clipped coupons in there as well. I do like to be organized!

My cousin mentioned that she found many of her coupons online, so I joined the Couponing Blondes (or whatever). I printed out a coupon for Listerine and a Pyrex measuring cup. I couldn't tell you where that mouthwash coupon ended up, but the measuring cup coupon expired ... last month, I think.

Unless this family starts using a plethora of name brand products or decides to make freezer room for 5000 cartoons of ice cream or someone starts issuing coupons for produce at the farmer's market, I don't see my coupon neglecting ways ever getting me to the ranks of "extreme" like those folks I've heard about on tv. Then maybe I'm just inventing my own type: Extremely Lax Couponing. Still, as I have a growing teenage son, I'm not giving up completely. Save those granola coupons for me!

I'm Not Doing Anything Today

2011-03-06T21:23:00.000-05:00

This morning, I was at the grocery store at nine. I came home, did two loads of laundry, cleaned the bathrooms, vacuumed the stairs, then made lunch. My husband came wandering into the kitchen (Saturday is his day off) and asked me if I wanted to do anything today? I don't.

Why Can't Hither Be Closer To Yon?

2011-02-24T20:31:00.001-05:00

I spend about four and a half hours in the car each week driving my kids from hither to yon. If you aren't familiar with hither or yon then you either (a) don't have children, or (b) have a very good public transit system. Hith and Yo, as I like to call them (we're friendly, but by no means friends) are easily recognizable, Hith never has a gas station, and Yo is in the No Starbucks Zone. It is impossible to be on-time to anyplace in Hither There's a creepy time warpy thing that goes on when you enter there that throws you back twenty minutes and whips your gas gauge to E. But, once you throw your kids out of the car, you can coast down the hill and wait for AAA at the Starbucks. Yon, on the other hand has plenty of gas stations, and time to kill. I usually spend my time there sitting in my car reading and waiting on someone to finish some activity or another....I do enjoy some quiet time and reading is one of my favorite activities, but it sure would be nice to have a coffee. I've suggested coffee delivery as a service but AAA hasn't gotten back to me yet.

Really?

2011-02-22T23:08:00.000-05:00

A guy stopped me in the mall right outside the bookstore entrance wearing an A & F polo, jeans fashionably holey and pinging on his iphone and asked me for fifty cents-- I assumed he meant money as I rarely carry rap artists around in my purse. I looked at him for a minute, I never know what to say in these situations and I could hardly pretend I didn't hear him when I was nearly close enough to read his text message. All I could think was, fifty cents? Was the guy in that need of a handful of Runts or a bouncy ball? The guy was dressed better than I was and standing in a mall! In the end I told him I was sorry but I was saving up for an iphone. I think he felt sorry for me.

I've thought a lot about this...

2011-02-22T01:50:00.001-05:00

And if I'm ever stranded on a deserted island and a genie pops out of nowhere and grants me one wish, I'm wishing for Nutella.

I Think I'm Forty-Something

2011-02-19T23:27:00.000-05:00

I say think because, really, I could just as well be thirty-something, thirty and eleven, or twenty-something, twenty and twenty-one. I mean technically I could, couldn't I? I'm not diggin forty-something at all. Forty-something means that I might be half way done--if you get my meaning. It's also the number of calories I can now consume in a day without exploding. It's the number of minutes I spend cleaning each day, up sharply from thirteen just a year ago, and, I'm sure, a sign of impending senility. It's how fast I sometimes find myself driving, both on the highway and through school zones. It's roughly what I spend each month on herbal remedies for the diseases I only think I have and let's not go into how close it comes to the number of times I must call myself each month to find my cell phone. Of course, forty-something isn't all bad. Sure I've had to give up the pretense that my gray is just "highlights", but I can remember when Jon Bon Jovi was young, when MTV played music videos and when Johnny Depp was on 21 Jump Street.

2010, I Know It Was Here, It Had To Be... Right?

2011-01-29T17:51:00.000-05:00

I vaguely remember a summer vacation and several hundred orthodontic appointments. Seems like I paid my taxes. I have a new dog and my son is now twelve feet tall. There was a road trip in there somewhere starting in California and going all the way to La Push, baby, La Push (I also have a daughter). I know that because I have the fridge magnets to prove it. But 2010, where did it go?

Hospitals Are Not For Sick People and I Missed Christmas!

2011-01-04T17:51:00.002-05:00

I got an appendectomy for Christmas. It took place the morning after Christmas to be honest, but it was a total surprise. Wasn't expecting it at all. So after literally suffering through all the preparations for Christmas Eve and Christmas, I missed all of the fun parts. And while the white Christmas everyone was oohing and ahhing over barely registered in my miserable brain, I learned about a whole new side of life called The Hospital.

First, just let me say that these hospital worker people were some of the nicest I've ever met anywhere. As I shuffled into the ER in my pajamas, red clogs, and a Canadian sherpa hoodie, no one even raised an eyebrow at my attire. In fact, I was even complimented on my speaking voice. I guess they are trained to look for something good in everyone that waddles up to that desk. I didn't even have to wait but a couple of minutes to be questioned, examined, and given the privilege of an IV, offered morphine, and a CAT scan. At the mention of CAT scan I had them bring in my husband from the waiting room. I told him I was ready to go home. The nice doctor convinced me to stay, which was a good thing as the scan soon proved what she suspected: the appendix was "rotten" (her word not mine, though I agree), and it had to go.

I was admitted into a room to await this "emergency" appendectomy . . . which took place some 12 hours later. No wonder they kept pushing the morphine. But it was a holiday, then a Sunday, and there was snow. I appreciate every single one of those people who cared enough to slide into work on a snowy Sunday to take out that rotten appendix. I should buy them all a gift certificate or something nice like a scarf ... except I am not even sure how many there were ..?

Except for finally being released from that institution, the actual surgery was my favorite part. I don't remember a bit of it. And I woke up smiling. I smiled as they pushed me and my oxygen down the halls to my room. I smiled. I was ready to go home. Still smiling :))

After a "fever spike" prevented them from letting me go home the next day like I'd imagined, I cried. I cried almost the whole third night in that place. Then I decided that I'd show those people, and I tried to wash my hair in the sink ... alone. It made me feel a little rebellious, a little fresher, and a whole lot tired. Sadly, the IV prevented me from drying and styling my hair well, so I was looking somewhat deranged until my sister came and helped me the next day so I didn't have to come home like that.

I made some observations while in the hospital. I would like to share them.

a) There are all manner of beeping things in that joint. Beep. Beep. Beep. This beeps and that beeps. The IV commenced beeping every time I moved my right arm. It was like the whole world was a french fry cooker.

b) Hospital workers aren't even a little embarrassed when they bring you a breakfast tray with coffee and a popsicle. What the heck kind of breakfast is that?

c) Nurses are especially chatty at the nurses' station on holidays. I recommend earplugs if your room is within a mile of the nurses' station. Also, if your husband snores at home he will also snore in the chair by your hospital bed. You may have to send him home eventually.

d) Every person will ask you, the suffering and pitiful person, your name and birthdate and if you are allergic to anything. Over and over. They make you wear that bracelet, but I don't think they like to read it.

e) Nurses offer you morphine like it's the real reason you came to the hospital. They really, really want you to have it and served with an intravenous side order of some anti-nausea drug they speak of in hushed and reverent tones. Neither of them work. Well, maybe that nausea one works, but I'm not going back to find out.

f) Those hospital people throw a lot of jargon at you. I didn't know what any of it meant. I'm still not sure, but again, I am not going back to find out. "Lappy appy" was one of the confusing titles. It means laparoscopic appendectomy NOT Labrador Retriever and Lhasa Apso mix.

g) 80% of the time they're coming at you with a cup it's not a good thing. The other 20% of the time they're bringing cubes of jello.

h) 100% of the time they're coming at you some sort tube it's not a good thing. They like to stick them places.

i) If they apologize in advance, you can bet someone's going to be sorry at some point during that procedure.

j) Harvest Gold and Mauve are alive and well and working as throw up receptacles at area healthcare facilities.

k) Nurse assistant dudes who play the Geico little pig commercial on their cell phones while wheeling you to the CAT scan room are special ... even if it hurts to laugh.

l ) Nurses wearing reindeer antlers are gentle on Christmas night.

Today I am finishing the last of two industrial strength antibiotics. There isn't a bacteria left in my body. I feel like it's a fresh start to collect new and improved bacteria, and I think I'd like to begin my new collection with the kind of beneficial bacteria delivered by strawberry yogurt. If I find out that the "fever spike" causing the extra night's stay and ultra-antibiotics was, as I suspect, brought on by being under a blanket in an 85 degree room on a rubber bed during a hormonal night sweat, I am going to be mad.

So, I missed Christmas, but it's a new year. I'm starting it with a clean gut and no pain. Things are looking up :)) And I'm home!

Happy New Year!!

The Terrible Thing That Happened To Me...

2010-07-17T02:22:00.002-04:00

The most horrific, mortifying, terrible, stomach churning, heart palpitating, anxiety producing thing has happened to me. I know, I know, it happens to us all sooner or later and all there is to do is pick up the pieces and trudge forward. There's no going back, no un-ringing the bell, no breathing life back into it. It just is. Engine lights come on. Cars die.

"It's too old, it has too many miles, it must go." My husband says. He's brought home brochures from every dealership in Northern California, he seems a little too happy to me.

I fear he may have somehow poisoned little old Sadie, whether with shoddy upkeep or just bad vibes, I don't know. She has clearly lost her will to live, but I don't know if I can move on. I can safely change the radio station and find the windshield wipers in the dark, how long before I can do that in a new car? I can park anywhere without fear of door dings or high curbs, Sadie is pre-scuffed on all four sides. The seat belts are safely held in with eight years of gummy bear goo and juice box drippings, you can't get that kind of safety package on new models, nope--pre-owned only. She has a cassette player, bet those don't come standard on your run-of-the-mill new model, either. My husband's trying to sell me on heated seats or that back-up camera thingy, but what do I need with that when I have the piece of mind of knowing that my keyless remote can go through a full laundry cycle, many times, and still come out twerping? And, I'm pretty sure I can't get that Nemo the fish antenna topper off either, so I'll lose that too.

It's all too sad to think about.

Priorities

2010-02-07T20:21:00.000-05:00

I'll never claim to have all my ducks in a row or my priorities straight. I procrastinate. I am not very domestic, not very girlie. My life is not as organized as I'd like. And heaven help me, I actually LIKE my kids and put them before most all things, which surely qualifies me as nuts in today's world. It occurred to me after reading the Facebook posts by other less-enthralled mothers who were exasperated by all the snow days in January, that I may be the only mom in this state who likes being with her children. This is alarming and also worthy of a blog entry of its own. My children are my first priority, and I am okay with this. It's after that when things get a little less decisive.

Laundry, toenail polish, hair fretting, shoes, Jeffy, grocery shopping strategies, ceramic stovetop care, dream gardening, gluten anxiety, dental health, other family, breakfast, sleep, archaeological news, reading, breathing, and emptying the bagless vaccuum all swarm like vultures over my To Do list. They're a wild bunch that acknowledge no hierarchy. As you can see, my priorities are a mess.

Still, if I had to choose between teeth and a Coach purse, I am picking teeth. Thank you, fellow shopper lady, for calling that to my attention. I needed it!

"Technis"

2009-12-12T12:20:00.001-05:00

The other day I received an alarming text from one my kids informing me that technis does not come from rusted nails. Ummm . . . Technis? Really? Well, let me just tell you that I know EXACTLY how one gets "technis". "Technis" can be the unpleasant result of several things. Here are few of the causes:

a) reading a gift wish list from a teen with a plethora of electronic gadgets.
b) looking behind the television and trying to figure out what should be attached to which.
c) watching Ellen's 12 Days of Giveaways . . . just once, even.
d) figuring out the latest update of iTunes.
e) dropping on your foot the file box of index cards listing all your website passwords and usernames.
f) finding the one un-scannable item in the whole store when you're in a hurry.
g) keeping up with the time changes on this household's digital clocks.
h) mistaking "wireless" as "wire-free".
i) texting your children in their rooms when you are only downstairs - repeatedly.
j) calling internet technical support and being expected to know what all those blinking box thingies actually are.
k) being expected to start new collections of movies for every new video viewing method.

and perhaps the most dangerous -
l) not realizing the cute flashing "fishbowl" on the minivan dash is indication that something is wrong with a tire.

As you can see, "technis" is getting more and more difficult to avoid. Unfortunately, it is currently suspected the only cure maybe a lifetime membership to ITT Tech or to keep having children to stay on top of the technology for you.

Be careful out there. "Technis" is everywhere!

Things I Don't Want for Christmas

2009-12-10T14:19:00.002-05:00

In a perfect world I could cross stitch this on a sampler and display in a place where everyone could observe it. As a mother I can only fantasize about being so brash, but if I could I would...

Please, if you love me, don't gift me ....

-Anything that has to be plugged into a four prong outlet.

- Another watch. I've never worn a watch, that's what I use my cell phone for, yet I have, not a watch for every day, but a watch set to every time zone from the Northern Territory of Australia to the East Coast of the United States. Why?

- Anything flannel, footed, drop seated, covered in penguins, owls or sock monkeys, please! I've startled more than a few UPS guys when answering the door in my Christmas jammies from years past. Of course, if they delivered their goods at a decent hour I would be dressed, I swear.

- Anything that must be worn on the head, especially if it jingles, sparkles or lights up.

- Anything with a physical fitness application. Exercise tapes, yoga mats, wii games that make fun of your waistline, I'm on the fence about "lounge wear", they seem a lot like work out clothes to me, so, to be on the safe side, just leave those off your list, if you don't mind.

- Anything I can see myself in that isn't a picture frame or an antique mirror i.e. a toaster, crock pot, bread machine etc. etc. etc. If it's stainless steel and someone has to polish finger prints off of it, really, it's not a gift now is it?

- Another cookbook, it ain't helping.

-A kit of any sort. I still haven't finished the latch hook Santa rug my aunt sent me in 1992. When I finish that one, I still have the mosaic kit, the photo tinting kit, the cross stitch world map, I'm not sure I have enough years left as it is.

With all my love,
Mother

Deck the Halls?

2009-12-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

We deck the Christmas tree and whatever room we're able to fit it in that year. We deck the banisters with garland, we deck the kitchen and even the powder room, and have occasionally decked the dog. Outside we deck the front door and flower garden (dead flowers look so much more festive with wooden snowmen sitting in them) and our neighbors to both sides deck their roofs, yards, walkways, driveways, mailboxes, bushes, trees, dead gardens and doors--we think they might be trying to hail beings from other worlds, but it's not our electric bill so who are we to judge? My daughter has a flair with salt dough and paper chains and many years has the most decked out room in the whole house. But we never deck the Halls, in fact we've always been very fond of the Halls.

Things About Me by Rowena but inspired by Edwina

2009-12-06T15:48:00.000-05:00

1. I'd rather just go ahead and write a check than have to save aluminum lids off the yogurt.

2. I feed the birds.

3. I may be the only person in America (not wearing scrunch socks) who still enjoys cross stitch.

4. My favorite color is green, green, green, or old red, or robin's egg blue or buttery yellow.

5. In my heart I really AM organized.

6. I sing. I sing just about any time, any place, any where.

7. I'm more than slightly germophobic.

8. Heck, I don't mind inventating my own words.

9. Reading is my favorite - books, papers, magazines, poetry, t-shirts, cereal boxes, bumper stickers.

10. I'm addicted to archaeological news. This beats a lot of things to which I could be addicted - like bacon. I am not addicted to bacon.

11. Love me some Facebook, and I wish everything in the world had "LIKE" buttons.

12. The God I've decided on for myself and my family is prettier, nicer, and bigger than most of the other gods about whom I've read.

13. I am not into golf, billiards, bridge, or Dungeons & Dragons. I am not much into games at all.

14. Laughter, in my opinion, should be the point of EVERYTHING.

15. The TV networks wait for me to say I like a show just so they can cancel it, so I will just keep my television viewing preferences to myself, thank you.

16. My hair is WAY weirder than Edwina's.

17. I dream of big savings as I clip coupons which I never, ever, ever use.

18. Math, I think, can take the fun out of a lot of things.

19. I am still friends with my very first non-family friend. We met when we were toddlers.

20. I don't know why I can't live in Stars Hollow.

Things About Me, by Edwina

2009-12-01T13:32:00.000-05:00

1. I believe in God.

2. I keep cookie dough balls in the freezer under the guise of being able to pop just a few out to bake at a time, but really I eat them all raw.

3. I like to be alone.

4. I don't watch much TV because I'd rather read, but I'd rather read with the TV on.

5. My favorite show is the British comedy Keeping Up Appearances, someday I'd like to have the nerve to be Hyacinth Bucket, pronounced bouquet.

6. I still call East Tennessee home, even though I haven't lived there in years.

7. I pick up mannerisms from people I spend time with, sometimes I say or do something and it reminds me of someone I knew long ago.

8. I've been to 49 states, 17 countries and 5 continents, but only learned one language.

9. I still have the first book I ever read Claude the Dog.

10. Someday, I'd like to write a book that someone would want to keep for thirty-five years.

11. I overreact, a lot.

12. I love to cook, but I'm not good at it.

13. I collect Starbucks mugs, but I don't know how to make decent coffee.

14. I'm hopeless with directions, I just wander around until I happen upon what I'm looking for.

15. I have weird hair.

16. My biggest fear is of dying before my kids are grown and on their own.

17. I have Nickelback and Neil Diamond on my ipod.

18. I have a birthday card signed by The Clash.

19. I'm going to Scotland in 2012, God willing.

20. I'm soo team Edward.

Movie Review-- A Mom's Perspective, With Apologies to Rowena on the Subject Matter

2009-11-26T21:38:00.000-05:00

Last Friday, at ten a.m., my daughter and I, and a theater full of other moms and their truant daughters, were witness to the Twilight book two phenomena called New Moon. If you missed it don't despair, because you, too, can see it, read it, listen to it, watch it on You Tube, look at life size posters of it on billboards, buses and tween girl's walls, buy postcards, calendars, action figures or, if you're a pacifist, maybe just ignore it, I think...

If you happen to be one of the seven people who have avoided reading this series, please read on with caution, spoilers may follow and I'd hate to ruin it for you.

New Moon is the story of a cute boy with a British accent that is forced to pretend a nineteenth century American accent and a girl from Arizona called Bella who isn't Italian, so don't bother trotting out your best lasagna recipe if she happens to be coming by for dinner. The first five minutes of the movie are dedicated to looking at Edward, the cute boy with the wasted British accent, it's more of a music video than a movie, so just sit back and try not to giggle or your twelve year old will glare at you. Whoops of "Team Edward!" and catcalls that would make a New York wrecking crew blush might ensue, just tune it out, all will be quiet soon. Then, Edward leaves Bella in a scene that I'm embarrassed to admit made me snuffle just a little, not because the scene was necessarily that emotional for me, but because it reminded me of that chapter in the book, which really made me teary, but I'm a little sappy that way, so you may not be at risk. Enter buff Jacob, "Team Jacob!", catcalls, etc. etc. etc. Bella is very depressed, Jacob is very buff, Bella gets a motorcycle, Jacob loses his shirt. Quiet, no one is allowed to speak while Jacob is shirtless, which is most of the rest of the movie. Jacob becomes a wolf, Bella becomes a daredevil, Edward becomes a lost boy. There are a few scenes that seem to be unintentionally funny, try not to laugh, tweeny glares can be dangerous. Bella jumps off a cliff, Jacob saves her, Alice 'sees' her, Edward thinks she's pulled a Juliet, hence there must be a Romeo. Edward goes to Italy, Bella goes to Italy, Edward loses his shirt, more catcalls (I really did try to control myself). Dakota Fanning is a grown up (when did that happen?), big fight, lots of pasty white guys, American tourists become lunch. And then, we're back where we started, in the woods, and all is well until Eclipse is released. All in all a thumbs up.

A Ferocious Fall Fantasy

2009-11-08T17:15:00.000-05:00

I am lost in a fantasy . . .

and in this fantasy I am disguised as a vengeful forest fairy (you should be thinking of something along the lines of the mean sea-witch in The Little Mermaid with a Smoky the Bear flair). I am howling a savage, haunting war cry while ninja flying through the trees, over the fences, to the neighbor’s yard. Once there I apprehend them by the hoods of their hoodies, and wrench the leaf blower and rakes from their hands. And while they watch in alarm and disbelief, I toss the blower into the fiery leaf inferno they’ve been working on all afternoon. Then I ninja flip my way into the forest behind our homes (to throw them off, of course, as I can’t have these neighbors with matches follow me home!), and let loose a tremendous roar which echoes loudly off the hills. This will cause someone to call 911, and when the authorities arrive they put out the fire and tell those neighbors to never, never burn leaves again. Ahhhhhh!!!!!! What a delightful autumn fantasy - - - BUT one that I shouldn't even have to have.

This isn’t the first time they’ve gone firebug on us. In the fall I can expect at least one smoke-filled, eye-burning, lung-shrinking episode per week. Frankly I am weary of the series and weary of them turning any afternoon into a bronchial spasm marathon.

Put down the matches, Sparky McKindlins! Let me breathe!

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

2009-10-21T03:46:00.000-04:00

I love the holiday season. From Halloween until New Years (or mid-January on occasion) my house will be decorated to suit the season with an embarrassing, and yet impressive, array of festive ornamentation for both indoors and out: jack O' lanterns, tin spiders, fall leaves, tiny bails of hay, Christmas wreathes, garden snowmen, sleigh bells, nutcrackers-the list goes on and on. Normally, I have these treasures of holidays past stashed in every available nook and cranny, filling baskets, buckets and bins--and more than one top closet shelf-- but, in my new home, I am blessed with an L shaped under-the-stairs closet. Square footage wise it's about the size of a small bedroom, but, because of the sloping ceiling and it's funny shape, it presents quite a problem when using it as storage. My husband took one look at it and saw his Mt. Everest. He practiced and planned, put boxes in, took boxes out, finally sorting out just the right sizes and shapes. At the end of the day, the closet was full top to bottom , side to side, front to back, like a gigantic puzzle. It was, and is, a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, somewhere in that perfect stack is my holiday decorations. So, we stand with two choices, sort through all those carefully put away bins until we find the ones marked Christmas, Halloween, and Thanksgiving, or just call the holidays off.

Patti, My Spirit Guide

2009-10-07T19:17:00.000-04:00

I lose things. Car keys, my purse, shoes, recipes, addresses, my train of thought, my car in parking lots and, more often than not, my way. Anyone who knows me would never ask me to drive and if they ask me to meet them somewhere new, will expect me to be late even though I will have left an hour before anyone else. I've spent roughly as much time circling Disney World looking for my hotel as I have wandering through Disney World looking for my family, yet still, if my husband is not along, someone will hand me the map and say "We're following you", crazy people. My kids now quietly roll their eyes and look the other way when I make the same turn three times. I once made plans to meet a friend in a town half way between her house and mine, at a Cracker barrel. We arrived at different Cracker barrels, two miles apart, and waited there patiently for each other for nearly an hour before one of us thought to call and check on the other. Guess who was at the wrong restaurant? And I map quested that one. Recently, my husband bought me a GPS. I call her Patti because she has a tendency to talk just to hear her own voice, like "turn left on Alvarado Blvd... turn left in 800 yards... turn left in 400 yards... turn left in 200 yards... turn left at next intersection..." I get it, turn left! And my kids personal favorites, Patti chastising me when, despite her best instructing, I still miss that left, "Make immediate U-turn!" or "Recalculating, recalculating, recalculating.." You can almost hear her gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes. Still, I love Patti, and eventually, I get where I'm going.

You Can Tell a Mother by the Artwork She Displays

2009-09-26T17:05:00.000-04:00

Mothers display a particular genre of artwork usually referred to as "gifts". The value of this artwork is immeasurable. It's priceless in that it captures a moment in time that will be gone in the next instant, it's a tangible memory. The hands that made it will grow and change but the memories of the child, how they felt and saw the world at that moment, will always ramain. It's why, though you may be forty, your mom still has paper angels on her Christmas tree. The angel may just be a paper plate, awkwardly cut into shapes, stuck together by two and a half bottles of Elmer's and covered in a cup of glitter. But your mom sees chubby little fingers learning to use scissors, your favorite Strawberry Shortcake backpack from which you proudly produced that priceless squished angel on the last day of school before winter break, and the denim jumper she was never able to get entirely glue and glitter free after that day. It's why a crumbling blob of clay, resembling a gargoyle but proclaimed to be "You Mommy!" is still being used as a paper weight on Mommy's desk ten years later. I have one particularly artistic child and one who came home after a two month art camp with four candle holders (I think), painted black, and half a dozen popsicle sticks and a rubber band that he'd made into a slingshot. But, regardless of the skill behind the piece, I value each effort equally. My home is decorated with giraffes painted on printer paper and space ships drawn with pencil, tiny handprints pressed into salt dough and handmade Mother's Day cards. Some people prefer their artwork come from galleries, but I'll take a bookmark that proclaims "Yu'r the bes Mum" or a seven year old's depiction of the civil war, dead stick figure people and all, anyday.

Recently, my daughter has fallen in love with a wonderful shop that showcases pottery pieces of all kinds, just waiting for imaginative young eyes to see the promise in them and save them from a colorless life on a shelf. You pick, you paint, they fire and viola! Priceless, bright and shiny new salt and pepper shakers and seahorse figurines magically appear. My daughter's latest effort involved painting a treat jar for the cats. To the untrained eye, just a cute little canister with a fish on the lid, but my daughter unknowingly turned it into a biology lesson. She painted the lid, under the fish topper, to look like the Monterey Bay that we have come to love, breaking waves and all. The bottom she knew needed animals--- because everything needs animals in her opinion. She painted bugs of all kinds; caterpillars, ladybugs, ants. Pelicans and porcupines are particular favorites of hers, so they had to find a place too and then there was all the leftover space, what to do to fill in all that leftover space? Polliwogs! Polliwogs would would be just the thing, it was hard for me to keep a straight face for the rest of the day. Whenever she asked why I was smiling, I told her honestly that it was because I was having such a fun day with her. If you're laughing right now, you know what a polliwog looks like. If your not, let me enlighten you, a polliwog, or tadpole, is sorta shaped like a fat raindrop with a long squiggly tail, get it now? It's on my bar, I swear, if you'd like to come by and see it. I'm going to keep it there until she realizes... and that will be the end of innocence in my house, I guess. Then she'll make me put it away, but it will only go behind a cupboard door, not any further, because when I see it, I remember a really nice mother and daughter day. I remember having lunch and shopping for a new dress, and I remember how proud she was that she'd painted such a good porcupine, such a lovely sea, and so many beautiful green polliwogs on that cat treat jar. I made her sign and date it before it was fired so she won't be able to disclaim it later in life.

Cheers all,
Edwina

Not Everyone Who is Wandering is Lost

2009-06-22T20:57:00.000-04:00

I saw this today on a bumper sticker in the parking lot of Target (where many words of wisdom reside). That's me...wandering but never lost.

Put That Paint Roller Down and Back Away, or How Nine Rolls of Blue Tape Nearly Ruined My Marriage

2009-04-25T23:29:00.000-04:00

We are moving soon. The packers have come and gone, taking with them all my efforts in organizing, cleaning and labeling, I say good riddance. I don't need half that stuff anyway. But, once the dust had cleared and pizza boxes had been hidden away, the real work began. My husband thought it might be a novel, and yes gallant, move to take a day off work and help me paint, can you hear my TMJ creaking? He started this project, like every project he starts, at seven a.m.-which is silly because nothing opens here until nine- then the by way over shopping; seven hundred feet of black plastic to cover the ten by ten room my daughter calls home, nine rolls of blue painters tape, I'll be using that for Christmas wrapping this year, four cans of paint, and we were set. Let's go. Half the day is gone, so let's get this thing going. The plastic had to be cut down, while my husband spent forty-five minutes looking for his "all-purpose tool" I found mine (a borrowed steak knife) and hacked that baby up. By the time he returned I had it taped down and I was shaking paint. He sighed very loudly and taped it down some more. Then he took the paint I'd been shaking for five minutes, shook it some more and poured the exact correct amount into the paint pan, it takes a practiced eye to perform this maneuver, evidently. He pulled a stool up to a wall, climbed up and proceeded to dictate his orders like a surgeon doing complicated and life saving work, first for tape (you can never use too much tape) then for roller, properly saturated, then for a paint brush for those tight places. Are you getting a migraine too? I was permitted to brush along the bottom and sides, so that he could roller in the middle, I was also given the very important chore of baseboards and window frames. I envisioned tipping him off that stool, rolling him up in that football field of black plastic and using a couple of rolls of nice blue painter's tape to seal him in, for freshness of course. I'd have had to roll him out to the curb, he'd make too much noise to stay in the house, but trash pick-up isn't until Monday, and surely he'd free himself by then. He has had survival training, after all, they had to have covered freeing yourself painting supplies at some point.

This House Is Alive

2009-01-27T16:03:00.000-05:00

I am not a housekeeper. I consider why and come up with interesting excuses. The one that I believe sounds most lofty is that I don’t like to look for faults. Sometimes I pretend that it’s my decorating style aka A Pier 1 Has Exploded In A Big Lots. I have even been known to take on a warrior persona and wage organized combat on the situation with an Easter bucket on my head. Mostly I just give up. I am not particularly lazy, but I have to work to find joy in the constant housekeeping repetition - you have to keep doing things over and over and over. Yeck.

But then I think ..........

This home is full of life. Unlike some families I know who leave their house in the morning returning only for bedtime and a quick snack, we actually live here. It is our home, our school, our restaurant, our concert hall, our laundry mat, our conference room, our hotel, our research center, our jungle gym, our theatre, our mini storage facility, our art studio. And you can tell. It shows.

The spirit is represented in the faces of the people living here. The veins must be the endless webs of cords, connectors, and occupied electrical outlets. There is a well used water elimination system. Teenagers daily take the number of showers to equal their age: if you are 14 you need 14 showers. And don’t forget the laundry. The kitchen is the spine - sensitive, touching, central to it’s stance.

Before I meander into a rant here, let me express a bit of gratitude for this. I am thankful for each of these people that give life to this house, and I am thankful for this house, too. I want to enjoy this time while it lasts ... while everyone is living at home, while there is learning to take part in, while there are scuffles and snuffles and growing young people with appetites to match.

And that just took the wind right out of my rant. I realize I need to love this house like the other living creatures in my life - with caring, nurturing actions. How thought provoking ...

How long will it be, do you reckon, before this house starts taking its own showers?

I am all alone, I am...

2009-01-23T23:05:00.000-05:00

I have the entire house to myself. My husband and son are off to see Valkyrie, which I hear is three hours long, I pray that's true. My daughter is visiting a friend for the day and I even put the cats out. I've locked the doors and drawn the blinds and am not answering the phone, so don't call me. So far I've watched an entire episode of Project Runway, all by myself. No one asked me why that guy has pink pokey hair or what the definition of militia is or where the AAA batteries are. Later I'm going read a book in the bath and leave the door unlocked and, maybe have a glass of wine; well I don't have any wine, but maybe a glass of cherry, berry, apple juice. But first, for lunch, I'm going to eat the entire one pound bar of Cadbury dark chocolate with hazlenut and drink an entire litre of coke. And in three hours, when everyone arrives home, it will be like it all never happened. They really do think I clean while they're away...

L,
Ed

Spring Cleaning

2009-01-21T01:20:00.000-05:00

I do not know what's in that drawer
I never have been there before
And that box underneath my bed
Just knowing it's there fills me with dread
Yesterday, just after noon
I walked into my laundry room
There's cupboards there too high to reach
(Heaven knows what's underneath)
I looked until the stool I found
And gamely climbed up from the ground
I opened up those cabinet doors
Saw things I'd never seen before
Went further still, opened the next
I must admit that I was vexed
Twas obvious that some poor soul
Endeavored faithfully in the role
Of hiding away things we needed no more
Nobody wanted, no one adored
Worked hard to fit into that space
A cartop carrier, a violin case
Six chair covers, four beach towels
Riding gear, gardening trowels
Paint in cotten candy colors
Navy blue and I'm sure there were others
My enthuisiasm for the chore was gone
There was no reason to go on
With heavy heart my eyes did roam
From my perch, around my home
Spring will come again next year
I'll do it then, I will, I swear...

The Chaos Theory

2009-01-13T18:59:00.000-05:00

I thrive on tidy chaos. The illusion of order is very important to me. I'm a habitual list maker, but I usually can't find the lists once they're prepared. I like a good schedule, a well made plan, traditons, and I like to check things off when they're complete, it makes me feel productive. However, I can't cope with uniformity, too many straight lines and polished surfaces give me vertigo and I have to lie down-which involves untucking the bed and then re-making it. I like things to be put away, but if you open a drawer or cupboard in my house you'll find a hodge-podge of items that may or may not be related in any way. I don't really mind the mess, I just don't want to see it. I make my bed every morning, but can't sleep at night until everything is untucked again. I don't iron. If a second run through the dryer doesn't make it presentable, it goes in the donation box, I don't need the aggravation. I dust once a week, on Saturday, unless I have something better to do, then it has to wait until the next Saturday. Saturdays are for cleaning, not Tuesdays and never Fridays, it's been a winning system for many years and is not to be tampered with. I almost always have books, Legos, game pieces, hair bows and/or art supplies scattered around my living room, but if you drop by most Sundays those items will be dust free and maybe even neatly piled on one side of the coffee table. At some point in my old age I expect to be color coordinated, I'll be bric-a-brac free and my kitchen sink will be shiny. My closets will contain only the outfits I can still fit into and will no longer be hiding all the hobbies I don't want. My towels will match my shower curtain and I'll own perfectly matched Yorkie Terriers. There will be a perfect polish on my dining room table and I'll know exactly where my purse is. A life with no clutter, what a sad thing indeed....

Peanut Butter Fudge & The Food Pyramid

2008-12-31T16:03:00.000-05:00

Dear Sir or Madam:
Upon viewing the food pyramid I find no section assigned to Peanut Butter Fudge. I am sure this was an unintentional omission. It is difficult to decide which of the current groups Peanut Butter Fudge might be labeled. Since it contains proteins and healthy legumes one would think to count it among the Meat, Poultry, Fish, Dry Beans, and Nuts group, but I find that section a little too small to encourage the consumption of a healthy amount of Peanut Butter Fudge. Could you please dedicate a level on the food pyramid to Peanut Butter Fudge? A large section toward the wider end if you don't mind. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Rowena

December 26. .. The Peaceful Side of Christmas

2008-12-26T14:21:00.000-05:00

December 26 is my favorite day of the year. Yesterday, Christmas Day, is over. I cooked everything I was supposed to cook. Made everything I was supposed to make. Mailed everything I was supposed to mail. Went every place I was supposed to go. Wrapped everything I was supposed to wrap. Saw everyone I was supposed to see. Opened everything I was supposed to open. And now I have landed, settled to earth like a snowflake from the wind tossed heights of holiday flurries. If Townsend, TN is the "Peaceful Side of the Smokies" then December 26 is definitely the peaceful side of Christmas. It is a lovely continuation of the holidays, a tradition worth keeping: a day of peace. And while I hope Christmas was wonderful, I wish you all a beautiful, peaceful December 26. I am certain you earned it.

Sacrificial Self-Preservation

2008-11-30T17:52:00.000-05:00

I often describe myself as a stay-at-home, on-the-go homeschooling mom to three pretty terrific kids. This is our ninth year homeschooling. When acquaintances profess that they are impressed with this, I always warn them that there is nothing remotely impressive about it. I do it for self-preservation.

We almost joined a co-op at the beginning of this school year. It sounded so promising ... art classes, English classes, plays. Plus I really like the other moms and know many of the kids. Then they wanted me to teach a class. Fine. I could do that. But it didn’t stop there ... suddenly there were mom meetings, family meetings, cookouts, field trips, teacher meetings. Someone signed me up for the annual staff associative co-administrative ambassador coordinator wizard. (Yes, I warned them that I knew nothin' about birthin’ no darn annuals.) And then told me that in addition to this I would have to take part in fund raisers and volunteer as class “helper” for another class. There were even whispers of mandatory things. Mandatory?

Uhhhhhh, no thanks. I grabbed the oars and paddled our homeschool fannies right out of that little lagoon! I would've had to sacrifice my favorite homeschool value of simplicity to take part in that co-op.

Recently I was asked by another homeschool mom if I took part in many of the activities with the groups in this area. I answered honestly, "No. The main reason I homeschool is so I don't have to do stuff like that ... " She was relieved since she rather thought the same thing, and you can imagine that this was a big relief to me.

I have been through years in public schools, and while I am definitely not one of those homeschool nazi moms who thinks everyone should homeschool or that public schools are bad, I have experienced that run-ragged-ness brought on by parent groups and fund raisers and Fall Festivals, Winter Festivals, Spring Flings, dances, standardized tests, Field Days, teacher appreciation luncheons, etc. One year, I cried for a week after school was out because I was worn out ... and just think about my kids! And in the area I live in each of my kids would be in separate schools. So, I’d have to multiply the above list by three!

Nothing is simple in this world. I realize that. But shouldn’t it be? I admit that I homeschool for the simplicity of it. There is nothing heroic about it. It’s just plain old self-preservation.

Is there something wrong with me?

Thanksgiving Magic

2008-11-28T01:47:00.000-05:00

The magic of Thanksgiving is an enigma even more mysterious than Santa, the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny. Most will blissfully wander through their entire lives in the dark, never giving thought to the who or the why of it, comfortable in the knowledge that it is dependable and everlasting. If you live to be one hundred, it will appear one hundred times. Oh, but for a privileged few of us, the brave and the strong, the magic is unveiled. If your reading this, you are probably one of the select. And you know, like I know...That at four o'clock on the fourth Thursday of November, after the parades and football games, after your friends and relatives have arrived, after a couple of glasses of wine, when the "others" wander into the dining room and settle in front of their plates... We know, that those seventeen dishes of scrumptious Thanksgiving fare, four desserts and homemade cornucopia didn't just appear out of thin air.

Day Nine...

2008-11-25T16:46:00.000-05:00

Delirium has set in. My husband has lost fourteen pounds, my kid's cheeks are looking hollow, but pioneer stock will tell and I was built for harsh winters. On these, the days leading to our celebration of Thanksgiving, I feel certain that, had I been around, I would have been at that first feast. Long, disease filled ocean crossings, unforgiving seasons and lack of food would not have done me in. I'm like those little frogs that can hibernate for years until the rains come again, then spring to life, hardy and robust.

My husband has hid the scale, he says I don't need it that I look like the day he married me. He's lying because he wants toast with his butter for breakfast tomorrow. It won't work.

Day Three...

2008-11-19T20:43:00.000-05:00

Day three of my low carb diet

I've lost my will to live. My "all the bacon and eggs you can eat" high is gone. My house is bereft of sugar, flour, pasta, rice, and potatoes. Freezer burned won-ton wrappers are starting to look yummy to me. I've been straining my brain trying to figure out how to make chocolate out of Splenda and pork rinds (please forward your recipes). My kids have taken to eating their PB&J in their rooms out of fear. But I did have a break through today- I was able to get my wedding rings on...

The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

2008-09-19T03:31:00.000-04:00

You never know when it might happen. You just wake up one morning, you have breakfast, you get dressed, you plan to go about your day. But, you know today is special, different somehow, you can feel it in the air. You drive into town, it's better today, the air smells fresh, a south wind has blown in during the night sending all the dust and VB boxes toward Adelaide, the sun is shining, your coffee is a double mocha with no calories. Your hair is perfect, your new Capri's take ten pounds off and your husband has the day off from work so you don't even have any kids tagging along. You put on make-up, today is a big day after all, and meet your friends. Then, at exactly 8:00 am NT time (8:15 for everyone else) it happens...Your very first Target opens.

<--this is the the line to get in.

This is some crazy lady who wouldn't get out of the

picture.-->

We're still waiting on the Cinnabon and the Starbucks, but Target, well Target is a great start. Way to go Alice!

Nancy Drew, Shame On You ...

2008-08-21T10:16:00.000-04:00

I decided to read the kids a Nancy Drew book. I grabbed my copy of The Mystery At Lilac Inn off the bookshelf. It is imprinted with a copyright from 1930, so it is one of the originals it would seem. A few pages into it, my son announced that he knew what would happen next - the dinosaurs would go extinct. I think it was the way the characters "alighted" from "roadsters" on their way to "luncheons" that gave him the impression that the book was a bit antiquated. It wasn't long after that I read my way into some alarmingly racist references. I was appalled, stared at the page for a moment, and then slammed the book back on the shelf announcing that we would find something else to read that was less offensive. The kids alternately stared at me, each other, and their own eyebrows even as they sported "Elvis lips". My son said, "Sure." And he scrambled away from the table to grab a basketball and head outside.

Augh! I had saved these books from my childhood to share with my own daughter. The more I thought about it the more bothered I became, so I did a little Nancy Drew Racism Googling. I found this:

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1999/10/07/nancydrew/

As the mother of rather colorful children with skin of various shades of browns I guess I might be more sensitive than most, and oddly when I read the books myself as a child I never noticed these offenses. Either I sped-read my way over them or was so caught up in the mystery that I missed them. Maybe in the innocence of childhood I just didn't "get it". My older eyes, my older heart, my mothering mind caught them, and I am saddened.

Sigh.

This isn't the first classic that has gone unfinished in my house. Some I have read and tried to leave out the offensive parts with intolerant references to skin colors and ethnicities. That is a difficult way to read a book aloud. I have heard that Nancy's books have been revised to modernize her haughty ways, but I'm afraid to try them. If any of you have read updated Nancy Drew mysteries please let me know your impressions.

Aloha My Friend!!!

2008-07-27T07:52:00.000-04:00

Is Hawaii treating you well, I've been so worried? Your not bored? Not homesick? Not overbaked? Let me catch you up: Wednesday---Nothing; Thursday-Tripoley at Bibian's, I didn't loose every ten cent piece I took and someone made lemon squares; Friday---Nothing; Saturday-Farah's home--yeah! She brought Krispy Kremes; Sunday---Nothing. There you go, all caught up.

If you feel like sending gifts, Farah needs a new thong bikini and I need a Muumuu to wear to the LMNOP Ball next month, something in black, I think, because black is so slimming, maybe with a splash of color so I don't blend into the background. A lovely flamingo pattern might look flash, or maybe some colorful fish, I'll trust your judgement.

We miss you, keep in touch.

L,
E

So Much Shame....

2008-07-22T06:43:00.000-04:00

For any of my Australian friends who had the misfortune of witnessing that train wreck on channel 108 last night called America's Next Top Model, please believe me when I say....I AM A CANADIAN. I invoke my rights as a conscientious objector to ALL American reality TV and hereby claim my oak leaf. I denounce all ownership to Jerry, Oprah, Rachael, Judge Judy, the Kardashians, Hugh and the girls, and the entire cast and crew of The Simple Life, gag. For all my American friends, there's plenty of room here on higher ground, I'm saving you all a place. Join me! Don't dither! Run! Run I say!

E

My Mind Warped History & Rethinking things

2008-07-05T11:27:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was Independence Day in the ol’USA. Some refer to it as the birthday of America which is misleading as there was a long labor that lasted something like eight years (1775-1783) before the delivery of America. July 4th is really just the date that fifty-six men signed America’s birth certificate ... one of the most monumental work of words ever written: The Declaration of Independence. Except that didn’t really happen as most of the men actually signed the thing in August and had declared the intent to be independent on July 2.

Are you confused yet? Just think of it as the way it usually goes with a pregnancy or meal planning - some folks like to define their participation by being present at the Big Bang conception (“Hey, let’s dine on something light yet fruity” or “There you go, I did my part so proceedeth hasty like and birth me a young’un!”) and the receiving end of the labor and delivery line (“Boy, that was some fine pear tart I just ate!” or “Look, I have a kid!”)... everything else ” (like pregnancy, war, grocery shopping, making crusts) is of minor importance.

Thomas Jefferson drew this beautiful document up, I believed, with great wisdom, ink made of elderberry juice, and a pointy bird feather on a fat piece of unlined parchment in the comfort of his study at Monticello on a sunny afternoon as he smiled upon his children playing Marco Polo upon the green lawn just outside the window near his desk. Sigh. But it doesn’t look like it happened that way. For one reason Jefferson’s children at the time were still in diapers. He also undoubtedly had access to India ink which was really invented by the Chinese, but let's don't get started on that. I read that someone's clerk probably was responsible for the actual handwriting of the Declaration version we are familiar with ... the version that wasn’t even ordered by congress until July 19, 1776. I was more than a little miffed at this revelation.

Which brings me to the real point I was working toward. Come Monday, I was just fixing to use this as a homeschooling force:

“Look, you capable yet somewhat slacker children who would like to take 13 days to write simple essays, this Jefferson fellow whipped this up in one sitting without college-ruled notebook paper or an eraser! And would you look at that fine penmanship?” (Notice I wasn’t bringing up the oddly capitalized words).

And now, realizing that I had absorbed most of my history knowledge during the highly romanticized U.S. Bicentennial Era of my childhood and not during the great opportunity of having a bonafide historian as a high school history instructor, I will have to rethink my uplifting speech to include some actual truths. Hopefully I will come up with something as inspiring that will spare my children from wondering 30 some years later how they had gotten everything so wrong ... like me. Hey, even if Jefferson didn't handwrite that courageous document up so lovely like -someone DID - right? And Jefferson was the mastermind - right? You might want to wish me luck : )

-Ate Words I Hate

2008-07-01T10:58:00.000-04:00

I find certain word families offensive, is that allowed? It's probably not politically correct, holding an entire word family responsible for a few bad apples, but, much like the "Cooking Code Words" of my friend, certain word families make me cringe. The -ate words come to mind first.

Aggravate-What one child does to another forcing the parent into time-outs. At one minute per year of age, I'm now up to a pretty refreshing nap now.

Dominate-Let's not.

Assimilate-Okay, this one reminds me of Star Trek-the Next Generation episodes with those people from Hell Raisers in them.

Penetrate-Self explanatory and the real reason I'll never write a romance novel.

Imitate-No good has ever come from this.

Irrigate-In my experience, always involves wounds, iodine and my cat Ginger after a night out.

Elevate-At least it's not broken...

Castigate-Even sounds painful.

Delegate-To keep passing all the yucky work off until it gets to the person at the end of the line, that would be me.

Obligate-Involves a marker that may be called in at anytime, usually procured when someone has your kids for a sleepover. Two sleepovers without a return invite will result in a state of '"obligation" which is to be avoided at all costs.

Irritate-See aggravate.

Mediate-A Skill forced on parents while driving 70 mph down the highway.

Emulate-See imitate.

Estimate-Okay, maybe I'll let this one pass. After all, it does allow you to put your "ideal" weight on your DL without technically committing fraud.

L,
Edwi

The Trouble With Chickens...

2008-06-25T02:58:00.000-04:00

It all started out as just good fun, doesn't it always, but Rhett had to take it too far. Tuesday was nice, coffee with the girls. Then he did a little shopping.

Saturday we attended a BBQ for some lovely people new to our community. Later that night Rhett and his friend Pia were thrown out of Bojangles for laughing at the band.

I begged him to save his money, but once he'd emptied his bank account he headed straight for the casino. Our friend Bibian went along to keep him out of trouble, I see now I should have also sent someone to keep Bibi out of trouble. Bibi did, however,snap some lovely pictures of him being thrown out of the casino by security...

Like many other chooks gone wild, Rhett ended up in the river, that's the third time this week. Rhett's grounded now, so tonight he'll be going to bed early-- under a Texas star.

Working Title: Her Shiny Knight

2008-06-24T21:12:00.000-04:00

Chapter One

"AAAhhhh" Gilli-Anna screamed for the fiftieth time. She'd been riding her father's destrier in a circle around the castle since she'd broken her fast that morning. Would her father's no brain knights ever discover her missing and come to her rescue? What did a fair maiden have to do these days to find herself a hunka-hunka burnin' love? Thunderhoof, her father's horse, was definitely getting as bored as she and had for the last ten minutes been rambling ever so slyly toward the copse of trees at the edge of the forest. If I can make it to that deciduous I'll use that low hanging limb to knock the crazy lassie off and be home in time for tea, Thunderhoof thought to himself, edging ever closer to freedom.

The Silver Wolf, as he was called by his enemies and more than a few of the ladies about the kingdom because of his mane of auburn waves that never seemed to stay in the perfect feather he worked so hard on each morning and the sterling silver armour he wore that took an army of squires to keep polished to perfection, was charging toward victory in his quest to oust the evil Sir Gruntel from his family home. Sir Gruntel had waited until The Wolf had left to do his part in the Crusades and had seized the opportunity to move onto the lands he had coveted since childhood. Wolf's castle boasted the tallest towers and the deepest dungeons of any in the North , a thing a man could be proud of for sure. He'd feared something like this might happen and had been careful to leave his keys with his most trusted friend, Friar Dan, but he must have left a window open or something. Ugh, he'd wracked his brain and couldn't figure out which one, oh well, it was done now and there was nothing for it but to undo it. In his fury to get home he'd almost missed the blushing maiden being rubbed off her destrier by one of his fine pine trees. He stopped a little sharp and several of his knights in tow had flown off their horses and into the meadow, squires came running from all directions to re-perch their masters onto their war beasts before the dampness of the morning dew on the lavender fields started to rust their chain mail.

Gilli-Anna lay sprawled in a perfect X on the edge of the tree line. Had her skirts not been over her head she would have noticed the audience she had attracted. After several long moments, she caught her breath and sat up thinking to give Thunderhoof the dressing down of his life, "Thunderhoof! You no good..." Thunderhoof was sprinting towards the keep at that moment and Gilli-Anna looked across his departing flanks and into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Had she not then been temporarily blinded by the mid morning sun reflecting off his overly polished armour, it would have been love at first sight...

Outback Dictionary

2008-06-24T02:03:00.000-04:00

Snag-A food substance with the appearance of a breakfast link sausage, the size of a hotdog and the taste of absolutely nothing. Usually found wrapped in white bread and drowned in tomato sauce.

Damper-Food prepared and consumed in the outback. Usually involves kangaroo steaks and beer.

Trolley-A grocery cart with four wheels that turn 360 degrees in both directions. Widely believed to be used only in stores that Americans frequent for the entertainment of the locals.

Yank-Any American.

Dunny-Loo

Beanie-Knitted winter cap possibly resembling a bird house, a valcano or a potted plant. Usually hand-made in the desert and sold at a festival.

Jumper-Sweater or sweatshirt

Scone-Biscuit

Biscuit-Cookie

Fringe- Bangs

Morning Tea-Mid-day snack

Afternoon Tea-Early dinner

Chook-Chicken

Serviette-Napkin

Bobs your uncle-Whatever you want

How long is a piece of string?-How should I know?

Good on ya!-Aren't you clever

Fair dinkum-Pretty good

Grog-Beeya (or Beer)

'Heaps' good-Very satisfactory

Trod-You stepped on it

Verge-Curb

Garbo-Garbage guy

Rego-The seven thousand million dollars a year you must pay for the priviledge of driving. You get a stylish red sticker in exchange for your childs college fund.

NT time-Not Today, Not Tomorrow, Not on Tuesdays, Not on Thursdays

to be continued....

Working Title: Hey Baby What's Shaking

2008-06-23T18:56:00.000-04:00

I've decided to write my own novel. I've read a few, so how hard can it be? Titling, I think, will be the hardest part, they're always so clever aren't they? Maybe Ro can help me with that one, in the meantime we're going to call it Hey Baby, What's Shaking?

Chapter One

Aaahhh, Delphina sighed as she waved at the car pulling away from the curb. The last one out of the nest, time for me, finally. Delphina had been happy to put her life on hold for the last thirty-four years to raise her seven brothers and sister after her parents had been so tragically cut down in their prime in an ugly skiing accident on Lake Okeechobee in the summer of '74. She herself had been only two at the time but someone had to take charge and keep the family together, and that someone had been her. Now with little Willie finally off the study the mating habits of the African Dung Beetle, Delphina could really start her life. First things first, she had to find a man and get rid of that pesky maidenhead that's been bothering her so much lately. Now, where to look?

Fabian was bored with life as a multi-billionaire sexy playboy professional athlete celebrity. He'd driven the fastest cars and even faster women and was tired of seeing his face, along with the latest super model de jour, on the cover of The Twiddler, the infamous celebrity rag. His father had just that morning threatened to cut him off without a penny if he didn't settle down and start producing heirs this very minute. Darn, Why didn't he finish that degree in wildlife management while he'd had the chance? Eight years at Oxford and another four at Harvard and nothing to show for it but a few varsity jackets and a hat with a propeller on it. He needed a wife and fast. Now where to find one?

Just then, as Fabian screeched his hundred thousand dollar Italian sports car around the corner on two wheels, Delphina was stepping off the curb...It was kismet.

To be continued...

What Do They Know?

2008-06-21T01:58:00.000-04:00

I'm very disturbed by all the junk email I receive each day. I'm even more disturbed by the things these people think I need. The Pottery Barn has been trying to sell me new patio furniture--for the beach house I don't yet have, no less--for months now. How do they know that my current patio furniture is faded and used and in dire need of tossing to the curb? And really, how many secrets does Victoria think I need? Does she have superpowers that tell her when someone's unmentionables drawer has become unusually light due to wear and tear? I can't begin to imagine where on earth the Gap got the idea that I could possibly ever need a pair of ultra low-rise gauchos. I remember when acceptable rise gauchos were in style and I'm pretty sure the accessories to those, white leather roller skates with multiple pom-pons in a rainbow of colors and Dr. Pepper lip gloss, are hard to come by these days. I would never be caught dead in a pair of gauchos without the proper accessories. I'm really sorry to tell The Little Red School House, because I think that's such a cute name, that even at 65% off I could never get my kids Hooked on Phonics, but thanks for asking, again. Crate and Barrel, I love ya, but the last thing you mailed to me came in such an unreasonably sized box that Australia could not believe it was just eight iced tea glasses and held it in customs, presumably in a bomb proof room, until I'd forgotten I'd ordered it. It was quite a nice surprise when I did get it but six months is a long time to wait for a glass of tea. PB Teens recently took over for PB Kids as my top offender, I find this disturbing on so many levels because my kids just had a birthday, how did they know we had moved on from butterfly canopies to furry ipod docks? Scary, right? And to Spiro or Juan or Caesar or Donald, no I don't now nor will I ever need Viagra for one dollar, you must be nuts. Where do these people get their information?

That's Right Scarlet, I Have The Rooster....

2008-06-17T05:29:00.000-04:00

To whom it may concern,

When people go on extended vacations to foreign lands (Texas) where they will be eating exotic foods (Chili Cheese fries), staying in fashionable locations (Fun Valley) and shopping at exclusive stores (Target) they really should be careful who they leave their keys with.

That's right chick, I have the rooster and I'm sending him on parade. If you want him back sober and single you'll leave a bag of Peppermint Patties in a location to be disclosed at a later time. Don't disappoint me.

Oh, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day after all...

2008-06-17T00:29:00.000-04:00

I'm a very busy woman. I have things to do. I have children to educate, laundry to fold, dinners to plan. I have an AWOL garden man I may have to hunt down with my superpowers and force to mow my yard. I have exercise tapes to avoid and years of reading I'm behind on. I haven't called my mother this week. I've forgotten where I left my fuzzy slippers so I'm wearing socks and that throws off my chi. But right now I can't think about all that because I have to go to my friends house and "borrow" her chicken...

The Happy Stacker?

2008-06-12T14:07:00.000-04:00

My name is Rowena, and I am a stacker.

I have stacks of everything from mail to plates to picture frames to a patrillion and twelve issues of National Geographic and Oprah's magazine (I am a subscriber of neither).

I am on my 572nd homeschool organizational plan, and once again I am relying heavily on stacks. Now I like organization - no, change that: I love organization. There should be a place for everything. Is it ok if that place is a stack?

Stacking is hereditary. I am not sure if it is a dominate trait, but I know it can be a learned trait as well. My mom was a terrific stacker. It seems I either learned or inherited from one of the best. Some people only have the piling gene. Piling isn't nearly as organized, and it distresses me.

Please do not confuse stacking with piling. Piling is a weak and dangerous form of stacking. It seems to be two of my children's preferred method of storing stuff. My daughter's room is currently edged with piles (must keep the dance floor clear!). My second son's piles are practically volcanic. They flow, spew, and erupt. My eldest son, bless him, has some fine stacking skills in development, so it appears that the stacks will keep coming.

The Happy Stacker Poem.

I am a happy stacker. I happily stack, stack, stack
And if my stack should come unstacked, I happily stack it back.

I am such a happy stacker that I have learned to stack
A stack that stacks up four feet high - No stacking skills I lack!

I'm a happy stacker and I stack stacks everywhere
At any place in my house a stack is all stacked there.

I'm a stacker collector. I appreciate a good stack.
If I get tired of seeing a certain stack I upend it in a sack.

Whenever I have to move it will be a cinch to pack-
Just open up a box lid and stack and stack and stack..

I have tried other methods like file and tote and rack
But this happy stacker always returns to the stack.

happy stacking to you all!
Rowena

My Current Situation...

2008-06-10T22:51:00.000-04:00

Dear Sirs,

I am applying for the job of Queen of the Universe. I understand that the position is open while the current Queen is heavily drugged following a difficult childbirth and the pursuant toddler years. My current situation, though rewarding, does not bestow upon me the proper amount of respect or, in my opinion, reverence.

First, I am a three Michelin star chef capable of taking on Gordon Ramsey and boys who can puke up anything too salty, too spicy or too mushy. I earned my stars while in Australia where my steering wheel was on the wrong side to go through the drive-thru at McDonald's.

I have a PhD in girl psychology and boy/husband psychotherapy. I can interpret the multiple meanings behind door slamming, humphing, pouting and cuddling and react with the appropriate amount of eye rolling, deep breathing or hugs and kisses. I can look a grown man in the eye and tell him that he is absolutely right there is no reason why, after eighteen years of marriage, he should know where we keep the sheets. I can also assure him he's not going senile, he never knew.

I am an Olympic qualified rock climber, long distance swimmer and I can drive a grocery cart with wheels that go in four different directions.

I can parallel park a SUV in a motorcycle parking space in a ten minute zone and buy groceries, pick up a package at the Post, run by the chemist for an eight dollar box of Epsom salts and return in time.

I have lived through a nine year old learning the violin.

I have pants in four different sizes in my closet.

I know the location of all five elevators in Alice Springs, Australia.

I can design award winning evening wear for Beanie Babies.

I have trekked through jungles, pilgrimaged across deserts, climbed mountains, white watered rafted, and been to the world's largest mall.

I once went back in time where I became the muse for travelling bards who wrote prose to my beauty and grace and my wispy waist.

I have coffee every Tuesday with an interesting assortment of ladies from four different countries that also have nothing else to do on Tuesday.

I will require a one month paid vacation in September 2012 and nights, weekends, holiday (both American and Australian) and Tuesday mornings off with pay.

Thank you for your consideration, I can be reached at the Yeperenye Shopping Center each Tuesday from 8:15 until 10:00.

Kind Regards,
Edwina Honoria Eloisa Daphne Hyacinth Featherbottom-Smythe

I Should Have Been Born in..

2008-06-07T06:16:00.000-04:00

Do you ever wonder what time period you should have been born in? I mean, we all might of been better off in the Rubenesque Period when women were adored for their curves but strictly speaking I've never been that fond of laying around naked on a chaise. The Regency Period may have been interesting, women were getting a little more independent, but then there was all that frocking going on. One frock for morning, another frock for luncheon, a different frock for walking than riding through the park sidesaddle, a 'gentlemen might be calling' frock, a frock for night time entertaining, fancy ball frocks, meeting the king frocks, ugh, too many frocks, and whale bone stays, and chemises and pantaloons-or worse, no pantaloons. Let's think on that one. The Medieval Period could have been nice, you probably only owned one frock, but you had to drink beer or wine at every meal. I don't think there was a choice between red or white and I'm pretty sure all the beer was domestic. And you never knew when a bard might show up and hang around for a season, then share all your business around the kingdom in the form of poetry or song. Had I been born in that time I've no doubt I would have been the person to invent the chamber pot because I won't even walk the fifteen feet to my mailbox in the rain, I'm sure not hauling my fanny to the outhouse, down stone cold steps, over the moat and around the dog pens in the snow. I live in the outback and I'll admit to piddling behind a rock or two but I draw the line at visiting any port-a-loos. Unless, of course, I would have been the person in charge of emptying the chamber pots, then I might have to rethink that. There's always those crazy Romans, conquering the world, could've lived just about anywhere you fancied and they were clean at least. Might have found yourself the prize of one of those big strapping gladiators, it has some appeal and togas could hide a multitude of sins if you had been overly fond of the baklava, but well, the Roman Empire, we all know how that ends. Maybe the 1950's were the way to go. After the invention of the Hoover but before the Internet. You could have worn pearls and high heels while you baked after-school cookies. Just enough technology to make your life easy but not so much your kids had one up on you. Oh, they all have their appeal, which would you choose?

L,
Ed

Tripoley and Covered Dishes

2008-06-05T21:52:00.000-04:00

One Thursday each month I get together with a group of ladies and play a game called Tripoley. This game consists of cards and dimes (or their equivalent in your current situation--right now we're using ten cent pieces) and is a combination of poker and maybe rummy? Anyway, you win by drawing certain cards and getting the opportunity to play them. I never win. If I take three dollars I come home with nothing, if I take a hundred dollars, I come home with nothing. The rest of the ladies show up with jars of coins from previous games, mine comes in the plastic baggies the banks here give you with your coin order. When you run out of money you should quit the game but my particular case is so pitiful that other people donate money to me. Last night I lost all of my money and then all the pity money I received. I really only go for the buffet and it's a good thing.

L,
E

Lord Trout, The First Lady, The Fish Club, And Miracles

2008-06-04T09:53:00.000-04:00

My husband, Lord Trout, is currently the president of a local chapter of Trout Unlimited. This TU chapter is a fine organization dedicated to conservation, preservation, and restoration of trout streams in the area. Still I irreverently refer to it as The Fish Club. His presidency, however, makes me a First Lady ... The First Lady of Trout, I suppose.

Being the First Lady means a couple of things:

1) I am privileged to have a scepter fashioned from a fly rod standing watch in a bedroom corner

2) I am witness to Trout Miracles.

Now, a Trout Miracle can take many forms with the most common form being Lord Trout's ability to get off work on time just about any time a meeting of The Fish Club is taking place. I never cease to be amazed at this phenomenon, and I am astounded each time he squeaks in before dark to gather presidential supplies and head to a town 20-30 minuted away to preside over a gathering of fellow fisherpeople. Lord Trout rarely makes it home from work in time for a decent supper or to watch his beloved nerd news shows, so you can see just what a miracle it is that he can accomplish the aforementioned feat.

Another thing I've noticed is the assumption on the part of others that I share Lord Trout's love of fish tricking ways. Ironically, considering I am the First Lady and all and mothering a new generation of fishermen, I have absolutely no desire to catch fish. Fly fishing is an art form of sorts developed to trick fish into biting fake bugs. Somehow I consider myself above that. I could change my mind if my family is ever starving and in need of trout flesh nourishment, but as long as I am married to a guy who thinks this is fun, why bother? Right? And as long as there are unread books, songs to sing, cross stitch patterns to bring home and never use, toenails to paint, and shopping to perform, I cannot imagine spending a whole day in the pursuit of tricking fish. But, Lord Trout, more power to ya, Honey!

d

Cooking Code Words

2008-05-31T18:16:00.000-04:00

Having only recently discovered the joys of watching all the terrific cooking shows on television, I had to figure out a way to quickly identify recipes that would not work for me. So I came up with a short list of warning ingredients. I call them code words. At the mention of any of these words I can quickly recognize that chances are good that I will never be preparing a specific recipe.

Capers: Ewww. Pity the poor, hungry soul who once became brave enough to pickle and eat this.... this ... whatever it is. And more pity to the person who figured out that it was the perfect compliment to smashed up goose liver.

Anchovies: Admittedly, I do not believe I have ever tried one. I have smelled them, however, and I am relatively certain that there will not be an attempt to use them in any recipe in my kitchen. Why use a little, dead, stinky fish when you could use, say, oh, some moldy play dough instead?

Rack of Ribs: Exactly whose ribs are we talking about here? Cow? Pig? Goat? Iguana? Hippo? Can’t imagine there is really a lot of good eatin’ in a rack of ribs.

Zest: Come on, people. If Mother Nature had intended for us to eat bitter scrapings of orange skin she wouldn’t have given us thumbs to help peel all that stuff off our oranges. Right? Notice it is also the name of a deodorant soap.

Pork Loin: Loin is a turn off word. I think the word loin is used in the Bible in connection with other words like “girdeth” and “thy”. Anyone in this house looking for loin will have to go somewhere else.

Mint: Mint is for chewing gum and mouthwash. I will use mint if I am making chewing gum or mouthwash.

Fresh Basil: I have yet to meet anyone in real life who has eaten fresh basil. It is a lovely green, however, so I may employ it after living proof that it can be tolerated. If you eat anchovies please do not send your fresh basil testimonial. You obviously cannot be trusted.

Clove(s) of Garlic: Have you all never smelled yourselves after you’ve eaten that stuff? Have you ever smelled anyone else after they have eaten that stuff? For the sake of the world, I beg you, nix any recipe requiring more than a benign sprinkle of garlic in it's weakest form.

Gorgonzola: Is that a carnival ride? I do occasionally enjoy some nice bleu cheese. Can’t you just call it bleu cheese?

Mussels: I think they could possibly be endangered here in the foothills of the Smokies. One might go to prison or be threatened with hefty fines for eating an endangered species. Plus they don’t actually look like food. They look like a cross between Pinocchio’s shoes and The Little Mermaid’s bra.

Pine nuts: Not totally sure what these are, but it seems to me that we should leave them to the squirrels. Maybe then the squirrels will stay out of our bird feeders. Sounds like a decent enough trade to me.

Leg of Lamb: Correct me if I am wrong here, but don’t lambs need their legs? I have to wonder how they might caper about the meadows without their legs ...? Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t we let them keep their legs and let them get all wooly, shave them, and make ourselves some socks?!

Sherry: I went to high school with her. She was weird.

This list will expand as my cooking channel viewing progresses. I do hope that my comments and observations will also help you.

"Well,that's what you look like."

2008-05-30T09:55:00.000-04:00

Down the hallway, in the living room, on walls, under glass, live my childhood and that of my siblings. Horrible gap toothed grins, home hair cuts, and scraped noses and chins tell the sad and humiliating story. I block it out for most of the year but at some point, we all must go home and there they are. A chronological exhibit of bad fashion, big hair and periwinkle eye shadow, thirteen years of abuse of the most heinous kind, the school picture. On display are bell bottomed polyester pant suits, yellow hush puppy sweaters, yoked jeans, school band uniforms, curly bobs, electric blue mascara, turned-up collars, t-shirts over oxfords, pin stripes and Member's Only jackets. Why? Why? I ask myself. Because parents only see the best in their children? Because no matter how ridiculously high your bangs are or how much blusher you've caked on your cheeks, they are proud? A sign of the unconditional love of a parent for their child. I smile. "Mom, why do you still keep all these horrid pictures up after all these years?" Mom just looks around, "Well," She says "I'm sorry, but that's what you looked like."

I'm not proud of it but there it is...

2008-05-27T19:54:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make. I read romance novels. There I said it. Before now, I have been forced by societal prejudices to hide this flaw in my character, however the new me is at peace with herself. Dimpled thighs, purse fetish, romance novels, that's who I am. None the less, I don't openly acknowledge my reading habits. I like to read in bed at night, tucked away from prying eyes. In public, I have a lovely grape colored paperback cover up- it's like a bathrobe for your book. It was sent to me by a good friend, and fellow fallen woman (we'll call her Lou Anne) to dress my novels in. From a distance I could be reading War and Peace or the manual to my camcorder, no one knows. My new favorite format is ebook. I can store hundreds of heaving bosom novels on my palm pilot and read away in movie theatres, on airplanes, even at boring dinner events. I keep a copy of The Kite Runner on my palm pilot turned to page 72 so that I can flip to it when people feel the need to read over my shoulder (how very rude,) I've never read The Kite Runner (well except page 72) but I hear it's a good book and I'll get to it when they stop publishing romance novels . There are many reasons why I choose romance to read in my "off" time. One, the all important happy ending. It's a forgone conclusion in romance novels that the hero and heroine will fall in love, live to a ripe old age, have many children (all of whom behave admirably and marry well) and die in each others arms. Two, I home school my children and I must offset Genghis Khan and the Mongol horde and long division with something. Three, I never have to wait my turn. No one else in my family is ever reading a Julie Garwood when I want it. Four, it makes my husband, who has never missed an episode of Stargate and named one of our children after a Star Trek the Next Generation actress, feel very superior. He asks for so little, I let him have that. And last, and most important, have you looked at some of those covers? Not the ones with half dressed Earls and blushing maids with petticoats askew, but the ones with bulging muscles and naked male chests?

Now, I used to be a romance snob, only historical novels were good enough for me. Contemporary, blech, how very common. Paranormal, palease, that was for those who couldn't commit.I mean, is it romance or sci-fi? And as we all know, it is entirely within the realm of possibility that someone might get thrown back to 1200 A.D. Scotland and find the man of her dreams whereas shape shifters, ghosts and vampires are just plain silly. Oh, how wrong I was. Did you know that highlanders sometimes get catapulted into the future and are possessed by demons and all they need, bless their hearts, is the love of a good woman to turn their lives around and save the world to boot? And my new secret joy? J.R. Ward's the Black Dagger Brotherhood, contemporary, paranormal, and great covers. I've got the next installment on pre-order. I've even been known to pick up a series romance because of the man chest on the cover. Okay, maybe I wouldn't "pick it up" but I've ordered more than a few from Amazon I tell you. My mother would probably deny it to her grave but she also reads romance novels. Maybe it runs in the genes.

Ten Signs You've Been in the Outback Too Long

2008-05-22T02:09:00.000-04:00

1) You own more than three green Woolies shopping bags and you've used them at one time or another as a picnic basket, carry-on luggage and/or a purse.

2) You know what a snag is and you'll eat it in a pinch.

3) You've taken a Kangaroo and Damper cooking class.

4) You know someone who knows someone who saw their FIRST alien here.

5) You now drive on the left even when your the only person on the road.

6) You've gone shopping in your bedroom slippers and not been bothered.

7) You've had to wait for a camel to vacate the roadway.

8) You've recently been on holiday, put your rubbish in a bin, or had to ask for extra serviettes.

9) You've forgotten what Velveeta tastes like.

10) You've had more than one packet of ranch dressing confiscated by Australian Customs.

I Was a Disco Ball Diva.......

2008-05-15T01:22:00.000-04:00

This past weekend marked the beginning of the 'Ball Crawl' season in the southern hemisphere. For the next several months there will be a half dozen such events that may, and in some instances must, be attended. For me this means that not only will I be forced to eat banquet food, keep an even tan and do way more hair maintenance than I'm comfortable with but that I also must wedge myself into formal wear. Now, possibly due to the excessive use of biscuits (the cookie kind), scones (the biscuit kind) and iced coffee that is very refreshing and comes in 2 litre bottles, I seem to have outgrown, a wee bit, my very favorite black dress. Six weeks ago marked the beginning of panic mode. I took up kick boxing, jogging and green tea. I detoxed, low carb'd and weight watched. I purchased steel belted neck to knees 'slimming' underclothes. Once a week my daughter would follow me into the bedroom and try to look encouraging while she zipped me into my sparkly black dress. First to the waistline, then to the middle of my back, and finally all the way up. Aaahhh, I'd done it. Fit like a glove. And had I been able to breath I would have looked stunning. In the end I wore my silver dress, the one that makes me look like a disco ball (some of you may remember it.) Now I've gotta go because I have kick boxing tonight and my instructor, the former Ms. Tinyweight Boxing Champion of Europe (that might not be her exact title) saw me putting extra butter on my toast at coffee on Tuesday and is probably at this moment calculating how many push-ups it'll take to make me regret it. When I can lift my arms again I'm going to kick my husbands butt for letting me outgrow that sparkly black dress.....

If I die would someone please scatter my ashes through the heather in my Scotland??? I don't mind waiting until 2012...

Homophone Replacement Therapy

2008-05-14T15:09:00.000-04:00

Homophone Replacement Therapy

I can cannot count the many times I have caught myself committing typo by using the wrong homophone. I am ashamed. All my language arts teachers that are no longer walking among us must be clapping erasers in their graves wondering how I have wandered so far from the grammar way and ended up here ... in apparent homophone confusion. Can they ever forgive me? To help explain the situation, I have come up with this:

Unfortunately, due to recent brain cell overload compounded by the electronic age, my writing skills have fallen victim to a bout of Thinking Faster Than I Can Type Syndrome. As a direct result, I have come down with a condition resulting in a breakdown in homophone balance. Hopefully after a few weeks under the care of a competent dictionary I will be far enough along in Homophone Replacement Therapy for my fingers to differentiate between their and there and they’re, your and you’re, won and one, no and know, etc. Meanwhile, should self-editing miss some of my frequent misspells due fingers-brain homophone confusion, please try to overlook them or kindly prompt me to fix the problem. Thank you.