Wait...What?

So, I thought I had things all figured out.

I had a plan.

Then one little message on Facebook gave me pause. It threw me a curve. One I hadn't expected or was looking for.

Now I like an adventure as much as the next guy, but really God? Really?

He's got a great sense of humor.

I'll be meeting with the person who posted the message in the next few days. Let's see if she truly makes me an offer I cannot refuse.

Then I may need a new map, because I have no idea where my life is leading me!

Nelly Negative and the Blue Christmas

For the most part, I like to think I'm pretty upbeat. Pretty, live and let live. Pretty forgiving and kind.

Other times, I'm more like my mother.

Some times, more often than not.

And I hate that.

I seriously need a mouth guard of some sort. Some metal trap that will slam shut over my mouth before a negative comment escapes. Gah! We can put a man on the moon, but we haven't come up with a way to keep us from inserting our foot (read feet) into our mouths.

I wish I wasn't so negative. I wish I was one of those people who others could say they never heard a negative comment come out of my mouth.

Don't get me wrong, I've been working on it. I've stopped giving unwanted and unsolicited advice to family members. I've learned to silently repeat, "Keep your big mouth shut!" whenever I hear something that I consider to be stoopid.

Stupid is as stupid does

So, Santa Baby, all I want for Christmas is muzzle for my smart, sarcastic, negative commenting, mouth.

And speaking of Christmas...Well...it's making me blue.

Or maybe I'm just blue.

I don't know why. I just feel...kinda down.

And yet, it's the most wonderful time of the year, right? I've got my Girl still home. I've got my Beloved. I've got company coming in a few weeks. I'm living in the little, green house on the corner. I'm gainfully employed by a great boss and I've got friends...whom I never see.

My dog is sleeping at my feet and my cat is curled up on a box of Christmas ornaments. The rain is falling outside, but I'm warm and cozy inside.

Maybe it's because Boy is half way around the world.

Or because the one family member that I could count on, up and died on me over a year ago.

Perhaps I just need a good nap and time to read a book.

It could be that I've got to stop listening to John Foreman.

She's somebods baby...somebody's baby girl....

Waaaaaaaa!

That song just kills me.

Okay, well, there's really no time for any of this. I'm off to work to FAKE my happy. I'll earn my pennies and hopefully make someone smile. More importantly, I'll leave Nelly Negative home and pray Santa Baby brings me the muzzle I long for.

So, It's Come to This

I may have mentioned that I'm a little over my head just now. Life is busy and I don't really have time for extras. I've stepped into my new position at work, which is totally cool! Girl's graduation is just few weeks away, I leave for the south in five weeks, and Soldier Mommy should be state side very soon. All this and keeping the house clean, the family fed, and the laundry done.

It's enough, don't you think?

God, in His infinite wisdom, does not. Funny that. Really. I mean do you think He just has a weird sense of humor? Or is He trying to tell me I can handle more than I think I can?

I just wanna say that my blood pressure disagrees.

My Father-in-law, who I've complained about mentioned before, took a spill Saturday night. Beloved and I were home, which was awesome. I really don't know what would have happened if he were home alone.

The basic story is that he went down to feed his pets (cows), forgot his wire cutters (our most recent hay bales are held together with wire instead of twine), and stomped back up to the house in a tizzy.

Trust me, he's an expert tizzy thrower.

What you may not know is that our driveway is caving in. Yes, it's true and yes I'm embarrassed about it. The only part of our driveway that is paved is the portion that runs up the hill to the house. Because FIL wants someone to come and fix his driveway for free, it hasn't gotten done. It's been months. Because of this, he no longer parks his car by the house. Instead, he parks it sideways at the bottom of the driveway so no one can use it. To get down the hill, one must walk around FIL's car either through the mud or around the long way (which really isn't that long. I do it every day!)

So, as FIL came stomping down the driveway, totally pissed-off, he decided to take the short cut through the mud.

Yep, he slipped, breaking his ankle in three places. Beloved and I were home and were able to get him up and to the ER. I was very thankful that my seventy-six year-old, FIL who is usually difficult, stubborn, and annoying most days, went willingly to the ER.

Now he's in rehab and will be there for weeks. After that, my darling FIL will come home to be cared for by his loving family.

yeah

In the meantime, I am happy to report that my sis-in-law (mommy-head to Soldier Mommy) is close and ready to help. Even though FIL (her father) is a butt head to her, she is here for me him.

Words cannot express my thankfulness and joy knowing that I will not bear this burden alone.

We are going to build a ramp so that FIL can get into his house. I am going to clean his house, spend as much time each day at rehab as I can, and try to keep up with everything else.

So, it's come to this, if you need me, take a number. If you can do it yourself, then you'd best do it. If you cannot do it yourself, then learn to do without.

My dance card is full.

All this and I gave up coffee...

What was I thinking?

Family Size

I love me some Triscuts. I honestly do. A serving is six...only six tasty crackers...but if you eat them slow and with some Laughing Cow low fat cheese you WILL be happy. I promise.

There is only one problem. Girl loves her some Triscuts too. Which means that a regular, small, normal people size box of Triscuts is not going to last in this house. We decided to start buying the FAMILY SIZE box. Which was okay, until we decided that Sunday night dinner should be snacky dinner.

You know what I mean; crackers, lots of fresh veggies and fruit, a little bit of Laughing Cow maybe a slice of pepperoni, some Hummus, it's all good, reasonably nutritious and easy to fix. But then we run out of crackers sooner!

And Boy isn't even home!

So, I started thinking about what FAMILY SIZE means. It can't possibly mean that the box is large enough to feed a LARGE family. I have friends with many, many, many children and a box of Triscuits would last about 2.4 seconds. That isn't even enough time to get the box from the car to the house!

Then, I started thinking about other FAMILY SIZE boxed items, you know, like brownie mixes. Now, when it comes to brownies, I'm a bit of a snob. I like the home made kind. The kind that Alton Brown makes.

(I have the recipe and if I made them for you, you would want to marry me. But, I'm already married, so it could get ugly.)

Not the kind that Betty Crocker makes, but the decadent, chocolaty, a very small slice will do ya, kind. Truth be told, if Girl makes those boxed-just add egg, water, and oil-kind, and I am sorry to admit this, I am going to eat them.

Remember, it's nothing but truth here 24/7.

Yet again, a FAMILY SIZE box of brownies has a shelf life at my house of about twelve, maybe fifteen hours and again that is IF Boy isn't here eating the entire house.

So, who are these manufactures kidding? FAMILY SIZE? I don't think so. I once fed my family and my friends family of ten and it took a giant package of sausage from costco, a loaf of bread, oodles of muffins, more eggs than I can count, and an entire orchard of peaches!

I would have to make four boxes of brownies and purchase twelve boxes of Triscuits to feed that ravaging swarm. They wouldn't be given any Laughing Cow, because I only purchase that when it's on sale and it comes in itty, bitty, wedges of which a serving is only two.

I guess what I am saying is that I want a BIG box of Triscuits. A box that will last. I want a box that won't be half empty when I first open it. I want a FAMILY SIZE box that means business.

Because when Mister Smiley is here...he inhales the Triscuits right down to the little, salty crumbs at the bottom of the box.

Then I have to go to the store.

Again...

Oh the People You Meet

Last Friday Beloved and I made a quick stop at Walmart on our way to visit Boy. We were only going to pick up a flash drive and some toothpaste for Boy, but we were sucked into the price paradise that is Wally World. We bought cereal, fishy crackers (for Master Smiley), something else I cannot remember and then we decided to check the prices on flat screen televisions.

You may recall that we do not watch TV since the government took control of the airwaves. We have Netflix and a computer, thus we are pretty happy folks.

But those shiny, new television just draw the eye. You know what I mean. They are slick and beautiful and so far beyond the television that we all grew up with that, frankly, ya just gotta take a gander!

Beloved found one he liked, great picture, good price. The problems began when he started pressing for more information regarding the actually size of the blasted thing. The salesman, a man about my father's age, tried to help. He really did. The posted sign said one thing, while the actual box said another.

ALWAYS READ THE FINE PRINT

We decided not to purchase the new set since Wally World couldn't decide on the actual size of the set, what coverage it came with, and if the price stated was the actual price. The poor salesman kept looking at Beloved, waiting for him to blow his stack. He wouldn't have, of course, not over something as trivial as a television set, but the salesman didn't know that. Poor guy. He just kept apologizing while keeping a close eye on Beloved.

He finally started breathing again when he realized that we weren't angry and we weren't packing.

At the checkout I left Beloved to visit the ladies room, always an adventure at Walmart. Have you noticed that?

On my way out, I was nearly run over by a young woman who was busily reading the instructions on a pregnancy test.

Seriously.

Who takes a pregnancy test in a Walmart bathroom?

Aren't those things more accurate in the morning?

Leaving the store, I told Beloved about the possibly pregnant steam roller. He described her and said that she had been in line in front of him. He smiled and said, "She liked me." He went on to discuss how chatty she was. How friendly.

Wink wink

Nudge nudge

Rolling my eyes I retorted, "Of course she did. You probably could have bought her a kiddie meal at McDonalds after she finished checking for that pink line."

My question is, are all people who shop at Walmart so....interesting? I seldom shop there because we do not have one in our area. I've heard tales of the things you can see at Walmart and I'm starting to believe these wild tales are true.

Sigh

No wonder the rest of the world things we're idiots.

Scars

I've seen her scars. They are hard to miss. They run the full length of both arms. I always wondered...I mean, they look like burn scars...but how do you ask someone so personal a question?

"Pardon me, I was just wondering...are those burn scars on your arms? Cause they look like burn scars. They look like you roasted your limbs over an open flame. I'm just nosey. Sorry...."

I would never has asked. Never. I am as curious as a cat, but I do try to stay out of people personal space. It's less messy that way.

This woman has a beautiful face. Really. Honey brown skin, dark, dancing eyes, her Native American heritage screams at you. She is a beautiful woman.

With dreadful scars running up her arms.

The other day, she told me her story.

Shudder

He hit her.

He knocked her out.

Then she woke up.

He was pouring rubbing alcohol on her.

Then he lit a match.

Shudder

My eyes grew round and my throat constricted and anger began to burn in my chest.

I hated him.

I do not know him, but I hate him.

Hate is a strong word.

We are not supposed to hate.

sigh

Then she told me that she saw her skin melt off of her arm.

Her face was covered in flames.

"Your face?" I cried as I stepped closer, searching for unseen scars.

She smiled so sweetly.

"They did a good job didn't they?" she laughed.

I was left silent and dumb-founded.

Today, she is a beautiful, thirty-something young woman. Married to a wonderful man. She recently became a grandmother and she shares her story with other women who have languished under the terror of domestic abuse.


Her scars are a visible reminder of the pain that she has suffered, but instead of hiding them, or being ashamed, she exposes them.

The ugly, puckered skin, the criss-cross scars on her legs, defy the remarkable beauty of her face. The doctors did an amazing job. One would never know that she lived through such a terrible ordeal.

But she is a survivor.

And she is beautiful.

Pain!

A few weeks ago I hurt my lower back. Doing nothing, I might add.

Yesterday I tweaked my shoulder. It radiates from the Rhomboid muscle and moves up over my shoulder. My elbow feels strange. I'm in so much pain that I cannot take a deep breath.

And tonight is my dinner party...

All this adds up to a visit to the chiropractor.

I've never been. I'm a chiropractor virgin. I'm uber scared about it. I hate being touched by strangers. I'm so afraid that I won't be able to relax that I'll end up hurting more.

Beloved swears by the chiropractor and everyone from my co-workers at the gym to the checkout lady at the store are urging me to go.

At this point I feel like I don't have a choice. I have to go. I can't breath or function.

Again, I wasn't doing anything when this happened. I wasn't loading hay onto the truck or unloading grain. I wasn't stacking wood or working out.

Heaven help me!

Washcinda, Dryerella, and Clothie

Way back in April, the 16th as a matter of fact, we had a repair man come out from Walt's to check our ailing washing machine, Washcinda. She made funny noises. She randomly chose when to spin and when not to. She was ailing for sure.

Glenn came out, took her blood pressure and replaced her lid switch. He then suggested another part to replace (since he was here) and our little washing machine was back in action. All was right with the world.

Well, except that FIL refused to pay his half of the $196.00. No worries, I took it out of the rent. Ha!

Life was good. I could wash clothes again...that is until early last week, when the washers sister, Dryerella, started SMOKING. Seriously. Smoking. I tried to warn Dryerella that smoking was bad for her health, but you know how these young things are, all eye rolling and attitude.

FIL looked at her. He told me it didn't smell "electrical". He attempted to pry the lid off Dryerella but was met with staunch resistance. I am sure I heard her say, "I'm not that kind of girl!"

I became good friends with the laundry mat. I've been there before. But the machines there aren't MY machines. God only knows whose been using them. The machines had none of the spunk and funny clunky noises of Washcinda and Dryerella. Sure, they got the job done, but you know how hookers are, they're just paid to do a job. There is no emotional attachment. It's sad. It really is.

That and the creepy, single guys hanging out doing their laundry. Ew.

I figured I could play stubborn girl and refuse to call Glenn to come out and repair Dryerella. After all, we've had beautiful weather and thanks to my beloved I have a new love in my life: Clothie - my trusty new clothes line.

I've always wanted a clothes line! I know it's a weird thing, but I love hanging out clothes on the line. I love the silence of it, the crisp outdoor smell the clothes absorb, and the pennies I save not using Dryerella in the summer. Sorry Dryerella, you're still number one and I'll always use you for towels and jeans...when you are working that is.

Clothie and I are just getting to know each other and already Dryerella has gone crying to her sister, Washcinda and do you know what those two mean machines have done? Why, they've formed a little pact and Washcinda decided that if I'm going to abandon her sister, Dryerella, than she's going to stop working too!

It's true.

Just this morning Washcinda groaned to a halt...right before the spin cycle.

So, here I sit, a half rinsed load of jeans held captive by Washcinda, Dryerella whose feeling betrayed by my new friend Clothie, who in turn is wondering why I haven't come out to see her today.

My only option for the time being is to revisit those tarty machines at the laundry mat. It's not something I'm looking forward to and I know once Washcinda, Dryerella, and Clothie get wind of it, there will be hell to pay.

The Hungry Man

A man, walking into a ladies gym, always raises a few eyebrows. He asked for the owner. I explained that she wouldn’t be in until Wednesday. He said, “I go to her church,” and I realized he meant the other owner. I told him she was in Europe.

His face crumpled and he began to cry.

Wow.

That was yesterday afternoon. It was the day that the economy became very really, very poignant for me. As I ushered him out into the lobby, I listened to his story. It’s very similar to what one hears on the news these days. He was at the end of his rope and was finally willing to reach out to the last place he’d hoped to find help: his church.

We do not belong to the same religion. In fact, I’d say there’s more difference between us than similarities. But as I assured him, we are all in the same boat and if we can’t help each other out, than the world is a much darker place than I understood it to be. I asked if I could pray for him and with his agreement I asked the Lord to give him hope, for he surely had none.

My co-worker handed him $20 and gave him the phone numbers of places that could help with rental assistance. She told him what the law says about such matters and I drank it in. These were things I didn’t know. I’ve never been on the verge of being homeless – or hungry for that matter.

As he prepared to leave, with my promise that my Beloved and I would bring him food later that evening, I realized that he had eaten every morsel that I had given him: three curves bars, four bags of cheese rice crisps, and about two cups of raw almonds.

Wow.

As I drove home I worried that I’d been played. Maybe he was a professional con man, one who preys on emotional, idiot girls, such as me. But I pushed those thoughts away. I don’t want to believe that this stranger would do this.

Beloved had lots of questions, ones I didn’t know the answer to. He agreed that we should take the man some food, after all, I’d given my word and if the man needed help, we should certainly help him. Beloved wanted to see the man for him self. He wanted some answers and he wanted to see if there was more we could do - if this guy was on the up and up.

The neighborhood where this man lives is a standard suburb, nothing fancy, but not a bad section of town. As we turned the corner we noted two police cars at the end of the street. I can’t help but admit that I was relieved to see them there. Beloved and I agreed that we would not go into the house, just in case.

We rang the bell. No answer.

Beloved knocked. Still no answer.

We looked at each other. “I suppose we could just leave the food here,” I said. Beloved agreed. “If it was a scam,” he said, we’re only out a few groceries.”

As we turned to go the door opened. I tall man, blond man stood in the doorway, annoyed. He was dressed in a mismatched tank top and shorts. He did not look pleased.

“Is the hungry man here?” I asked.

“No.”

Silence. Beloved and I looked at each other. I looked at the angry man.

“Does he live here?” I questioned.

“Oh yeah, he lives here,” he replied, unsmiling. “Is this stuff for him?” he asked.

“Yes,” said my Beloved, measuring the man with his gaze.

We got into our car and drove away. Our conversation turned to theories about the angry man and the hungry man I had met earlier.

Perhaps he had been too embarrassed to come to the door. Maybe the angry man was his landlord who just wanted his money. It could have all been a ruse. Maybe the hungry man had borrowed money from the mob and was tied up in the living room desperately trying to make noise so we’d alert the police.

Maybe he was a spy

A drug dealer

A con-man

Or, maybe he was a guy down on his luck.

Chances are we’ll never know, but God knows.

As we drove home, each lost in our own thoughts, I wondered if I’d been foolish. Then I recalled the conversation my co-worker and I had before I left the gym last night. She’d said I had a soft heart and smiled. I told her I was willing to help this man for two reasons.

First, as a Christian, we are supposed to. Christ laid down His very life for me. Taking a stranger a few steaks and some groceries is nothing compared to what’s been done for me.

And Second, I’d like to think that if I ever found myself hungry or in need, that maybe someone would help me out.

There are a lot of hurting people in the world and we are all so busy with our lives, but I wonder, I wonder what would happen if we remember to love our neighbors…as ourselves.

Hunger

I was going to write some little blurb about my wonderful mother's day. I have great kids. Great. Kids. But something happened to me today and I want to jot something down before I forget. Not that I ever could.

I met a man today who lost his job seven months ago. He's on the verge of being homeless. He was crying.

Being the emotional boob that I am, it was difficult to keep the tears that kept brimming my eyes from spilling down my face.

His embarrassment at finding himself in this situation poured out of him and filled the room with a sadness too deep to describe. It stifled me and the pity I felt for him threatened to choke me.

I tried to reassure him, when he sudden looked so stricken that I worried that I had something wrong. He looked at me, with those sad, brown eyes and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm so hungry..." He offered me his cell phone if I would give him something to eat.

I located what I could, a few curves bars, almonds, bottle of water and felt foolish for not realizing that the poor man was hungry (and no I did not take his phone). By the time he left, he'd eaten every scrap that I'd given him.

Tonight, my Beloved and I will drive over to this man's house and take him some food. I hope that we'll be able to offer him some of the hope he's lost. This man isn't a bum. He doesn't appear to have a drug problem. He's man down on his luck, out of time, and sinking fast.

His face reminds me of pictures I've seen of the Great Depression, void of hope and despair filling every pore. I cannot help but wonder who among us may be next.

In the Company of Strangers

Tomorrow Girl and I are heading out to a field trip. It's been a long time since we took one with a group and we're both experiencing a little nervousness over it. The joint we are visiting will be cool. The things we see and hear will be educational and entertaining. It’s not the place…it’s the people.

See, somewhere out there, a rule stands firm and strong:

Homeschooling Mommies don’t work outside the home, kiddies are supervised 24/7, and one seldom journey’s outside into (gasp) the world at large.

At least that’s the way the circle we moved with use to be.

But I work.

Sometimes I work more than I’d like to. Sometimes Girl is home (gasp) alone! Sometimes she makes dinner all by herself.

Somewhere between here and there we’ve changed a bit. I suppose we’ve always been on the fringe of “unacceptable”. I’m just rebellious that way…But I think we’ve done okay with the kiddies.

Boy is well adjusted and has been living at the camp for two years now. He’s grown up, matured, his hair is long, his attitude is slightly sarcastic (he gets that from ahem his father…) and he’s managed to deal with different people from different walks of life without batting an eye (rolling an eye…well, maybe). My point is that he’s not a social misfit and he hasn’t left the Lord either. Believe it or not, there are some who believed he’d fallen away.

Snicker

Girl has been allowed to see and do things that many of her friends would never be allowed to do. Things like working at a children’s camp in a different state (mommy prayed A LOT), going to dinner with a mixed group of friends, and having an online presence. She’s been known to wear pirate earrings…Her taste in music is eclectic and her fingernail polish is usually colorful in off the wall shades.

Friday, we’ll be facing the giants. There will be those who no longer speak to us. The curious will chat us up, trying to ply gossip material out of us. I’m certain there will be at least three snide, snickering, snotty comments about the way we are living.

So, we’re a bit anxious about it. My biggest fear is that I’ll say something stupid such as, “Really? Who the hell asked you?”

I’ve told you I should never leave the house without duct tape.

We love most of the people we are going to see. They’ve been good friends for years and years. They were there when tragedy struck, there to help get us through arts and crafts (which I despise), and they were a buoy during those early homeschool years.

But now…now we feel out of place

Out of touch

We feel like misfits

No one ever told me that the hardest part of homeschooling was fitting in…with other homeschoolers.

Ouch.

Did They Know?

It’s something they never tell you.

You’re told to play nice and to share. You’re forced to endure hours of lectures on everything from personal finance to being a good citizen. Dress this way, don’t eat that, drink more water. Exercise. Sleep. Be responsible.

And most of us do. We are good citizens. We vote. We pay our taxes. Raise our children. We feed the poor, pick up trash, write letters to the editor. All this we do. But they never told us.

They “forgot” to mention that women who turn forty suddenly go a little crazy.

We get tattoos. We pierce various parts of our body. We go back to school. She rides a motorcycle. She bought a convertible. That one has a much younger boy friend. We love our husbands, but wonder how we ever put up with so much whining, groaning and complaining.

We begin to wonder why we asked permission to leave our young children with their father (you know, that man who lives in your house) so we could have one afternoon ALONE.

At forty we started to see the world in a different light. Gone are the uncertainties of our twenties. We’ve laid the anxiety of our thirties aside and face forty with a new energy. A new attitude. A fresh beginning.

Yet, they never told us how marvelous forty is. They never told us that we’d make peace with our bodies, learning that hard work pays off with thinner waist lines. We would learn that exercise was for us, not for anyone else. That for once in our lives we could be, dare I say it, selfish. Somehow they forgot to mention that at forty we could be strong. Both physically and mentally.

Maybe they didn’t tell us because they didn’t know. Perhaps they didn’t view forty as a positive thing. Some still don’t. But I have to say, at forty-one, that I like me. My hair is turning gray and gravity has taken a dreadful toll upon my body, yet, I like me.

I’m stronger than I use to be.

I’m not afraid to speak my mind, consequence be damned.

I can agree to disagree and still like you.

I like who I’ve become and the sense of balance I now have. I like my children and the fact that I don’t have to arrange “play dates” in order to see my friends.

I adore my husband, even though he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say here. All he knows is that the woman who lives in his house wants him to eat more fiber. She sometimes wakes up dripping wet and irritable. He knows that this woman has a mind of her own, a bad attitude, and cries over silly things.

He’s clueless, but content. The other day he said, “I love you,” and I replied, “What’s not to love?” He blinked at me, smiled, and held me close. He doesn’t get it because they never told him either.

I tried to explain things to him. Tried to make him feel the excitement I feel about all the wonderful possibilities that lay ahead of us. He just smiled…and went to sleep.

Maybe they didn’t tell us because they, our older sisters, never fully grasped what forty means. Perhaps they thought we couldn’t handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But I wish they’d told me. I wish they’d said that babies are wonderful, and teenagers are amazing. I wish they’d reminded me that bitterness isn’t worth stewing on and relationships are more important. I wonder why they didn’t tell us how lovely we could be at forty.

Maybe…maybe they simply didn’t know.

Can't I Just Have a Sticker?

I stressed myself out. I’m actually really, really gifted in that area. No one, and I mean no one, can build a bigger mountain out of a mole hill than I can. Trust me. Besides the anxiety riddled stomach issues that usually accompany such thoughts, I can usually work up a good cry to top it all off. It’s life in the fast lane with idiot girl speeding down life’s highway at incredible speeds.

They’ll be no pit stops on this journey.

I had my first mammogram today. Yeah, I know, I know, I know, I’m forty-one, shoulda had it done last year. Talk to the hand people, talk to the hand.

Regardless, it’s done. I made the appointment on Monday and had three days to worry over it. I usually build the foundation of the mole hill to mountain by laying a good old fashioned layer of prickling fear. It’s cancer. I know it.

I then carefully arrange a thick coating of pity party. Why isn’t anyone else worried about this? Shouldn’t everyone be nice to me. I’ve got cancer for pity’s sake!.

A nice layer of scared is most carefully applied. It gives my mountain an ominous look and adds weight to its bulk. Man! I’m such an idiot girl! What if I do something wrong? What if it’s a man taking the picture…eeeewww! Don’t touch me!

Finally the pinnacle on my mountain of fret is the apprehension of the actual event or procedure. Mammograms hurt you know. You’ve heard the jokes, read the articles, and seen the bruises. It’s going to hurt and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Thus I arrived at the imaging center, mountain in tow, resigned to my dreadful fate.

Only…It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t scary. There wasn’t a man in sight and the young (what was she? Twelve?) woman who took the mammogram was really sweet.

A lot of things have changed in the world of body imaging and I’m really proud of the fact that I didn’t cry. Course, I didn’t have time, the entire thing took about five minutes.

I’ll admit that I held my breath (just a little) when she told me I’d either receive a package (complete with letter of explanation and cd-rom) if there were no problems OR my doctor would be in touch by next week.

If there are no problems…

First a layer of prickling fear…

But wait, a cd-rom? I get to see it? What then? Do I put it in the photo album and pass it along to future generations?

“Grandma, what’s this here?”

“Why, sweetheart, that’s a photo image of your granny’s squashed boob.”

Do I show it to the neighbors when they come over for dinner and a movie?

”And here you’ll see a slight abnormality. We’re not sure, but we think it might be Al Capone.”

As neighbor pulls on her coat, “Oh my! Would you look at the time?”

Do I post it on my blog?

Too much information! Too much information!

A cd-rom of my mammogram. What will they think of next? Can’t I just have a sticker or maybe a piece of chocolate?

Travis Erwin & Writer Girl offers a Challenge

Before I get into today's post, I'd like to invite ya'll over to Travis Erwin'sblog. He's a great writer and I enjoy his work. However, the reason I invite you over is because last Sunday morning his house burnt down. Having lived through a house fire and losing EVERYTHING years ago, I feel his pain. Go on over and give him and the family some love. For those who are interested there is also a fund raiser going on. You can check it out HERE.

On yesterday's dismal, whiny, not-so-nice post about FIL, Teri (aka Writer Girl) suggested a challenge: do two nice things for FIL every week.

gag

choke

grumble

massive (and I do mean MASSIVE)eye-roll here!

But...

She may be on to something.

The situation is hard, heck even the sound of his breathing make me crazy! Yet, I have a choice. I can decide to be a grown-up or I can choose to act like a spoiled brat whose tired of not getting her way.

I told Writer Girl that I was too tired and too crabby to think about this. That I do nice things for him all the time...excuses, excuses, excuses.

For now, I'm going back to bed (I just saw beloved off) and I'll think about this more later. It has value.

Do YOU have any thoughts?

Back to the Grind

It's Monday. Again.

Funny how a Monday after consecutive holidays seems somewhat harder, colder, sleepier. *yawn*

I have to leave for work in exactly 19 minutes. I have yet to brush my teeth or put my shoes on. I need to leave a to do list for Girl and figure out what's for dinner tonight. Yet, here I sit holding a one sided conversation with you.

I like you.

Over the weekend, someone asked me what my resolutions for 2009 are. When I brashly said I hadn't nary a one, he snickered. Really, he did. He snickered in a, "Oh, you are such a failure," sorta way.

Or, maybe he didn't and I just perceived it that way. It's hard to say. I may have been distracted by the yummy lasagna, red wine, and homemade cheesecake. It was all so fun and so delicious that maybe his snickering wasn't really a snicker. Maybe I was impressing my own "failure" onto him. Could be. Who knows.

But, it does lead me to ask the question, "Do you make resolutions? If so, do you keep them? If you don't, then why do you make them?"

Uggghh. I'm being all introspective. Don't you feel sorry for the girls at the gym today?

Ha!

Oh, and one more bit o' happy news: I got on the scale after a solid month of eating, eating, eating and haven't gained a pound!

Now if I could just lose the rest of this...