Ongoing Home Projects

In February, I posted about closing on this house. Since that time I haven't really posted any pictures. We've managed to do quite a bit of painting, staining and new floor and sink installation. Still, I haven't been so gung-ho.

It was really rough for me when we didn't get the first house, especially when we went so far in the process. After that, no house measured up. In the end, when we decided to purchase this house, it was a lot to do with the fact that it was definitely time to buy and because it was a killer deal. With the other house, it was move-in ready. I wouldn't change the cabinets or the floor or the colors on the walls.

This house is a different story.

We'll be replacing this tomorrow.



(The fan and not the popcorn ceiling. THAT'S another project altogether.)

Sweet Smelling Update

Earlier this week, I shared a little story that gave a peek into the extent of my neurosis. A majority of the time I can keep the minor things under control. I can recognize when I start to obsess over something, like when we first got married, I had to have the dishes and laundry done before we went to bed each night...except I'd put it off until later and at bedtime, I'd choose cleaning over sleep. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't ME that recognized it. It was Eddie. It wasn't that he minded me staying up to clean, it was the attitude I had when it was time. I wanted to be together, with my new husband, so it made total sense to ask him to help.

It wasn't his idea of together time.

I've made progress. There are dishes in the sink that will stay there until the morning and I've generally run out of time to do laundry during the week. It gets done on the weekends.

I wasn't kidding about worrying about whether or not I was beginning to smell. I checked each day, several times a day for the rest of the work week. I applied the deodorant in the morning after drying my underarms meticulously. I used a different towel. I didn't change deodorant or anything because I'm limited in a deodorant choice, which is an entirely different post altogether. I don't do scented.

My week of intense observation has confirmed that I, in fact, do not smell. My body has not built up an immunity to deodorant and flowers do not fall as I pass (as I turn around to check one more time, just in case).

At The Speed of Retail

On Halloween this year, I waited until the last minute to pick up some candy. I went into a local store just after work to search through what was left on the Halloween aisle in an effort to get a bargain and still compete for the 'good house' on the block.

I was in such a hurry to pick through the bags of Butterfingers and KitKats that I didn't slow down until I was forced to stop at the check-out. I glanced at the week's gossip and debated on picking up one of those magazines, but I still have that fear of "getting caught" with one.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I totally check the MSN entertainment section most mornings on the web BUT before I could reach my hand out to pick up the latest on Britney, I noticed it. I heard the CHRISTMAS music playing in the store. Halloween wasn't even OVER yet. In fact, it hadn't even started.

During the holidays, one of our local radio stations switches over to all Christmas music, all the time. I scanned my radio stations this afternoon and I ran across it. There it was. Christmas music. It's November 8th.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Our Middle Names Are The Same

I've been thinking about my cousin a lot this week. I've been struggling with feeling left out of her life for the past few years. Which makes me feel a little guilty. My uncle, her father, died two years ago this month. He was my father's only brother. His little brother.

When my uncle died, my father wanted to swoop in and help the family with everything, but he never wanted to intrude. He made it clear that he loved them and was there if they needed him, but he didn't push. He waited. I imagine that was pretty difficult. I'd never really know because my father has built a pretty good stone wall. It's been well crafted through the years of being the oldest, being The Dad and always having a good answer to any hard question I'd ask. I never really knew if he was scared of anything.

I followed his lead in loving them. I'd call and leave short messages on their answering machine to let them know I was thinking of them, or I'd just leave a little joke to make them laugh. It was easier not to push them when they were an 8 hour car ride away.

Then they moved a little closer. I'd have to ride only 3 hours to visit. They worked, I worked. Time passed. Fast. It passed so fast that Susan met, dated and became engaged to a man that I had never met. The first I heard of him was when we got a call from my aunt telling us to expect a wedding invitation in the mail. I couldn't believe it. All of a sudden I felt completely over-protective. My uncle was gone and totally out of the blue I felt like the self-appointed guard dog for his side of the family. If this guy was going to get to my cousin, he was going to have to get through ME.

Just in case you were wondering, it really wasn't helpful to have adopted this attitude when I met him for the first time. At his wedding. I introduced myself and my parents before the ceremony and waited for him to...I don't know, bow or something. I expected him to go on and on about how sorry he was that we hadn't met before and how he'd promise to love and cherish my cousin like the queen that she is, because he knows (from reputation) that I'd have to hurt him if he did otherwise.

But that didn't happen. He shook my hand and that was it. I can't say I warmed to him. Then he started treating Susan like she was HIS. I don't think he understood that she was MINE for 26 years. He didn't know me and that meant that he didn't know her. We grew up together.

Now we're both grown up. And she's married. And I feel guilty for not having been there. I feel guilty for not pushing harder. I feel selfish and I know it's unjustified. Frustrating.

It's frustrating because I love her and she seems so happy. I feel selfish because I had nothing to do with that.

How's that for honesty?

After Thirty Minutes This Afternoon

After work, after the workout, I was down on the mat for a bit of stretching. I was reaching far to my toes and turned my head to the side to reach a bit farther. And I smelled myself.

Yes, I had run hard and I was sweaty AND it was near the end of the day but the question ran through my mind, did I put on deodorant this morning? I went through my morning routine in my mind, the cell phone, the bath, the pill, the toothbrush, and yes - the deodorant. Maybe it was just too soon after the bath for such an application and I was a little too wet for the deodorant to, you know, stick.

I refuse to believe that my body's capacity for emitting smell has exceeded my deodorant's capacity to cover it up or stop it altogether. After 31 years and a savvy sense of smell, this can't be an unnoticed ongoing occurrence. That kind of thing can't just magically change overnight. Can it?

I don't look forward to the rest of the week when I'm compulsively checking to see if I smell. Or when I smell. At what point in the day do I need to reapply? Do I really want to publish this little event on the internet?

Yes. Neurosis is interesting. Isn't it?

Geez.

The Laws Of Attraction

Loudly, from down the hall while carrying clothes to hide in another room, I playfully ask: "Sparky, what will it take? What will I have to give you to change that light bulb before the girls get here?"

Do you know what he said? He said,"A light bulb."


THAT's why I love this man. He could have taken total advantage of me in my desperation to have the house ready before my guests arrived. But he didn't.

Opposites do attract.

The Inner Judgemental

My cousin Susan, 26, got married yesterday evening. She married a Pentecostal minister and joined a ready-made family. Her new husband is a widower with a little girl. I can't help but be a little afraid for what the future holds for her. I don't like admitting that, or thinking that my adult cousin isn't capable of making her own correct life choices. I also don't like admitting that the reason I don't think she's capable of making her own choices is because they aren't MY choices. You know, for her.

Like finishing her degree or the part in their vows where she had to say, "obey." OBEY. I didn't think we did that anymore. "WE" as in ALL WOMEN.

No matter our differences, nothing changes the fact that she was a beautiful, happy bride. I will work on that whole trust thing.

Curls And Bows

This evening I will be attending a Pentecostal wedding. The hairstyles are always interesting.

11.2.82

Happy Birthday Katheryn.


Katheryn would have been 25 today. She was/is my little sister.

I hated typing that sentence. Even after seven years, I haven't mastered the art of sharing a story about my siblings in a discussion where other people are sharing stories about their siblings without some kind of awkward confusion about tense. And death. I can't bring myself to say, "she was my little sister" because she is my little sister -- wherever she is. But if I tell some story and I don't clarify the fact that to some she was my little sister, inevitably questions like "So, where is she living now?" will be asked. Then I have to answer them. I've run out of euphemisms for "she died."

I don't like answering those kinds of questions because it makes people uncomfortable (me included) and then the mood of the conversation changes from sharing happy, funny stories to serious and concerned and suddenly all about me. There's got to be some unwritten social rule that says you can't smile or laugh within 10 minutes of someone mentioning death. Everyone seems to know that rule. In my experience they obey it more than any other social rule out there. I'm usually the first one to crack a joke if I've been put in that position.

I just want to tell the stories and laugh with the group that's sharing about their brother or sister. And for a minute, while I'm laughing and no one knows better, I can pretend she's still here.

Weekend Getaway

A couple of weekends ago, Eddie and I drove a few hours and wound up in Natchez, Mississippi. It wasn't really all that unplanned. Eddie's aunt has a second house there. Her first house is in New Orleans, which is why she decided to go ahead and purchase a second house just in case that first house is ever again...inaccessible. It also makes a great destination for her freeloading relatives looking for a manageable but lovely weekend escape. I guess it would be unfair to call us all freeloaders. She did invite us. Visitors help to keep the place lived in between the times she ventures up there. So, I guess you could say we were really helping out. That's right. We HAD to go. To help his aunt. And we didn't even charge her anything.

It was a completely stress-free trip. I was able to take quite a few pictures, which should make their way on my flickr page in due course. There's one I thought captured Natchez:



It's a beautiful, historic town that wasn't bustling with any familiar pace. I wouldn't call it neglected; it's just been there long enough to have the dirty turn into interesting. In my mind, there's "new dirty" and that's just dirty. It's supposed to be clean and it isn't. It's wrong. Then there's the "old dirty" which has had a chance to develop some character. It's like those wrinkles caused from squinting into the sunshine. They are in just the right places and show that your lips and eyes and cheeks follow familiar paths to a smile.




*The mansion in the background is Rosalie.
*Update (the set of Natchez photos on flickr can be seen here.)

This Is Not A Bill

So. This is getting a little out of hand. I began this blog a couple of years ago in an effort to write more, to feel better about writing more and because I can't really keep up with the scrapbook. I haven't posted in over a month and realizing this, I've decided to do something drastic. I've joined NaBloPoMo. Even with the ENTIRE month of November looming, I couldn't let October end without a post.

I've been a little afraid to sit down in front of a blank screen and a keyboard for fear of what inappropriate content may seep through my fingertips well-versed in type. I haven't been confident in my ability to edit myself. It was just easier to stay away than to feel like I was leaving something out or trying to type around the elephant in this room. Deciding to challenge myself by committing to post every day in November, I've basically decided to work a little harder in that editing effort. In the end, I know I'll feel better. I've missed this small, little outlet. I've missed contributing my pieces to the universe of useless data out there.

There are a few things in this world that I'll never understand. Instead of having them explained to me, I'd MUCH rather complain about the fact that I don't understand them. That's usually much more fun. And funny. I don't understand why, while on our daily walks, when Cody runs out of pee, he will still stop at everything he deems pee-worthy, lift his leg and wait for the pee that would have come. I don't understand why I'm only 5'2" and I don't understand why the doctor will send you something detailing a variety of costs, procedures and insurance information if above it all it states, "This Is Not A Bill." O.k. So, this is not a bill. This is not a lot of things. This Is Not A Shoe. This Is Not A Software Program. This is something that is useless to me.

As you may have guessed, we received a "This Is Not A Bill" sheet of paper in the mail this afternoon. It was accompanied by another sheet of paper marked, "This Is A Bill." The total was -$56.80.

I don't understand that.

I Like To Sweat

These are my running shoes.

About two weeks ago I began going to the gym. Again. Again. You see, we have never stopped our membership at the local gym. Every month I see that money (our dues) leave my checking account and I thought that simple fact would motivate me to "get my money's worth" because I'm totally that kind of person, but that psychology hasn't worked so well for the past 5 years. We haven't stopped our membership because of the fact that I MIGHT want to go or I'll eventually go AND because if you try to stop your membership they send Uncle Nunzio to your house to help you change your mind. That usually works.

Eddie and I get in little gym jags when the guilt of not going has built up to a point where we HAVE to go just to get rid of it. Kind of like the dentist. You pay for that torture too.

These past two weeks I've been going every day that I can (even on weekends) in an effort to feel better in general. IF I happen to lose a few pounds in the process, then I can find it in my heart to accept that.

Our gym recently opened up a satellite location just for us girls. Chicks are great and all but the fact that it opened almost DOWN THE STREET is a huge plus for me. It's really just one less excuse not to go. I've never been to a chick gym before. The biggest differences are that there are no sports magazines and there are more than enough fans circulating air everywhere. You can't be in any work out area without feeling the breeze of a nearby fan. I'm not worried about my hair; it's the fact that when I'm finished running I don't step off of the treadmill wearing the badge of having worked out - the extremely sweaty shirt. When I come home from the chick gym, Cody gives me the sniff-down and treats me like some sort of salt lick. I don't care for this.

For now I'll have to settle for the sweat-drenched sport bra and a nice, quick shower after the gym.

On Being Me

Two evenings ago I came home from work, walked the dog, rested a bit and changed into those clothes you change into when you know you're not going to be leaving the house anymore that evening. I put my hair up in a ponytail, put the fluffy socks on and got comfortable.

Then someone called. It was some of our friends and they were game for sushi. In like an hour. I LOVE sushi. Once Eddie got home from work and was excited to get out for the evening I actually had to get dressed. Again.

I threw on some pants from the work day and dressed them up with a few choice accessories and a shirt/sweater thingy. I wasn't confident so I turned to my loving husband and asked, "How do I look?" We were almost running late and I'd hate to think he took that into account when he answered, "You look great."

We get into the car and I have to check the second half-hearted make up job of the day in the flip down mirror on the passenger's side every five minutes on the way there. I still wasn't confident, so I asked Eddie that question again. I got the same answer. I wanted him to find something wrong so I could fix it. Anything.

We finally get to our destination. We get out of the car and are walking toward the restaurant through the parking lot. I ask him again. He smiles and gives me the same answer. Now, I know he loves me, but what did I really expect him to say? We were AT the restaurant. Even if he had found something wrong with the make up or the outfit or the... anything, what was I going to do about it then? I told him so and he laughed. He grabbed my hand and led me through a group of people blocking the entrance. He kept smiling.

I'm glad he loves me.

I'm glad the light wasn't very good in the restaurant.

The Donut Letter

So. I go to the mailbox this afternoon after a brisk walking-of-the-dog. The walk was short because Cody is irrationally afraid of rain. Or wind. Or of any discussion involving rain or wind. When it thunders, he crawls right under the bed and puts his paws directly over his shaggy eyebrows to block out the world.

I remove the mail and start to flip through the envelopes and flyers. There's an envelope from the holder of my student loans telling me that another month's worth has been electronically zapped from my checking account. There's an invitation to the Annual Red Apple Sale from some store, a letter from the church and an invitation for my husband to receive Playboy, delivered directly to our home, for one year for only ONE DOLLAR. I put that aside for his review. I decided then to open the letter from the church. Our address was hand written on the envelope. How often do you see that anymore? It deserved my attention.

Inside the envelope were two letters. Both began with, "Dear Volunteer." That's right. I volunteered for things. Things I would eventually have to do. It's really great to feel like you've done something already when you sign up to volunteer. It feels good to sign up. Then the letter comes.

I have obligated myself to bring donuts to the casual church service once every few weeks. I have to bring 3 dozen when it's my turn. I have volunteered to EAT donuts. That's what I've done. Those girls in Playboy, they eat donuts, don't they?

The Secret To A Happy Marriage

I think I've figured this one out and I'm gonna spill the beans. Get this:

Each person has to genuinely think that they got the better deal.

That's it. I think that attitude propels you toward being better for your husband or wife every day.

By the way, I TOTALLY got the better deal. I win. It is all about winning.

Some Things Should Come With A Warning Label

WARNING: Do not watch all available DVD seasons of "24" in a 5 week span. It's an emotional hazard.

I have recently finished the 5th season of "24." Now, I DID watch as many episodes as I could each evening and every chance I got until I HAD to sleep or eat or go to work. I watched them back to back to back, season after season until I hit the end of season 5. The entire season 6 isn't out yet or I'd have devoured that one too. Truth be told, I'm a little relieved that it isn't available for a while. I could stand to get off of the emotional roller coaster for a bit.

I have another confession. I left Eddie in the dust about 3 seasons ago. At first, the decision to begin the "24" adventure was made by the both of us. That first season was something we would look forward to enjoying together - until Eddie started with the dreams that someone was trying to kill him and that he was constantly in danger, which happened about mid-way through the second season.

He knew I was "involved" with the show and put up with my new addiction because he knew it would run its course. Eventually. I probably should have stopped watching with him because I got really involved. Too involved. It's all I wanted to do.

What's she doing?
She's watching "24."

Now that I'm at the end of a harsh season, having seen the little prequel clip on You Tube for the next seemingly harsher season, I've been down lately. Not just the kind of down you'd expect to experience from a t.v. show, but I think I've been just a little depressed. My empathy for this character is crippling. Can't this guy be allowed a little happiness? Just a little? AND they killed Edgar. That was exceedingly harsh. I didn't just get the television viewer's dose of harsh, weekly surprises, I got a concentrated pill that hit my stomach like a rock.

Now I'm in some sort of withdrawal to boot. Do they make a drug for that?

Maybe I can borrow some one's "Dawson's Creek" series or something. I hear there are fewer torture scenes.

Wit

Eddie: *Sneeze. *Sneeze. *Sneeze.

*Sneeze.

ktm: Are you alright?

Eddie: Apparently, I'm allergic to whatever time it is.

Still On The Crack

It's 11:33pm this evening. One of my co-workers has lent me the 4th season of 24. I'm up having watched the first 6 episodes this evening. So, I MAY have a little crush on Jack Bauer.

Is that so wrong?

It's Like Crack. Or So I've Heard.

Recently Eddie and I have been hooked on 24. Yes, I said, "recently." We didn't really find the time to watch it before. The truth is, to me, it didn't really look that interesting. But now, NOW I'm one of THOSE people. Except I'm like 6 years behind.

One of our friends has the DVD set so we've got this free, commercial-free source of entertainment. Right now, however, Eddie is not here. He's been 'not here' a lot this week in the evenings because of obligations at work. That's fine and all, but we kind of have this unspoken trust that neither of us will watch another episode without the other one. It's fun to watch it together. It's fun until one of us isn't here. Like now. Right now, when I NEED to know what's happened to Jack Bauer. Kim's gotten into some kind of dog trap in the woods and President Palmer is in danger. Somebody's lying to him. I've got to know who. Now.

There's the garage door. I sure hope you're not tired. We're gonna watch. I'll hold your eye lids open.

I love you.

No Expiration Date

I still mean to keep the promise that's engraved on our rings, "Mine." Five years and counting, my Sparky.

Happy St. Valentine's Day

"Happy Valentine's Day. I bought you a house."

"That's funny. I bought you the same thing."



I love you, Mr. Manes.

Okay, So I Almost Forgot My Password To Post

I don't want to disappoint my only 2 loyal readers out there. I have a quick update: We closed on our new house on January 26, 2007. The bank now owns our home. It really is the American dream. We haven't moved yet. In fact, we really haven't even packed a single thing. We're giving the current occupant more time to move...more on that later.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.

Before January Is Over

It's usually around this two week mark that I get the itch to post. Maybe it's not an itch...it's a guilty type of tickle.

Early last week Eddie and I signed a purchase agreement on another house. This is the second time we'll be going through this whole process. I haven't really let myself get excited about this one. That last experience kind of ripped my heart out just a little. I'm holding my breath. We haven't packed anything yet. If all goes well, we'll be moving in a little over two weeks. TWO WEEKS.

Chocolate Cake For Breakfast

The cake had a dense and perfect crumb. It was rich with smooth, decadent chocolate frosting. It was warm and wonderful complimented by a chilled glass of milk. My husband bought them for me.

Happy new year E. I love you.

And The Winner Is...

My doctor's nurse called my cell phone last week while I was at work. I recognized the number. I don't know too many people who would recognize the number to their doctor's office when it appears on their cell phone. I suppose that puts me in an elite few. Yes, I'll choose to look at it that way.

She had the results of my recent MRI. I braced myself for the answer, the solution to all of my pain was around the corner, it was in the next breath of this stranger.

"Well, the Dr. has reviewed the results of the test and she's concluded that everything is absolutely normal. There are no herniated or bulging discs or any other abnormalities detected by this test. Everything looks great."

I crumbled. Now, it's not that I WANT something to be wrong with me. Something IS wrong with me. No one is able to find it. I don't think there are many more times in my life when I've been this frustrated. Not until the nurse recommended seeing a pain management doctor.

A pain management doctor. Why don't they just send me to a hypnotist? Maybe they can convince me that I don't have any pain since the only physical evidence is my wincing when touched and frequent tearing up when asked to pick anything up that weighs over 10 lbs. No convincing physical evidence anyway.

A pain management doctor. That recommendation means only one thing to me: I will have this pain forever, that everyone has given up and that I am now expected to learn how to "manage it." O.k. So that's three things.

Sorry Cody. No college for you. Mama's going back to the physical therapist.

Four New Loves

Late last week my Grandmother-in-Law took me on our yearly shopping trip for Christmas presents. She'd rather experience each grandchild's joy as she buys us presents that we pick out than to try to think up the perfect present. She also gets to spend time with us individually this way. That is rare with as many grandchildren and great-grandchildren she has. She'll pick me up,we'll do the shopping, then it's out to lunch. It always turns out to be a healthy dose of quality time. This year, she asked me what stores we'd visit. I had a grand idea. Shoe stores.

I'm lucky because my 84 1/2 year old Grandmother-in-Law is quite stylish. She's hip. If I had a petite size 2 frame and size 5 feet, I'd be shopping in HER closet. So when I mentioned shoe shopping, she was game. In the first store, (it's never just one store) we picked out these little beauties.

I didn't own any green shoes, nor any shoes with large, multi-colored beads, so these were a welcome addition to my stash. Oh, and 20% off. Score.

The next store was one chosen for its proximity to the parking space we found, (which were in short supply) not because it was one of the original candidates, but boy did it pay off.

Ladies: These were SEVEN dollars. Seven. I'll go ahead and say it. Payless. Payless rocks.

Pointy, black and sparkly. I love them.

These are my new neutral shoes.

There was one other from the day, my first pair of boots. Well, not actually my VERY first pair of boots, those were the obligatory pair of Doc Martens added to my stash in high school. I still have them. No, these boots are pointy and girly and fabulous. Very winter 2006.

Thanks Mama. I love you.

This Is Not A Bill

I had my first MRI this afternoon. It was loud.

After a not-so-great half day at work, I rushed (sped) to my 2:15 appointment in Radiology on the second floor of one giant, medical building. I was checked in quickly and directed to the appropriate waiting area where I focused on calming myself in preparation for being shoved into a small, whirring, metal tube for the upcoming half hour. Naked. And cold.

Well, not totally naked. I had one of those open-to-the-world medical gown thingys and I was given a sad excuse for a blanket.

When my name was called from the waiting area, that moment where we all feel like "The Chosen One," I took a deep breath. Mind over matter. At least I didn't have to get on a scale. I was led all the way around the building through a maze of hallways, down some stairs and then OUTSIDE. At first I thought this was some kind of evil prank...or maybe the nurse who called me was actually a serial killer who had a car running at the back entrance waiting to abduct me. Instead I was led to what looked like a FEMA trailer IN THE PARKING LOT. I climbed up the stairs and the door opened to what looked like the set of an early Star Trek film.

I was instructed to remove my earrings, glasses, shirt, pants and bra after being quizzed again about the authenticity of my body parts. Apparently these giant magnets are pretty powerful and might extract artificial metal parts inside my body. Scary picture.

Scared of unauthorized metal insertions I may have forgotten about or may have never known about, I situate myself on a tiny sliding bed under the direction of the tech. There are plastic panels to hold my head in place, sort of like stationary book ends. As I was rolled into the tube, I realized why some people may freak out. It was close quarters in there...and loud. I was rolled back out of the tube and given ear plugs (a welcome gift), then rolled right back in...where I remained motionless abiding by the instructions of the tech.

What do you feel like doing when someone tells you that you absolutely can't move? Yes. I wanted to move. I needed to move. My nose itched, I started breathing faster, my hands twitched and I wondered if "don't move" included my eyes. It was a question I forgot to ask before the test began and consequently couldn't ask because I couldn't move my mouth. So I closed my eyes and eventually the whir, muffled by the ear plugs, put me into a light sleep.

Then it was over.

I quickly dressed (because there was an older gentlemen already getting prepared for his exam in this teeny, tiny trailer and no one seemed to remember or care that I wasn't yet dressed).

I was happy to find out this week, through much jumbled medical jargon, that I have almost met my deductible for the year with all of the physical therapy and Dr. visits. My back still hurts. Merry Christmas to me.

We should have results in 2-3 days from this test. My hopes are high for a resolution.

12.18.79

Happy Birthday Russell.

Delayed Reflexes

This is my friend Paige's dog, Daisy. Every time I come to the house, the dog comes to the door to greet me, tail wagging. She sniffs me and follows me closely, all excited as I enter the house. I kneel down to greet and pet her while she leans into the attention. It's not until I sit down to visit that she starts the howling. She howls at me as if I'm an intruder beating her family. Her howls take her front two feet off of the ground as she raises her head and stretches her neck to find the deepest, loudest howl she can muster. You know, because I have offended her and must be punished.

At first, I thought it was just me. That was until another friend of ours came in a bit after my arrival and got the same treatment. Same happy greeting, tail wagging, loving dog until about 2 minutes in. Then the "get out of my house" serenade.

After the guests have come in and the howling has subsided, usually someone in the family will mumble, "It's a little late, Daisy." They think she's just slow.

I think she's just hopeful that everyone coming to visit is there to visit her. Once the petting and attention we pay to her end with the greeting, it is then that we are no longer useful to her. We serve no other purpose than to take her family's love and attention away. She doesn't know it's ever going to end. So, it's obviously time for the guest to leave. Thus the barking/howling/crying.

This dog has been severely underestimated.

My Way

The dryer buzzes. I ask him if he'll help me fold the clothes so we can put in the next load even faster. He sweetly agrees. We drag ourselves to the dryer to fold the load of towels it holds. It's late but we totally need the quilt (currently in the washer) to get a night of sound sleep.

I start folding. He starts folding. We're both folding towels and washcloths, yawning. Then I look over. He's doing it wrong. All of the edges don't line up and the crease isn't there. He doesn't even put it on the pile of all of the other folded towels in the correct way.

He catches me watching him and he stops. He holds up his towel with a humble smirk and says, "I just can't do it like you do it." He feebly tries to *snap* the towel folded as I do and laughs. We both laugh.

I can't believe he loves me anyway.

11.2.82

Happy Birthday Katheryn.

Illegal Block In The Back

This is my back. With tape.

This is my back after that tape was ripped off. Nice, isn't it?

A couple of months ago I started to experience a small pain in the middle of my back. Like most aches and pains at this age, I thought it would just go away. No dice. Finally, after ignoring it to the point of tears one day at work, (not embarrassing at all) I made an appointment with the doctor. Oddly enough she didn't find anything after that lengthy, exhaustingly thorough 5-minute investigation into my pain, so she prescribed a muscle relaxer and an anti-inflammatory and I was on the road to healing.

After all of those lovely pills were gone, I went back to the doctor...to tell her they didn't do their intended job. In spite of all of those nights I fell asleep during dinner, (I'm a bit of a light weight when it comes to medication) my pain was still there and it was worse.

After ANOTHER co-pay, she took some x-rays, told me my spine looked great, renewed my prescription and referred me to a physical therapist.

Enter the tape. Two days ago I finally got to the appointment. The man I met there renewed my faith in the possibility that my pain may eventually go away. In his charming English accent, he asked questions, he evaluated and he found my pain. My initial appointment was 2 hours. I left with that tape on my back. It restricted my movement and taught me how to function during the day without exacerbating my problem.

I am finally on the right road to healing. X marks the spot.

Shoulder Pads Are Back

Designing Women has finally made it back to television. The reruns are back on Nick at Nite. I've only just discovered this treasure, up late this evening. Eddie's at a concert and I can't help but wait up for him.

Julia Sugarbaker was my hero. She was beautiful, confident and sassy, always throwing out the perfect quip with a fair amount of class. I loved watching a show that revolved around a group of strong, southern women.

For 30 minutes it was like, totally rad to go back to 1986. Awesome.

Decisions At The Register

"Oooh! Dill Pickles. In a bag. I'm not sure if I want that or the Peanut Butter Twix."

"I don't understand how, out of everything here, you could be torn between these two things. It confounds me."

Afternoon Wedding

Yesterday afternoon Eddie and I went to an elegant, southern wedding. A friend of ours from high school married a beautiful girl we've never met. It was so nice to be invited to such an event and to see him so happy. As we get older, we get farther and farther away from some friends and closer to others. It's almost impossible, as life takes us all in different directions, to maintain every friendship. I usually know who has a baby and who gets married and maybe when someone's moving, but that's about it.

Everytime I go to an event like this and see familiar faces from the past I usually get wrapped up in memories for a while. Yesterday was a celebration of the present. The memories faded shortly after we left, but I departed holding on to one of the readings the couple selected.

Eskimo Love Song

You are my husband, you are my wife

My feet shall run because of you

My feet dance because of you

My heart shall beat because of you

My eyes see because of you

My mind thinks because of you

And I shall love, because of you

The minister spoke about how each couple that joins together in marriage has to make that commitment everyday. While I sat outside in the sunshine listening to him speak, running my fingers along my husband's back, I knew I would marry the man sitting next to me everyday, every hour, again and again until it was forever.

The Mayonniase Is A Year Old

I've been avoiding the blogging lately. I'm still a little sad about the house situation. The truth is that I still hope we'll get it. In the days after we officially declined to pay too much for the house, every time the phone rang I hoped it was surprising good news. That hope is waning, but it's still there. It makes for a bit of disappointment everyday. I hate how hope can hurt sometimes. It's exhausting.

We were supposed to be moving in this weekend. Poo.

Since this is the first anniversary of Mayonnaise and since I began the story of us with a bit about toast, I thought it would be most fitting to add another.

Cody The Toast Pirate

We've discovered something new about our pup this past week. He's crazy-in-love with toast. He'll do anything for it or ignore anything for it. I was on another breakfast food jag this past week, toast with Brummel and Brown. As soon as the toast pops up from our shiny two slotter each morning, Cody pounces out of the bed. From the kitchen I can hear the initial thump of his body weight on the wood floor and subsequent trot down the hall towards the toaster.

He stands a little too close to me while I butter the toast, sometimes nudging me with his snout, tail wagging hopefully. He follows me to the computer for the morning e-mail check and no longer able to nudge me as he would like, he climbs on the chair.

Before the toast jag, Eddie and Cody usually got up together for the morning walk. As soon as the collar and leash jingled, nothing else existed for Cody but the walk. After he discovered the toast, Eddie has to come into the room I'm in and has to PICK UP THE DOG to remove him from the room housing the toast.

He's a smart dog. He learns fast. I'm convinced that if we stepped it up by putting a piece of chicken between two pieces of toast, that dog would learn to fly.

Know When To Walk Away, Know When To Run

A couple of posts ago I wrote about having lost 4 pesky, little pounds due to us trying to purchase our first home. Two more pounds have melted away in the process, one that has not worked out as we would have liked this time around.

We didn't get the house.

I suppose it's not that we didn't get the house as much as it is they wouldn't sell it to us for a fair, market price. I know there are two sides to every story, but as I don't know their side, here's mine:

Eddie and I LOVED the house. We still love the house. We WANTED to buy the house. We offered lots and lots of money for the house. The seller accepted our offer. (I was so confident that I bought a bath caddy online the next day...you know, for the dream bathroom I was going to own.) The game began.

The first step of any sane mortgage company selected by pre-qualified buyers when an offer has been made and accepted is to get the property appraised. The buyer shells out $350 dollars (or we did) for this particular service. While we were waiting for the appraisal to return, a formality at most as far as we were concerned, we didn't begin to pack. We started to accumulate MORE things, the aforementioned bath caddy, a rather large table for our new entry way, 2 chairs and a lamp (to go on said table) to name a few. I began shopping for curtains, garden furniture, a bath armoire and other odds and ends we NEEDED* (I tend to use this word interchangeably with WANTED or WANT*) immediately.

It was like Christmas and cake-for-breakfast, finding-the-perfect-skirt-on-sale-for-$23-right-next-to-the-perfect-shoes-in-your-size-for-$10, 72°F-and-sunny-all-day kind of time. All the time. Everyday we'd wake up and talk about the new house and what we'd do...in the new house. We'd go to bed talking about what it was going to be like to go to bed in the new house. I mapped out a new route to work (a faster one) from the new house, began to plan the guests we'd have for dinner in our new house, new house, new house, new house. We drove by the new house. Several times. I wanted to see what it was like at night, at 7:00, when the sun was beginning to go down, in the afternoon when people walk their dogs, and anytime on a Saturday. It was our new hobby. We took others down the street in our cars and in caravans of friends driving by to see the house. The traffic on our new street increased 10 fold in 2 weeks.

We were moving into our new house.

Then the appraisal comes in. It's $10,000 lower than our offer. Normally, a buyer would LOVE to see this happen. It means more negotiations with the result in their favor. Nope. Not us. We knew our seller wasn't keen on negotiations. We knew this wouldn't fly. He was firm.

Alrighty. So we consider briefly digging underneath the couch cushions and pulling out the ten grand we hide in there. It's chump change. Then we look lovingly at Cody and realize it's for his puppy college education. That's expensive. But we still want the house...So.

The seller says HE'LL get another appraisal because the one the mortgage company commissioned was FAR too low, an insult. He wants us to have the house so much that he also says if the second appraisal comes in higher than our offer, he'd honor it and we'd close. If it comes in lower than our offer, then he'd concede and we'd close. I figure it's a win-win. Let's pack.

And we wait.

Just so you know, when you're trying to buy a house, everything important will happen on Fridays at 4:30pm so you can agonize over the weekend. Want to guess when the second appraisal came back?

Friday, around 5:45pm:

ktm arrives home after an unusually traffic-ridden commute to a long-faced Eddie. She puts her heavy books down and asks, "What's with the face?"

Eddie realizes that he's got to tell his wife the worst news in a good while. He's known for the better part of an hour that she's going to cry, just pacing the house.

"The appraisal was the same. He's changed his mind and is not going to sell. He says he's just going to rent it for a couple of years."

He knew it would make her cry, but not in a puddle on the kitchen floor.

Yes, I cried. I cried for a while. Friday evening was fun. Saturday was down-right exciting. By Sunday we were resigned to the fact but understandably still disappointed. Then we get a call. It's Eddie's grandmother, who has been acting on our behalf through this process. He's called her and wants to speak with us. She gave us his number and we sat on it for a while.

We didn't want to re-open the wound. We discussed it and decided to stand firm. Our offer would be 100% of the appraised price, but no more. We were already paying closing costs and willing to overlook a few needed repairs. We couldn't let our love for the house cloud our judgment. We had to be able to walk away and we were.

Eddie reluctantly calls and gets bullied. He tells us we should have used another bank (to accept a bogus appraisal he submitted that was $8,000 higher) and insults our budget. (He doesn't have a college-age dog.) Bullying is the only card he has. Except for the one he plays last. He's going to put it back on the market tomorrow!

And he did.

So, we're out $350, some gas money and some tears. Not a bad deal considering we learned a lot for this first try. Eddie and I will buy a house. We're looking and we're ready. Look out.

That's A Good Question

"Celebrity Duets is on."

"Why?"

Butt Quest 3

We got some package of digital cable so we could get the HD channels a little over a month ago. There's this handy little feature that lets us flip through the channels (even the ones we don't get) at the bottom of the screen of the show we're watching. It's a whole new level of flipping for us and sometimes we even forget we have this new tech tool.

This evening, I was flipping very quickly past the channels that we don't get (there are more of those than the ones we do)when I hear, "Stop. Go Back!"

I must have missed a football game or something on one of those ESPNs.

"A little further."

He grabs the remote, just a little excited about what he'll show me when he's reached his destination.

"There it is."

There it was. We can see the names of the shows on the channels we can't get. I'm thinking we're gonna need to change that.

"Butt Quest 3?"

"Indeed. Not one. Or Two. But THREE."

"I guess they didn't find everything they needed to find in the first two."

I have to admit. I'm kind of curious.

Four Pounds Lighter

This morning I got on the scale and it read four whole pounds lighter. That's excellent, but I don't recommend the kind of diet I've tried. Worry, nausea, fear and fright. They work like a charm.

Eddie and I have been looking for a house now for over a year. We were leisurely looking at areas of town and types of houses we'd like just before hurricane Katrina. After the water drained and the dust settled from the storm, we could afford 23% less house in Baton Rouge than before August 29, 2005. Not fun. It's hard not to feel a little selfish about our situation when we know there are thousands of people with a plight far worse than ours.

With the market the way it is in Baton Rouge, there aren't many deals to be had for buyers. The ones that are out there aren't usually listed and require research, correctly placed friends or relatives and a little luck. Eddie and I had to have a little of each.

My father is a realtor. Eddie's grandmother is a realtor. They've both experienced an unparalleled boom in business, both selling and buying, since the storm. I've done research, driving through neighborhoods and constant checking of certain websites to find the house that could be OUR house.

This past Tuesday night, I was checking one of my usual real estate haunts on the web when the cutest little number popped up. It was about 10:00pm and I called Eddie over to the computer to see my find and share my excitement. He didn't have the energy for either, instead going directly to the bed after a long, busy, tiring day.

The next morning at work (Wednesday) I checked the website assuming it would already be sold. I called my father during my afternoon commute, wanting him to come with me as soon as possible to see the house if I could make an appointment. He had several commitments, so I decided to take a little detour and drive by the house, a little out of my way home. I stalked the house, driving slowly by in my car and fell in love with the cute, little neighborhood. I went directly home and called the seller for an appointment. When I asked for a time to view the home, I could hear other voices in the background.

"Yes ma'am. Are you the person who spoke with my wife earlier?"

"Uhhh... No."

"Well, feel free to come on by anyway, there are already several people wandering around looking. We've had an amazing response."

"O.k. Thanks. I'll see you in 15 minutes."

Crap. I knew it. There were already people over there. Vultures. I knew by the time I got there they would have an offer and just shut the door in our faces. We had to run.

When we arrived, there were no other perspective buyers. They didn't shut the door, they opened it wide with big smiles. We walked through the house not really consulting with each other or exchanging any looks. On the walk back to the car I looked at Eddie and we both took deep breaths.

"Someone's going to have to convince me it's a bad idea because I love it."

"Me too. What should we do?"

We both wanted it and knew it would go fast so we called the experts - our families. Eddie's grandmother (the one who just celebrated her 60th wedding anniversary) is still a full-time, successful realtor and a bulldog of a grandma who loves her grandchildren. She made an appointment for herself the very next day (Thursday) at noon. Meanwhile, I was on the phone with lenders trying to get good faith estimates and everything in order to leap into action when necessary.

The result of grandma's meeting with the seller was inconceivable. She made an offer on our behalf resulting in a verbal agreement with him to sign papers the next day (Friday). Eddie signed that next afternoon and after I got home from work we went over to the house to discuss a few last-minute details then I signed. My life away.

Worry over the amount of money we'd borrow, Nausea over paying that money back, Fear of making the wrong decision so quickly and Fright because everything happened so fast, we didn't have time to think about what we'd missed thinking about.

But it doesn't matter. In a little less than a month we should be closing on our new house (hoping NOTHING goes wrong) AND I've already lost those pesky four little pounds. I'm on my way to a slimmer me with all those beans and rice we'll be eating in the coming months.

It's so worth it.

I Owe Her

I don't know who she is but she saved me today. I was in a public place with a private issue.

Strategy: (1) Go down the vacant hall and enter the fourth door on the left. (2) Head down, no eye contact. (3) Choose an unassuming stall, enter it, close and lock the door. (4) SILENTLY take care of business, tidy up, exit...no one the wiser.

Actual, Real Life:
(1) The hall... not so vacant. I was in a public place. A college campus. During class change. It took some dodging but I was able to enter the fourth door on the left relatively unscathed.

(2) The eyes... LOTS of them. Lots of people in that crowded hall that I had to pass and weave my way around in order to get to that, "Excuse me." "Sorry." "I need to get over THERE." "Yes, I need to go in THERE." door.

(3) The stall... all were ASSuming. The doors don't really close, nor do they lock so I find myself in a precarious position of balance and contortion in order to secure my privacy in an effort to transition seamlessly to #4.

(4) The noise... So. I get in the stall, door closed (sort of) and I know this isn't going to go down as planned. There are waaay too many people in the bathroom for this to be any kind of a stealth-like mission and I don't know how much longer I can afford to be embarrassed when .....

Whrrrrrrrrrrr

Some anonymous angel, some telepathic, sympathetic girl hit THE HAND DRYER. I know she couldn't have known what a good deed she had just done, but my sin was erased. It was better than erased. It had never happened. I was free.

Girls, the next time you are in a public bathroom and you see those two feet, hoping to remain anonymous when you check under the stall (you know, to see if you're alone), pay it forward and hit that hand dryer. It will make the world a better place.

The Mystery Of The Deliciousness

This weekend I catered an anniversary party honoring the 60 years of marriage maintained by my Grandparents-in-law. (How much I am in awe of that is a different post altogether.) There were roasted and broiled and baked things. There were sliced and stacked and hot and cold things. Lots of people ate and it was good (or so I was told).

This afternoon, when I arrived home after a long day, I caught my husband making sandwiches with the last of the pork leftovers in the kitchen.

"You don't want any...do you?"

"No, you can have it."

"Yay."

"You know, I could teach you how to make that."

Pause.

Silence.

"uh..."

"You don't WANT to learn how to make it, do you?"

Pause.

Silence.

"uh..."

"You would rather smile and eat and let the mystery of the deliciousness remain an unsolvable puzzle, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. I love you?"

I love you too. Enjoy.

Schott's Original Miscellany

Tugs of War

Specifications of competition-grade rope, as prescribed by The
Tug of War International Federation:

The rope must not be less than 10 centimetres (100 mm), or more
than 12.5 centimetres (125 mm) in circumference, and must be free from knots or
other holdings for the hands. The ends of the rope shall have a whipping
finish. The minimum length of the rope must not be less than 33.5
metres.

Clean And Dry

Tomorrow morning Eddie and I have a new (to us) washer and dryer scheduled for delivery. I'm excited not only because we're getting new stuff, because getting new stuff is always fun, but I'm excited because they are free. I like free stuff. Eddie's grandmother has connections and we are often offered free stuff. Most of it we don't need or want, but we're smart enough to keep that pipeline open for things like... A FREE WASHER AND DRYER.

Score.

Our old clean-and-dry duo was old. I don't know exactly how old but they're both white, not avocado or mustard, so they're probably not as old as me but old enough to have to operate the dryer knob with a pair of smart grip pliers. I already love that memory.

I have a small amount of letting go to do when it comes to these appliances. We're certainly going to pass them on to someone who can use them because they still work well enough for the effort. It's a bit easier to give them rather than throw them away. It isn't like me to get the least bit emotional over a set of old appliances, but my PARENTS gave them to me.

This fact isn't what it seems. My parents never really had a lot of money. When Eddie and I got married, they didn't have ANY money. My parents are the kindest, most giving, appreciative people I've ever met. No matter the situation, they still believe they've been blessed in life. I've still got a lot to learn from them. Eddie and I paid for the majority of our wedding. It killed my parents that they weren't able to provide me with everything they thought I wanted with money they didn't have, so they used their talents to contribute.

One afternoon shortly before the wedding, my dad was on the way home in his Ford F150 and passed a pile of junk at the end of someone's winding, southern drive. In that pile, he saw our future washer and dryer. He turned around and gathered the discarded items into the back of his truck in hopes that he could give them new life in his work shed. He cleaned them inside and out, replaced various belts, knobs and hoses and presented us with a working pair.

They've worked for the past 4 years.


Thanks Mom and Dad. Thanks for always keeping me safe, loved, clean and dry. I love you too.

---ktm

It's Never The Right Thing To Say To A Naked Woman

"You look like a football player."




Even with my clothes on I don't want to hear that sentence, unless it's a comment on the hugeness of the many diamonds I'm wearing or on the speed and grace I have while running. Since I've already got a bit of the "wide shoulder" thing happening with my frame anyway, AND since I've often used the term "football player" to describe myself in jest, you can imagine how much I welcomed this comment. Naked.

Fear not. Eddie came into the bathroom while I was taking a bath and had just splashed water on my made-up face. The mascara was running and THAT is where he got "football player..." From those black thingys they wear under their eyes. It was all laughs after that.

But those 2 seconds before he could explain, I was trying to figure out just how he would fit in the toilet and how much I could get for all his clothes and musical equipment.

If A Group Of Lions Is Called A Pride...

Then what do you call just one lion?

Proud.

While on vacation, we visited the Brownsville Zoo. In almost every city we've lived in or visited, we've been to the zoo. Eddie loves the zoo. Loves it. That is something I find so endearing about him. He's got a genuine, innocent glow when he's watching the animals. I like to see him there and witness the child-like joy.

If he can watch those stinky animals...in the heat... and find a smile, then I know he's going to make an exceptional father.

Pillow Talk

"I went ahead and bought one of those fluorescent lanterns while I was at the store today seeing as how last year, just before the hurricanes, they were all sold out."

"Good call."

"It takes 8-double D batteries."

"What?"

"It takes a lot of batteries, so we should make sure we're stocked up on those too."

"Did you say, 'double-D'?"

"Yes, double-D."

"I don't think they make double-D batteries. It's just D."

"They make AA batteries."

"But that's not how that works."

"I was going according to breast-size. You know they have Es and Fs now too."

"Batteries?"

"No. Breasts."

"When do you think they'll start naming them after planets? Size Jupiter."

What's The Date?

June 30th. That's 1..2..3...42 days since my last post. After the first few days it was hard not to bow my head in shame when I went to check my e-mail and didn't go to my blog. After the first week it was like I was forgetting something... like I KNEW there was SOMETHING I didn't do, but the dog was fed, the cell phone bill was paid, everything was done. It was the second week when the guilt set in. Then I had to wait for something monumental to come back with, something that was worthy of the extended absence I had taken, but every story built on what I hadn't reported the day before or the week before and explaining it all seemed too overwhelming. It wasn't even that I didn't want to sit down and write, I didn't want to sit down and THINK about any of it. I had lived it and that was enough. I had pictures to edit, events to document and it didn't seem fun anymore, it seemed like work.

So I avoided it.

There was always something else to be done, something else that couldn't be left undone to set time aside for this. I admit that I have missed it.

My last entry was on my 30th birthday. This decade is going to be one for the blogs.

(For those of you who missed out on my skating birthday party, I highly recommend renting out the rink for your friends sometime. I left there with one burning question..."What if the Hokey-Pokey really is what it's all about?")

They Say It's The New 20

I used to worry a lot. I remember specifically when I was in the third grade, I worried about everything so much so that I had trouble sleeping. I worried myself right into success in things like school and friendships because I was so afraid of being bad at something, like I would end up in a pit of hungry tigers or worse if I failed. Luckily during the school years, there are things like grades and parents and peers to measure up against and to tell you whether or not you're doing a good job in life. I usually got the 'thumbs up.' I never saw a tiger (except at LSU and the zoo).

I liked being graded. It was concrete evidence that I was a success, or more importantly, proof that I wasn't a failure. Even with all of that positive feedback, I wasn't really concerned with being great, I just wanted to know I wasn't awful. I guess you could call it, "perfectionistic minimalism." I had to be perfect just so I could know I wasn't a failure, but I didn't quite want to succeed because that would be too much stress, too much pressure...more things to worry about.

Classic ktm story:

I was in the first part of elementary school when they tested me for Gifted and Talented classes. I remember the speech therapist, Ms. Polk, brought me into a little office/closet and asked me a bunch of questions like, "Who was Abraham Lincoln?" (I still don't know how knowing who Abraham Lincoln was had to do with my ability to do advanced math for my age, but whatever...) I remember thinking that if I answered all of these questions correctly, things would change and I might have to leave some of my friends. I also struggled with the instinct of trying to please all of the adults around me that I didn't want to throw the ENTIRE thing, so I compromised and answered about half of the questions right. I got what I wanted and didn't wind up having to leave all of my friends. Surprisingly, I was the only kid in the advanced reading group and the advanced math group NOT in Gifted and Talented classes.

I'm 30. Today. I don't worry about most things like I used to. Failure isn't as scary anymore, I suppose because now I've got 30 years of not-failing to back me up. When I was younger, I'd just look forward and see I had more time to mess up. Now that I'm this far through life, at least I've got all of that to fall back on.

It's harder to find a measuring stick for success or happiness once you're out of school. I don't get graded on my job or on my ability to be a good wife or daughter or friend. For the first few years of our marriage, I was trying to figure out how to measure our happiness. I knew that I was happy and that I loved my husband, but how did you measure that? Where was the grade that TOLD you you were doing a good job? A happy husband? No, that couldn't be it. A satisfying love life? No. I needed a stamp, a certificate or finally someone to tell me, lovingly, that I was insane. Thankfully I had Eddie. He helped me to measure our happiness by forcing me to answer the question, "Are you happy?" over and over again until my answer, "Yes." finally rung in my own ears.

He's never really been concerned about how to measure it. He just knew. I envy that.

I do worry a little...I guess that's how I'm built. Now that I'm 30, I feel a bit rushed. We don't have any children, not even any on the way, not even any time soon. I look ahead at that magic number 35, which just leapt closer because there's no longer a 2 in the front of my age. 35 is that scary number in my head when it's too late to have children. It's SO close and we haven't even started.

I just ran into a friend that I haven't seen in years. She's pregnant with her third. Her third. We're the same age. I don't like that measuring stick. I AM insane. Do I want three right now? No. Do I want one someday? Yes. Do I still feel rushed? Yes.

I think it's time for Eddie to ask me that question again.

Our Little Experiment

Three weeks ago, Eddie and I were talking, tossing around the idea of at least 1 TV-free night a week. After very little discussion, we decided to implement it the very next day, a Tuesday. Every Tuesday since then, including this one, has been Tv-free.

In a strange way it feels like a night off, like we've been given a free evening. I expected to feel deprived of the luxury of escape. Maybe I did feel that way...for the first 5 minutes. Then Eddie and I started to talk. About everything. We talked for hours, sat with Cody on the couch, prepared dinner together and I fell in love with my husband all over again once upon a Tuesday night.


However, this is still my favorite t-shirt.

We Drug Our Dog. Will That Make Us Bad Parents?

We live in an older home, one that was built in the early 50's. It has hardwood floors that creak,(which I love) plaster walls, some beadboard and is set up, off of the ground about a foot and a half. All of this history and charm is lost on Cody when it rains or when the wind blows faster than 10 miles an hour. He is inconsolable when it thunders, or when a particularly loud car drives by. He shakes and cries and pants. It isn't the shaking or the crying or the panting that bothers us, it's the fact that he has to shake and cry and pant ON us. Not NEAR us, but ON us.

It is all our fault. Eddie and I are big softies and always cave to a cute face. We let the dog sleep with us about two weeks after we got him, making that $100 crate suddenly useless. After that first night in the bed, when we asked him to kindly return to the crate the next evening he looked at us like we'd offered him some imitation Greenies. He refused the crate, turned on the cuteness and we caved.

When it rains, he shakes and cries and pants IN THE BED. You know, where we're trying to sleep. He can't be comforted and we can't sleep, so I begin to think about any way possible to end this hell. When I discern that uncharacteristic violence is the only way out, (and scare Eddie a little in the process) it's time to explore other options during waking hours when I am not so quick to kill anything in the way of a good night's sleep.

Upon advice from our Vet, when we know it's going to thunder and rain, we give Cody a healthy dose of Benadryl. It works like a charm. All of us can sleep through the rain for the entire night. With hurricane season approaching, I would advise all of my 3 readers to buy stock in Pfizer.

Happy Anniversary To The Man Who Brought Me Those Sweet Smelling Flowers

Happy Anniversary. I'm lovin' every minute of it.

The Day That Everything Fell

It was a lazy Saturday around here. I went to bed a little early for me for a Friday night; my head hit the pillow at 10pm. I woke up early, well rested and ready to face the laundry and dishes that tend to pile up during the week. Once I got out of bed, I rounded the corner and went into the bathroom. This is an important part of my morning ritual in more ways than one (or two. hee hee). I take a magic pill in the morning. This magic pill is extremely difficult to pry out of its safe little package with my mere mortal finger, so I use a highly specialized tool for such a job. My toothbrush. I use the end to gently push the pill from the package onto my palm. Only people trained in this method should attempt such a task. I should have been trained.

As soon as the pill fell safely into my hand, my TOOTHBRUSH jumped from my grip, did a few gravity-defying turns in front of my face and flung itself directly into the TOILET. THE TOILET. My toothbrush was in the toilet. Not only was my toothbrush in the toilet, I had to extract my toothbrush from the toilet. I quickly built a make-shift extraction device, got the toothbrush out and threw it away.


I went directly into the bedroom because I couldn't live another moment without telling Eddie what had happened. When he heard me tell the story, it would be instantly funny. It was.

About 20 minutes later, I was concentrating on a task when I hear, "Oh No!" coming from the bathroom.

I ran to the bathroom door to see my half-naked husband getting ready to shower. He was holding something in a towel, cringing and smiling at the same time.

"I dropped it."

"What?"

"I dropped it in the toilet."

"WHAT did you drop in the toilet?"

"The manual for the D50."


Our toilet is the center of the gravity. Beware.

Spring Has Sprung

This? This is my dog, or half of my dog. The storm door is closed and on the inside there's a definable doggie nose moisture line straight across. In the background there, that's a sock. Probably one of Eddie's socks, but all socks in the house serve double duty, once they're off the foot or out of the drawer, as Cody's play things. He drags them about the house and we find them in kitchen, outside, in the hall and there, near the front door.

I love that dog.

More signs of spring. The shoes that pile up near the armoire in the living room are a little skimpier.

Teen Years

My friend and I were talking this afternoon and we wandered onto the subject of teen angst. I am increasingly aware of how each day brings me farther away from that time in my life. I can remember it fondly as enough time has now passed.

We talked about (made fun) how her sister-in-law deals with it and how we used to cope. We both wrote sad, sad little poems.

I dug some little treats out.

ktm, circa 16 yrs:

I got bored so
I painted my left hand grey and pretended it was dead.
I couldn't feel my book anymore and I couldn't drive to the grocery store with that hand.
People apologized. I got cards. I held a funeral.
They sent flowers.
I had to tell them it was just a joke.
So I did.
And they laughed.
So I hit them.
With my dead hand.

___________________

ktm, circa 17 yrs:

I struggle so much.
I fight inside my head with that little girl who will have no one touch her. I hate her.
She always wins.

I want to be loved
I want to love

Sometimes I pull my knees to my lips when I'm cold. I can imagine kisses so wonderful between me and another. I can share so much.

I want to share
I want to love

I want to be involved in the night.

I'm scared.
I don't want my heart to skip a beat again. I might like it again. It might want to skip more. Maybe 2 or 5...skipping into the sunset or sunrise, leaving my body lifeless in the absence of its booms.

___________________

ktm, circa 19 yrs:

When the shadow touches the pen, he will know that I have lived. Not just that I have practiced the elementary business of breathing, but that I have envied and feared. He will know that I made the shadow dance forming "E."

Isn't She Lovely

This afternoon at around 5:30 I was taking Cody for his afternoon walk. I suited him up, harness and all, and started out. I didn't make it too far down the driveway before I decided we would go opposite our normal route. I could sense that Cody needed new things to smell (and tinkle on). This took us past Mr. Ivan's house, our neighbor. He's a sweet, old man who takes care of all the neighborhood cats. They hang out at his house during the day to keep him company as he watches over the neighborhood, and hope to get the occasional head scratch. In the evenings they go home to their respective families. I've seen it happen. When he goes inside for the evening, they scatter to different houses on the street. It's like a cartoon. He's the Snow White of our little Drive.

Cody and I pass Mr. Ivan and the cats on our way down the street. I wave and Cody goes bonkers at the possibility of catching one of the cats, so much so that he almost chokes himself on the harness, which was bought to prevent exactly that, so we hurried on.

On our way back home, I decided we'd stop and say, "Good Evening" to Mr. Ivan, no matter Cody's behavior problems with the cats. So we stop and talk. Just when I can't contain Cody anymore and am on my way home next door, Mr. Ivan stops me and says, "I want to thank you for being lovely today. I think it is so lovely when women wear skirts."

I had worn a skirt shopping earlier in the day. It wasn't anything special, I had a T-shirt paired with it and some flip-flops. Hardly glamorous, but he said I was LOVELY. Lovely is probably the perfect word. It wasn't "sexy" or "beautiful" or "pretty." It was lovely. It was a wholesome compliment. Today I have come to the conclusion that every woman should be called "lovely" at least once in her life. It feels lovely.

To My Dearest

To My Dearest, Who Sends Things Like This To Me At Work

I'm in the mood to thank you for loving me. I know that almost four years ago you promised that you would, you even volunteered to do it in front of 400 people. But then, I only had a glimpse of how you would love me. I had no idea.

I always feel considered in your world (except when you turn off the light in the room I'm still in when you leave it...unintentionally).
Thank you for sharing laughs with me everyday (even if most of them are AT, not WITH).
Thank you for cleaning the house when you know I've had a frustrating day.
Thank you for always greeting me first while resisting the cutest dog ever, making him wait his turn.
Thank you for hurting when I hurt and listening to me vent about said hurts endlessly without complaint (and holding my hand while you listen).
Thank you for letting me know that you love me in a new way everyday. (I like the hair brushing and the back scratching, so feel free to repeat a day or two.)
Thank you for breaking into my car that time, just to leave a Valentine's present (even if I returned it for a different one).
Thank you for trying to propose on that one Valentine's day, when I was unconscious because of that emergency dental surgery and all those Percocets, even though you couldn't because I was unconscious...with all the Percocets.
Thank you for waiting for me.

Sometimes I can't believe you love me, especially when I come up with such revelations like, "There is no 'almost fat'," while continuing to pester the dog once he's found his most comfortable spot after I've just eaten half a pint of sorbet and complained that I'm cold...then hot.

Thank you for always getting me a blanket and turning on the fan. That's true love.

At the Car Wash

Wash

Yeah. We TOTALLY made out in the deluxe wash.

One Heapin' Helpin'

After finishing my dinner this evening, I needed something sweet (this is not new). I went into the kitchen to prepare my dessert. I gathered the necessary elements then went back into the living room to sit next to Eddie on the couch and enjoy my creation-o-decadence.

When Eddie looks to his left, where I am seated, I get a head tossed back in laughter. He almost lost his breath. The dog was scared and leapt off of the couch. I'm still sitting there, dessert in hand, wondering WHAT his problem could be.

"Chocolate Frosting. On a Spoon?"

"Yeah."

"You know I almost did that a couple of times, but I held back in fear that you would laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing. I'm eating my frosting."

He doesn't have any sisters. He's obviously never lived with girls.

Another One of Those Times Where I've Burned Off More Than a Few Calories Laughing

Eddie and I were driving home Wednesday evening, just about to turn into the driveway, when I look at my gas gauge and make a proud declaration:

"I got gas on my way home from work."

You see, I HATE getting gas. I HATE stopping for anything when I'm driving. I am usually running late whenever I leave wherever I' m coming from to get wherever I'm going. Not only do I hate to stop, I don't have time to stop. I'm not stopping. This never-leave-on-time habit (attitude) I've developed, I know, is not a healthy one as it often necessitates that I speed.

I've tried to leave early, early enough to have some spare time when I arrive. That time doesn't exist if you don't leave early ENOUGH. How early is that? You could keep pushing your departure time back and back until all of a sudden you've left TOO early. I'm not into too early. I don't like it. When you're too early, what do you have to do? WAIT. What is waiting? It's stopping. That's what it is. Stopping. I HATE stopping. I want to do, go, be, get, walk, run, act.

I suppose it could be a control issue. Being late (or almost late) is all on my terms. Being early is having to contort myself to fit someone else's schedule. Or maybe I'm just late. I haven't decided.

Pointing out to my husband that I have gotten gas that day is code for begging for praise for doing something that I shouldn't need praise for doing. He usually abides and offers a "That's good, Sparky." or an "Excellent.", but not this time. This time his response was an unusual:

"Aw."

I did a double take. I didn't understand what he didn't understand. Then it registered. In his boy world, I had gotten gas on my way home from work. Uncomfortable, stinky gas, not expensive, stinky gas. When we both realized what had happened, I got my affirmation and we both got a great laugh. I love stopping to laugh with my husband. He rocks.

Really.

Overheard:

Her: Why do men like boobs?

Him: Maybe it has something to do with sports. After all, they are soft, round balls. And you can squeeze them.

Admissions of Guilt

1. I took 4 when I should have taken 1.

2. Yesterday on the drive home from work, I was totally speeding and rocking out to Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive." I had Big Hair Attitude.

3. I ordered more hangers. They came in today.

Cody's Routine

6:30-7:00am: Rustle and bustle about in the bed until he gets himself kicked out.

7:10am: Says goodbye to ktm leaving for work; Eddie walks him.

8:25am: Says goodbye to Eddie leaving for work.

8:26-11:29am: Nap.

11:30am: Greet Eddie coming home for lunch.

11:35-12:15pm: Beg for Eddie's lunch / Play outside.

12:25pm: Says goodbye to Eddie going back to work.

12:26-4:37pm: Nap.

4:38pm: Greet Eddie coming home from work.

5:10pm: Bark loudly at the mailman until he vanishes from sight.

5:11pm: Continue barking loudly at what WAS the mail man, just in case he's hiding from immediate view.

5:30pm: Greet ktm as she comes home from work.

5:31-5:45pm: Begs ktm to walk him.

5:46-6:00pm: ktm walks him.

6:01pm: Gets and eats a Greenie for being a "good boy" on his evening walk.

6:05pm: Begs for whatever is being cooked/heated up for dinner.

6:30-7:30pm: Begs while ktm and Eddie eat dinner.

7:31pm: Begins growling at either ktm or Eddie to relinquish whatever is left on their plates or in their bowls because they obviously no longer want it.

7:40pm: Watches hopelessly as the left-over food is put away.

7:45pm: Sleeps on the couch (in the middle) with ktm and Eddie and will growl if interrupted.

9:00pm: Begins to eat dinner.

9:15pm: Play time. Presents any of his toys for a game of tug of war/catch in the living room. Any hints of being ignored are met with a persistence that remains unmatched.

10:30pm: Bed Time.

10:31-10:40pm: Hunts for the "perfect spot" underneath the covers, making sure to take over just enough of both sides of the bed so he's forcibly removed from aforementioned "perfect spot."

10:50pm: Sleep.

Somewhere between 11:00pm-5:00am: Gets up and steals whatever food has been left on the coffee table, drinks some water and comes back to bed.

6:30am: The rustling begins again.

I Saw, I Ordered, I Became One Of THEM

This picture is evidence that I have ordered and received my Huggable Hangers. This is not the result of sitting up on a sleepless night transfixed and mesmerized by infomercials. (Although that does happen on occasion.) I resist the urge to order just anything that I think could improve our daily lives. We DO NOT own The Little Giant, the Ab Roller, the Magic Bullet, the Power Juicer or any Winsor Pilates tapes. To date I have only ordered a shredder and some dryer lint brush thingy (to prevent house fires with my new lint-free dryer).

However.

The impact of an actual closet organizational system on one's life cannot be denied. This kind of product is any neat freak's realization of a twisted wet dream. All the hangers are the same size, the same color, and the clothes hang the same distance from the rod. I can now hang 14 sweaters in the same space that 7 hung before. Living in a home that was built way back when people apparently had NO CLOTHES (my closets are small), these are an incredible space-saver. That logic makes it easier to justify this purchase. My husband goes along with this gleefully because I do the laundry and the ironing. If I want new hangers, he knows good enough to nod and smile and get out of the way.

See. This is my closet - on neato steriods.




Tell me you don't want them.

The Big Game

This past Tuesday night I went to my first ever high school basketball game. "How can this be?" you ask? I went to a high school where they didn't have such things. No basketball, no football, no baseball. We had a Chess team though. Really. I went to a performing arts/magnet high school where those three sports were considered distractions to our academic pursuits.

One of our friends is a teacher and a coach at a local high school. From what I understand, his team is consistently the underdog. This year they made it into the playoffs so Eddie and I wanted to take the time to support him and his team by going to the big game.

When the night of the game rolled around, I was a bit nervous. I was going back to high school. It was like I was about to travel through time. It didn't matter that it wasn't my high school or that I wouldn't know a soul except for the coach and his wife. It mattered that I was going to a place where I assumed I wouldn't fit in. As we strolled towards the gym from the parking lot, I felt like I was in some kind of high school movie. There were cheerleaders in uniform congregating near the back of a truck filled with fans. They were chanting a team cheer and playing high intensity music. I held Eddie's hand and let him guide me, like a tourist in Times Square, so I could look around without worry of bumping into anyone or hitting my nose on a tree.

When we got into the gym everything was so real. This was a real high school. I couldn't get over it; I couldn't take it in fast enough. There was a concession stand, (nachos!) players in uniform, parents dressed in team colors, photographers, loud music and mascots. I loved it.

[Reading these paragraphs back to myself, it certainly

seems as though I was raised with the Amish or in

some communist country. I assure you, my high school

life was far less interesting than those.]

We sat with the coach's wife and the team videographer. They just happen to sit in the opposing team's fan section. This is so she can sit behind her husband and the videographer has a perch with the best view. Eddie and I wanted to experience the experience, and in an effort do that we could rationalize concessions. For me, that means nachos. I was able to resist the giant pickle, but it was a close call. When we returned to our seats, it was evident that we were in the parent section. I immediately deemed this the most interesting - sitting in the visiting parents section. I couldn't wait to see how these people reacted to the game. Bring on the stereotypes!

I didn't know they would actually show their faces. For the first quarter, I was concentrating more on my nachos in an effort to leave the game without wearing most of them. My parent-watching wasn't in full swing until the second quarter, but the way-too-into-the-game-grandmother showed her colors early on. She could whistle. Not the "put your lips together and blow" whistle, but the ear-drum piercing, want to throw your drink at her head, two finger in the mouth, spawn from decibel hell. Of course, she sat directly to the right of us.

On our left was dad-of-the-star-of-the-opposing-team. The other kids on his son's team could do no right. I knew it was dad-of-the-star-of-the-opposing-team when he stood up and yelled, "What? Are you STUPID? THROW THE BALL! You're a high school player. You should know better than that crap! Give Tyler the ball!" He almost hit the coach's wife with his elbow as he stood abruptly, putting his hands on his hips in consternation. He didn't look like he was having much fun.

In the end, our team lost on a bunch of sucker fouls (me and the lingo!) and only a few points. As we were leaving, we passed some tearful cheerleaders planting their faces into the chests of strong men and the room where our friend, the coach was helping to console his players. I was a little sad too. It would've been nice to see the underdog win.

My role in the high school movie ended as I walked out into the same parking lot, weaving through weary fans, tightly holding the hand of the man I searched for back in Amish country. We'll both be going back to high school next season to root for our friend and our team.