Second Trip

I failed to mention in my last post that Seth was diagnosed with acute bronchitis. "Acute bronchitis? That's different than ugly bronchitis isn't it," Seth asked as we left the ER that night. I laughed till I almost cried.

"No son. It means you have a severe case of bronchitis." What I didn't know at the time was acute bronchitis is highly contagious. There was something about the diagnosis that gnawed at me. We've had bronchitis before, but they've never called it "acute."

When we arrived home, I looked it up on the trusty internet. Great. Now everyone in the family will get it, I fumed. The dawn of the next day did not bring good news. Not only was Seth hacking his head off, he was throwing up too. Motrin was not controlling his fever, so in the early afternoon, I left Robert with my hubby, and off we headed to the ER again.

The day before we only had to wait an hour, this time the ER waiting room was wall-to-wall people, and we had to wait seven hours; not fun when you have a sick, bored and cranky child. I tried to started a conversation with a young boy seated near me, but the mother glared at me and moved with child to another part of the waiting room. "What's her problem? I was just being friendly," I huffed.

Seth, who had been dozing in a chair beside me, opened his eyes and studied my appearance. "Probably because you look like crap," he reasoned before shutting his eyes and resuming his nap. No way, I can't look that bad. Curious, I went to the bathroom to check out my reflection in the mirror. My short hair lay on my head like a mound of melted dark chocolate, and dark circles were under my eyes, giving me that hated raccoon look. I left the bathroom and back to my seat, wishing for a paper bag to put over my head.

A little later, I felt a tightening sensation in my windpipe and chest. I'm very familiar with this feeling. Oh crap! I can't be getting bronchitis! This can't be happening, I thought. Well, I won't let it happen. I set my jaw stubbornly and stomped over to the coffee machine. Maybe some coffee will loosen everything up. Wrong! The coffee was so weak you could read a paper through it, and it did nothing to help me. As time progressed, I began my barking, sea-lion sounding, cough. My entire body ached, and I longed for my bed.

Finally, we were called into an exam room where we waited for another couple of hours. If you're keeping track of the time, you're not mistaken, we waited a total of nine hours; seven in the waiting room, two in the exam. The doctor, a friendly guy, informed me that in addition to having bronchitis, Seth had a stomach virus. Lovely!

After a quick trip to Walgreens to have the script filled, we made it back home at a little after midnight. I soon found out that Robert had bronchitis too, so all of us had a turn with the nebulizer (breathing treatment machine).

This does have it's upside. The kids are better, I'm better and getting some work done on a story I've been putting off.

Going out with a bang

This year is determined to go out with a negative bang. Yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon in the emergency room with my oldest. He has been sneezing and coughing for a few (4) days, and thinking it was allergies, I treated it as such by giving him a decongestant and Benedryl. It seemed to work as first, but yesterday his cough became worse, and he had a temp. His doctor's office was closed, so off to the ER we went.

I prayed it wasn't the flu. Where I live, it's hard to get a shot unless you're elderly, a baby, or in poor health; my sons fit in none of those catagories. They have a history of asthma, but it's not chronic.

I had pneumonia when I was young and almost died from it. Times have changed and medicine has advanced, but when my children have anything wrong with their lungs, I'm terrified. The worrying is probably is uneccessary, but if they were to succumb to pneumonia or anything else . . . My children are my heart, without them I would be an empty shell.

In the ER, I watched my oldest sit in the waiting room, tears streaming down his face. I thought it was because he felt bad; he told me later he was crying because he feared he had the flu, and his brother would catch it. He also admited he was disappointed about delaying our trip out to the Devil's Backbone. I explained that since we lived only 10 minutes away, we could easily go when he was better.

On yet another note, our dog has disappeared. He's been missing for a week now, and with each passing day, the possibility of his returning is slim. There have been dogs stolen out of our neighbors' yards, and I'm afraid it's happened to us too; none of the animal shelters have him. The dog food bowl looks empty, as empty as the place in my heart Blue used to occupy.

Give me a slow-falling rain, and the mournful wail of a steam engine in the distance, and I could write one heck of a country song right now.

Memories

Lately, I have been running non-stop like a car with no brakes. For the past few days, my kitchen has been a beehive of activity. My family and I have been making homemade biscotti, cannoli, and fig cookies to enjoy during the holidays, and to give to friends and neighbors; it's one of our family traditions that I enjoy the most. Stories are told and memories are made as the kids stand shoulder-to-shoulder with us and help with the baking.

Seth no longer believes in Santa, and while that leaves me feeling very old, my heart swells with pride as I watch him lovingly wrap each package of baked goods for the neighbors. Several times during the past few days, he has paused and said, "so this is what Christmas is all about. Makes me feel good to it." That one comment couldn't have made me any happier.

Late this morning we were treated to the comforting smells of the ham, homemade lasagna, and ciabatta bread baking in the oven as we opened our gifts. Robert danced around the room with the presents Santa had left the night before as Christmas carols played in the background. Even though he loves the gifts, he's still at the toddler stage where the boxes the gifts came in are more interesting.

Tomorrow, bags of pretty used wrapping paper will make their way to the end of the drive and await the overworked trashmen. My "monster" Christmas tree stands forlorn in the corner, stripped of the brightly wrapped packages it sheltered with is low-hanging limbs.

Yes, all this will be gone tomorrow, but old memories of Christmas past and the new memories of this Christmas still remain in our hearts.

I hope everyone of you have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Good old Days

I truly miss the "good old days"; the days when people weren't too busy to show their fellow human warmth, and a man's word was gold. I grew up in the 70's on the "tail-end" of that era, but I remember neighbors stopping by to pass the time of day, and the little "mom and pop" stores were thriving. These stores were family run, and had a homey feel when you walked through the days. Not only were the stores the owners' livlihood, they were their passion, and it showed.

Now in the age of progress, many of the small stores have been "out-sold" right out of business. The customers have no time to hear about Martha's cobbler recipe, or John's gardening tips; they instead opt for the speedy and impersonal superstores.

I remember one old store from my youth. It was a two-story rambling country store colored grey by the passing of time and the unforgiving Texas sun. Giant barrels of beans and peas stood in rows in the middle of the store, gardening impliments hung from the walls, and handcrafted kitchen chairs dangled from the ceiling by sturdy leather straps. The store was not fancy, but to a child it was a dream come true. In the front of the store were giant glass jars of any kind of candy you could imagine. The owners were friends of my family, and I often had the joyous privilege of taking a handful of candy out of a jar for myself.

Like the other small stores in the area, this store gave way to progress, and now stands empty; a haunting memory of a gentler happier time. I always had a contented feeling in that store, and was saddened when it shut down. It's been years since I had that same feeling in a store.

Tuesday, after my root canal, John took me to lunch at the CENTERPOINT STATION, located here in San Marcos. The building is a rustic old train depot, decorated with memorbelia from the 1930's to the present. I'm not a huge hamburger fan, but the cooks make their own buns and use real meat; delicious! The other half of the place is a gift shop and fudge store. On this trip, I was introduced to Mr. Warran, the owner. He is a very charming person, a former pro CFL football player, and a friend of John's.

Before we left, he gave us a 5 lb. Texas-shaped tin of fudge of Christmas. I was touched; I guess some things never change after all.

I got this from Tracey's blog, who got it from Jude, who got it from Rhonda.

2005 Year In Review

1) Was 2005 a good year for you?
Any year that I'm still alive at the end is a good one.

2) What was your favorite moment of the year?
There were so many . . . one that really sticks out is getting my story published in Chicken Soup

3) What was your least favorite moment of the year?
my very first book signing

4) Where were you when 2005 began?
at home with my hubby and kids

.5) Who were you with?
Hubby and kids

6) Where will you be when 2005 ends?
I have no idea; probably at home or with family

7) Who will you be with when 2005 ends?
family and/or friends

8) Did you keep your new years resolution of 2005?
Are you serious? No.

9) Do you have a new years resolution for 2006?
No

10) Did you breakup with anyone in 2005?
I ended a friendship with a childhood friend

11) Did you make any new friends in 2005?
Yes.

12) Who is your favorite new friend?
They're all my favorite!

13) What was your favorite month of 2005?
Sept.

14) Did you travel outside of your country in 2005?
No, not this year.

15) What different states did you travel to in 2005?
Louisiana

16) Did you lose anybody close to you in 2005?
yes

17) Did you miss anybody in the past year?
Yes.

18) What was your favorite movie that you saw in 2005?
Hide and Seek

19) What was your favorite song from 2005?
"lIVE LIKE YOU WERE DYING"

20) What was your favorite record from 2005?
I really didn't have a fav record.

21) How many concerts did you see in 2005?
None

22) Did you have a favorite concert in 2005?
N/A

23) did you drink a lot of alchohol in 2005?
No.

24) did you do a lot of drugs in 2005?
No.

25) How many people did you sleep with in 2005?
One.

26) Did you do anything you are ashamed of this year?
No.

27) What was the worst lie someone told you in 2005?
Didn't tell any "devasting" lies.

28) Did you treat somebody badly in 2005?
No

.29) Did somebody treat you badly in 2005?
Still are, but that's life

30) How much money did you spend in 2005?
Not much. I'm pretty tight

31) What was your proudest moment of 2005?
My book signing

32) What was your most embarrassing moment of 2005?
Takes a lot embarress me. . .none

33) If you could go back in time to any moment of 2005 and change something, what would it be?
Giving my former best friend the "final chance" that she asked for

34.) The best thing that happened to you in 2005?
A lot of wonderful things happened; can't name just one

What are your plans for 2006?

Have no idea

Whatcha gonna do when Mama comes for you?

This holiday season has brought my family something that we don't really need . . . allergies. This last Arctic front has caused the mold count to soar through the roof, and my babies are suffering.

Seth started sneezing and hacking first. Oh please don't let Robert get allergies, I prayed. Giving meds to Robert is no easy task. Quite honestly, giving my feisty toddler meds is like a scene from COPS. When he sees the medicine bottle in my hand, the chase is on. With agility that would make my high school track coach proud, I skillfully leap over toys on the floor without breaking stride as I pursue Robert from room to room. I finally apprehend the tiny fugitive and wrestle him to the ground.

"Quit resisting. You're only going to hurt yourself," I reason with the wailing squirming toddler. Finally, no worse for the wear, Robert is released after he gives in and takes the meds. The rest of the day he usually avoids me like the plague. He has never taken meds willingly, and since he is older, this is the only way I can get them in him.

Once, Robert awakened in the middle of the night with an ear infection. So, off to the ER we went. Robert is an equal opportunity bad patient; he treats the doctors and nurses the same way he treats me . . . with screams and struggles. It's a blessing in disguise; because of his bad attitude, the ER visits are always short and sweet. On the downside, the haggard medical staff look like the need a good stiff drink after we leave.

After this particular visit, we went to a local pharmacy to have his scripts filled. At 2 A.M., there was not a long wait, and in fifteen minutes, the scripts were done.

"Give the antibiotic to him three times a day," a pharmacy tech said, looking at her watch. "Since he had a pretty high fever, the first dose needs to be given now."

I gulped. "N-Now?"

"Yep." Oh, is she in for a show, I thought, removing a lethargic Robert from the shopping cart. When he saw the medicine, his entire body tensed, and the fight was on. Down to the floor we went, with him seated between my legs. For one I was grateful of my long legs as I wrapped them around him, pulling him in tight to my torso. With one hand I pinned his arms to his chest as I poured the meds into his mouth. I looked up and saw the tech staring at us and smiling.

Why the heck is she so happy?

"I'm glad I'm not the only one who has that kind of problem," she laughed. "My little one acts like that too."

The dentist told me the other day that I grind my teeth. Hmm. I wonder why? (LOL)

Music to my ears

This week has been full of learning experiences. This past Monday night, while at Seth's band concert, a young lady approached me and thanked me for reading a story of mine to her class last year. She told me remembered the story, then told me several key points. I was moved to tears; there are times when my thought processes are running slow, times I haven't heard from editors in months; in the hazy hours of the early morn, it is these occurrences that make me wonder why I write at all. Thanks to the young lady, I remember.

I write for the sheer joy of it. I like the rush of adrenaline as I create a story. If I have a story idea while I'm at the store, I can't wait to get home and start on it. I sometimes find myself so absorbed in the story that everything else is forgotten. Once, I was writing a horror story for a magazine. The deadline loomed and I was coming up empty; finally the day the piece was to ve turned in, inspiration hit me. I worked way into the night and became so engrossed in the story, I didn't hear John come in the room.

His touch on my shoulder sent an icy chill down my spine, and my heart skipped a beat. "Argh! What the hell do you want?" I blurted, spinning around in the office chair. I thought the icy hand of the corpse in my story had come to life and grabbed me. Watching The Ring a few hours earlier for inspiration had taken its toll on my nerves.

"You don't have to scream at me. It's past midnight and I wanted to know when you plan on coming to bed."

"Soon . . . soon. I'll be there as soon as I'm finished." I completed the piece and scampered off to bed a few minutes later. I'll never watch that movie again. It still has me scared silly.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Late yesterday afternoon, I learned that Seth and his 4-H group were to go caroling at the local nursing homes. I resembled a caffeine-crazed "Kramer" as I buzzed around the kitchen, trying to get everything done before caroling.

Time was ticking away, and just as we were getting ready to leave, Robert zipped out the front door and played a merry game of catch-me-if-you can. Isn't funny how a toddler can outrun an adult for a few yards? I had to break the sound barrier as I raced after him on foot. Finally, after my little jackrabbit was caught and strapped into his car seat, we hastily delivered cookies to neighbors before caroling.

All that rushing around was for nothing. We arrived at the nursing home before everyone else. The home was tastefully decorated, but the mood was depressing as we passed several lonely forgotten residents on our way to the nurses station. I was horrified when the head nurse said that they knew nothing of our group caroling there.

"But you're welcome to walk up and down the halls and sing if you wish," the nurse smiled. "The residents would really love it."

That's what you say know. Wait until I start singing, then there will be a steady stream of bedpans thrown at me, I thought. I can play instruments; as I've said many times before, singing is not my greatest skill.
I was thankful when the rest of the group arrived.

I'll never forget the looks on the resident's faces as we walked by; eyes that were filled with misery lit up in delight as the melodic strains of our singing reached their tired old ears. A woman, bent with age, walked up to every one of us and said, "God bless you." That simple phrase almost reduced me into an emotional wreck. We were the ones that were blessed; we were in the presence of ones who had helped to create our great nation.

I left with a feeling of fulfillment. Once again, the Christmas spirit had touched me.

Majic

I absolutely love this time of the year! Oh sure, I grumble about commercialism at the beginning of the holidays, but it's hard not to get excited as the season progresses. The true meaning of Christmas envelopes me like a shawl and gives me a sense of peace and warmth.

Christmas is a welcome familiar friend to me. With it's arrival on the tails of cooler weather, it brings fond memories of Christmas past, the promise of wonderful times to be spent with family and friends, and family/cultural traditions that are dear to me.

As I look back at events from the passing year, I realize how truly blessed I am. I've made wonderful new friends both online and off, and the bonds of much older friendships have been tested and strengthened.

My extended and immediate family are in relatively good health, and I haven't broken any bones--yet--this year; I did pluck a few plastic Christmas tree needles out of my nose after that fall into the tree though.

I'm still riding on a cloud, because it appears that my writing career is beginning to take off (hopefully). I can't take all the credit. I couldn't have done it without God's help and the support of some wonderful online and offline friends. I'm deeply grateful.

Makes you think

I got this in an email from a friend today. It has a lost of truth to it.




First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank
while they carried us.



> They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes.


>Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based
paints.

>We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking


> As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.


Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat.

>
We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.
>

We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE
actually died from this.
>
We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank soda pop with sugar in it, but
we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!
>
We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.
>

No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.
>
>
We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.
>
We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms..........WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!
>
>

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents.


We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.
>
>
We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes. As well as jumped elastics for hours!
>
>
We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!
>
Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!
>
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!
>

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!
>
>
The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.
>
>
We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned
HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!
>
>
>
And YOU are one of them! CONGRATULATIONS!
>
>You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good.
>
>
and while you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave their parents were.

Thanks for the memories

Thanks for the Memories ...

This came from True Blue Semi-Crunchy Mama/Writes for Chocolate .../Perpetualchocoholic

Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want–good or bad–BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you’re finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.

On another note . . .

I've been in a funk way too long over the Identity theft issue. There are other people out there that have been violated worse then I have, and they re-group and go on with their lives.

I consider myself lucky; the thiefs were not able to access my credit card info, nor my bank account. So, I've decided to be a little more wary, and chalk this whole experience up as a lesson learned. Didn't someone once say "whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger"?

In my opinion, not only do crooks do this greed, they do it for a thrill. I can't help but think that the turd who did this to me sat back and laughed, thinking that he had ruined my holidays. Sorry to disappoint the creep, but that isn't going to happen.

Anyway . . . on to a different topic.

A couple of weekends ago we celebrated an early Christmas with my in-laws and their families at Antonia's, my sister-in-law's, house. Antonia's house looks like a picture out of Martha Stewart Living magazine every day of the year, but this time she really went all out. The entire house smelled of Christmas--yeah I know I write a lot about smells but if you saw my snozola you'd understand--and festive decorations and arrangements were tastefully placed throughout the rooms. The atmosphere was magical; a huge cloak of happiness and love surrounded us all as we sat around the fire recanting memories and enjoyed being together.

My other sister-in-law presented us all with beautiful hand-blown and painted glass vases that she got on her recent trip to Italy. I'll post a picture of it when I get the guts to take it out of the box again; I am soooooo clumsy.

I when it was time to leave. Being with the family was wonderful, and I left at the end of the day with a renewed excitement for the holidays.

My ID was stolen

I never dreamed that it would happen to me. I spoke with my attorney general yesterday, and he said that it happens to thousands of people a day; I'm talking about identity theft.

The other day I received an email from an upset Ebay seller claiming that I owed them money, and they were going to see that my account was suspended. The email LOOKED legit; it had the Ebay logo all over it.

I knew that I didn't owe anybody money, so, like a dummy, I entered my Ebay password and user name and responded. Something didn't feel right, so after I sent the reply, I went back to the message for another look. There in the "To" field was several other email addresses. I had let my emotions get the better of me initially, and had never noticed the flaw.

I contacted EBAY right away. They investigated and said that the email was a hoax, and to run a spyware scan on my computer right away. I felt better when the scan came up clean.

Later that night I opened my email and was horrified to see that several (14) cell phone cameras had been placed on my EBAY account for sale. They ranged from the starting bid of $100 to a whopping $300. The thief had set the auctions up to end within 24 hours; I guess he thought I wouldn't catch it until it was too late.

After being online with EBAY live help for an hour, they confirmed that my ID had been stolen, and they ended the auctions and credited my account for the funds taken from it. I had to change my password on everything.

I feel so violated and enraged. My attorney general advised there's really nothing I can do; most of these scams originate overseas. I'm not going to say what I would like to do if I caught them; my punishment would have made Al Capone beg for mercy. That's not a nice way to think, but I'm still angry. What angers me even more is that I'm not the only victim. If that creep's scam would have gone through and all the phones sold, innocent bidders would have sent their money and gotten nothing in return.

What does put a smile on my face in knowing the turd who did this can't access the account and knows they've been busted.

I changed all my passwords on all my accounts and updated my anti-spyware and virus detecting systems after all this happened.

Moral of the story: Don't click on anything in a suspicious email. I don't want this to happen to all of you.

Excess Baggage

Excess Baggage
By Debbie Roppolo



“I don’t care if it is Friday, I want those reports on my desk first thing Monday morning!” Cheryl McAdams screamed into the phone. She twisted the receiver cord around her finger as she listened to the assistant babble another excuse.

“Oh sure you could have the reports done by Tuesday. Then after you hand them in, you can go home and explain to your pregnant wife why you don’t have a job.” Cheryl smiled as the dejected assistant agreed to have the reports done on time.

“I thought you’d see it my way,” she said before hanging up the phone. She sank into her padded leather chair, twirled it around and stared out the window of her high-rise luxury office. Ah yes, another spirit crushed, she thought gleefully.

Becoming an executive in Greenbrier and Associates had been a hard fought battle for Cheryl. Through the years, she had clawed her way up the rungs of the corporate ladder, “crushing” all that dared to get in her way. A buzz from the intercom interrupted her celebration.

“Uum . . . Mrs. McAdams. Mr. Greenbrier is here to see you,” whined her secretary. “What should I do?”
“Try sending him in.” Cheryl leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Idiots, I’m working with idiots.

Before long, a well-dressed older gentleman sauntered into her office. “Kind of hard on the secretary weren’t you?” Mr. Greenbrier asked.

“No harder on her then you were with me.” Cheryl spun the chair around and faced her boss.

He chuckled and sat in a chair near the door. “Always to the point aren’t you? Well, I need you to pack you bags. I have job for you that involves travel.”

Travel? I thought those days were over. “Are you demoting me?”

“Of course not. Sarah Dickerson’s daughter is sick and she can’t make the Templeton meeting in Dallas. I need you to go in her place.”
Cheryl smirked. “Can’t she get a babysitter?”
“No Cheryl, she’s not like you. She adores her children.” Mr. Greenbrier gave her a look of disgust before leaving the office.
“I adore my children too!” Cheryl shouted after Mr. Greenbrier’s retreating form. I can’t believe he implied that I didn’t care about my children.. She punched the intercom button angrily with her finger.

“Amedia, get me the Templeton file,” she barked. A few minutes later, a timid mousy woman entered the office and handed Cheryl the file. I bet she’d jump right out of her skin if I said boo, she thought nastily, brushing past the secretary as she walked out the door.

Cheryl strode across the parking lot to her car, still fuming over Greenbrier’s cutting remark. She unlocked the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror.

Eyes that once sparkled with happiness and mischief stared back at her, dull and lifeless. She automatically raised her hand to her cheek and caressed the heavily lined skin. When did I get so old? She was only thirty-nine, nowhere near middle age. Cheryl shrugged to herself and jammed the car into drive. Oh well, can’t worry about it now.

The commute home was nerve-wracking, and Cheryl had developed a severe headache by the time she pulled in the drive. Good lord but I need an aspirin. I feel like someone is tap-dancing inside my head. Her seven year-old daughter, Hannah, met her in the drive as she was getting out of the car. Dimly, Cheryl was aware that her daughter was wearing a soccer uniform.

“Ready to go Mommy?” Hannah chirped. Oh great! Don’t tell me that her game is tonight, Cheryl thought.
Cheryl dropped to her knees so that she was eye-level with her daughter. “Baby, Mama doesn’t think that . . .” She saw Hannah’s smile fade, and her eyes fill with tears.

“That’s okay Mommy. Daddy will take me. He always takes me!” Hannah burst into tears and raced back into the house. A couple of minutes later she emerged, this time followed by Cheryl’s husband, John. Cheryl hated the accusing glares that she got from her husband and daughter as they stormed past.

“John, I have a trip in the morning and. . .” John held up his hand to interrupt her.

“Cheryl please. Your excuses are getting old. If you didn’t want to go. . .” John let his voice trail off as he helped Hannah into the minivan. Without another look, her husband and daughter roared out of the driveway, leaving Cheryl alone. She felt tears forming in her eyes, and angrily brushed her sleeve across her face.

They have no concept of the sacrifices I make for them. This is the thanks I get! Cheryl rose to her feet, brushed off her pants, stormed into her Victorian style house and up the stairs to her bedroom.

She drug her mammoth suitcase from the closet, threw it on the bed, and began throwing clothes haphazardly into the yawning mouth of the suitcase. As she packed, she caught a glimpse of a framed picture on the nightstand. On trembling legs, she walked across the room and picked it up. It was a photo of Cheryl, her husband and their daughter just after she was born. They were so happy then; it was right before Cheryl was named executive at Greenbrier and Associates. With a strangled sob, Cheryl clutched the picture to her chest and fell across the bed where she cried herself to sleep. As she slept, she had the strangest dream.

She was checking into a hotel, as she had so many times before, but to her amazement, she had no luggage with her. “I guess the airline lost my luggage,” she told the front desk attendant.

“Oh no madam. Here comes the porter with your luggage now.”

Cheryl gasped in horror. There were several large grotesque suitcases on a gilded luggage rack. As if she were being pushed, Cheryl walked over and inspected the luggage more closely. She ran her hands over them; they were rough and had a greasy feel to them.

“Are you sure these are mine?” The attendant smiled broader.

“Yes madam. I understand that you drag these around with you everyday. You must get very tired. Take a closer look.” Cheryl hesitated, then looked closer. Each piece of luggage had a word on it. The largest pieces of baggage had the words GREED; HATEFULNESS; IMPATIENCE; INGRATITUDE. There were three smaller pieces of luggage at the very top. Her hands trembling, Cheryl took down the pieces . They were smaller then a change purse, and on them were written the words LOVE; SELF RESPECT; TIME FOR FAMILY.

Cheryl woke from her troubling dream with a start. Anxiously she looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. I’ve only been asleep for 10 minutes, she rejoiced. I still have time to make Hannah’s game. Cheryl grabbed her cell phone from her purse and dialed her work number. Please, please, let someone still be there.
Seconds later, she heard the high tinny voice of her secretary, Amedia. “Amedia, hi. This is Cheryl. Could you please connect me to Mr. Greenbrier’s office.”

“I’m sorry madam, but Ms. McAdams is gone for the day. Perhaps you could call back one day next week. Thank you for calling Greenbrier and Associates.” Cheryl heard the unmistakable click of the receiver being put back on its base, then the line went dead. She counted to ten before calling back.

“Amedia, this is Cheryl McAdams, your boss. I called a few seconds earlier and asked to be connected to Mr. Greenbrier.”

“M-Ms. McAdams. I had no idea that was you earlier. You never referred to yourself by your first name before. I-I ‘ll put you through immediately
.
“Amedia, wait.” Cheryl interrupted. “Before you transfer me, I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate everything you do.” There was silence on the other end.

“Amedia? Did you hear what I said?” Cheryl heard the sound of sniffling .

“Thank you. That means a lot. I’ll connect you now.” Cheryl hummed to the muzak playing on the phone. This is most content I’ve felt in a while, she thought. The muzak ended abruptly and was replaced by the deep voice of Mr. Greenbrier.

“Mr. Greenbrier, I’m glad I caught you before you left. You’re going to have to get someone else to make that meeting.” Cheryl glanced at the old suitcase on the bed and smiled ruefully. “I can’t go because . . . you might say I had too much luggage to fit on the plane.”

Golden Girl

I had the crazy idea when I was still a teenager. It was the era of the Black Stallion books, and like so many young girls, I despertly wanted a black horse. My dad couldn't understand it. I lived on a ranch where we had dozens of horses, why a black horse? I wanted a black because they were rare; never mind I was the owner of a palomino, another very rare color.

When my neighbor bought a retired racehorse, a black stallion, I jumped at the chance to breed my mare, Dewdrop, to him. Dewdrop was my beloved palomino, and a registered Quarter Horse. She was definitely a one-person horse, and skillfully dumped all but me on the ground; I was the only one she tolerated on her back. Like me, she had a restless, spirited look in her eyes, and we understood each other. As we raced across the prairie land of my dad's ranch, we ran as one. She was more then a horse, she was my friend.

When the time came, I rode Dewdrop to my neighbor's house. He assured me that the stallion produced only black foals. At last I'll have my black foal, I thought. I left my saddle there, and walked home. I hated to leave Dewdrop, but the images of black horses dancing in my head eased the pain and made the time pass faster.

In a few weeks, I picked up my mare and led her home. Dewdrop was stabled in the barn, given the choicest flakes of hay, and an iron-rich sweet feed. I watched anxiously as her sides swelled with the passing of months. Soon it got to the point where I was searching for a small wet foal every morning. Dewdrop's belly drooped until it looked like it would touch the ground; but still she held out on me.

Then, on one stormy afternoon, I arrived home from school and saw lights on in the barn. Oh my gosh . . . Dewdrop! My legs trembling, I raced across the frozen yard to the barn. The welcome smell of hay, leather, and horses reached my nostrils as I opened the barn door and raced in. Mama met me near the entrance. "Close the door. Where were you born . . . oh, never mind. Dewdrop has a surprise for you."

A surprise? Then . . . she's had it! I bit my lip to keep from screaming in delight. I had to walk to keep from spooking the few other horses in the barn, but my joy knew no bounds. At the sound of my foosteps, Dewdrop stuck her head over the stall door and nickered a greeting. She shoved her head into my chest as I entered the stall, begging to be scratched. "Not now, girl. Let's have a look at your baby. I took her by the halter and moved her away. There, in the stall bedding, lay a small quivering foal. But it's a palomino! I wanted a black!
I was sorely disappointed, and fought back the tears as I gazed at the baby. With a small nicker, the foal tried to stand, but fell in a heap. Dewdrop pushed past me and rumbled encouraging nickers to her baby as she nuzzled and cleaned it. I was disappointed, but I was already in love with the foal.

A few months later, when registering the foal, --I named her Golden Girl--I was in for a very pleasant surprise. I looked at her sire's pedigree, and saw that he was a great- great grandson of the legendary War Admiral . What luck! Sure a filly with this pedigree will leave everyone in the dust! I had visions of a Quarter Horse racing champion as I watched the tiny filly race circles around her dam. It was never to be.

As a yearling, Golden Girl jumped a fence a badly damaged her right foreleg; she would never be ridden, much less raced. The vet saved the leg, and she spent her life as a broodmare. She produced many quality foals. I had a cowboy tell me once that one of her sons was the fastest horse he had ever been on.

Her eyes burned with spirit, like her dam's, but to a lesser degree. Her mother was the "alpha mare," and even though Golden Girl was fully grown and had foals of her own, her mother allowed no other horses to bully her filly. Sadly, a few years ago, my beloved Dewdrop broke her leg and had to be destroyed. Without her mother, Golden Girl was lost. She allowed the other horses to bully her into submission; she was nothing like her mother, but I still adored her.

This weekend I visited my childhood home. As always, the horses greeted my at the fence, all except Golden Girl. When I asked Mom, she tearfully told me that Golden Girl had died several weeks ago. Needless to say, I was crushed. There was no time to say goodbye, only an empty stall that once housed the aging mare. I walked into the stall; everything had been cleaned out. There was no evidence that a horse had once lived there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something fluttering in the breeze from an open window. Walking closer, I saw that there was several blonde tail hairs caught in the wall slats below the window. It was the only remaining evidence of Golden Girl. I smiled, wrapped the hairs into a neat bundle, and put them in my pocket.

I walked out of the barn and stared at the horses in the pasture. Three young palomino fillies chased each other merrily, while their older brother, a four year-old palomino stallion watched them from his own pasture.

Tears formed in my eyes as I watched the horses twirl about in the pasture with the grace of ballerinas.
Golden Girl may be gone, but she lives on in her foals and in the hearts of those who loved her.

OUCH!

For the past two weeks I have put off the inevitable; a trip to the dentist's office. I honestly have two very good reasons for avoiding the dentist:

1. My dentist retired last year and I have to find a new one
2. I'm a big chicken

I have had good oral health all my life, and if I had my way, I would never darken the door of another dentist's office again. Nothing personal against the doctors; they are always compassionate. It's the darn equipment.


I always get the creeps when I slither into the exam room. In most of the exam rooms I've been in, the medicinal smell of alcohol prep pads permiates the air, and the equipment skulks along the back wall, dark and foreboding. The lights are turned down low, and even though I know it's too make the atmosphere more soothing, I can't help but compare it to the lighting in a funeral home. It doesn't help when, in some places, they strap your arms down to the chair. I was told by an attendant that this keeps the patient from becoming unruly if something goes wrong. Umm. . . excuse me . . .but are things expected to go wrong during a dental procedure?

Okay. . .fast foward to the present. I did say that I had good dental health . . . until now. Over the past few days I have been experiencing pain you wouldn't believe. Seriously, if anyone wanted to know all my secrets, I would gladly "spill my guts" in exchange for a year's supply of Motrin.

This past Tuesday, my pain reached epic proportions, and I was forced to make the dreaded dental appointment. That night, because of the pain, I didn't get a wink of sleep; instead, I paced the floor and counted the hours til I received some sort of relief. At dawn, John walked into the kitchen and found me, in a sleep-deprived stupor, trying to have a conversation with the Mrs. Buttersworth pancake syrup bottle.

At last it was time to leave for the appointment. The trip was a short one, but to someone in my predicament, the ride was endless. Finally we arrived.

Hmm. This doesn't look too bad, I mused, getting out of the Jimmy. The exterior of the building was a warm beige stucco, and Christmas decorations were hung tastefully in the window. As I walked inside, I was greeted by the smell of vanilla candle burning from an undisclosed location. There was a fishtank at the end of the room, and a soothing nature print hung over an over-stuffed sofa. In no time at all, a pleasant looking dental assistant came for me. I was even surprised with the decor of the exam room.

The room was brightly lit and the walls were covered in a soothing striped wallpaper. Easy-listening music played quietly in the background and the smell of cinnamon wafted in the air. The exam chair, much like the sofa in the waiting room, was over-stuffed; a sharp contrast to the chairs I've sat in before. Before long, my dentist entered the room. His touch was gentle as he examined my mouth; his voice, soft and soothing. I found myself totally relaxed as he prodded into the dark recesses of my mouth.

"You have a great set of choppers," he said. "But you have a small mouth."

Hah! John and my mom would beg to differ on that one.

At the end of the exam, the dentist concluded that I had fractured my tooth years ago when I had my car wreck. The break was so minute that it went undetected, and bacteria had entered the crack. I have to get a root canal.
Sensing my alarm, the dentist was hasty to explain that a root canal was not as painful as people thought, and the whole procedure took less then an hour.

He put a temporary cap on the tooth, gave me a script for Vicadin and Amoxicillian, then sent me on my way. As I sit here in my Vicadin-induced fog, I realize how silly I was to put this off. I put myself through hell rather then being a "big girl" and facing my fears. :(

Thirteen years

Thirteen years ago today an event took place that changed my life forever; I got married.

It wasn't exactly love at first sight; in fact, I thought John was one of the most obnoxious people I had ever met. Standing 6'0," John was an impressive figure and walked with an air of self-confidence. He reminded me of the macho-acting male cousins I grew up with, and I hated that. He had eyes the color of sapphire, and their gaze seemed to penetrate and expose people's soul.

We met when I was an intern at the sheriff's office, and the meer sight of him sent my heart racing for reasons I couldn't explain at the time. He was very attractive, and because I was engaged, I felt guilty for staring at him in the office. We often argued over the tiniest issues, with him keeping a "cool head," and getting the better of me. John was four years older, and patronized me and treated me like a child; it drove me nuts. His attitude changed after he saw me crying in the patrol room one morning.

Wordlessly, he handed me a Kleenex and seated himself beside me. "Here, you have a trail of snot coming out of your nose."

"Thanks for noticing," I snapped.

"What happened?"

"If it's any of your business, my fiance cheated on me then dumped me last night."

"Oh. . . well . . .it could have been worse. You could have married the bum." In the days and weeks that passed, John and I became close friends. He had a heart of gold, and the samE streak of mischief I possesed. Eventually, we started dating, then, after two years, we were wed.

I can't begin to say how lucky I am; I married my very best friend. We have encountered many hardships in our marriage, but we prevail, and our love for each other grows stronger with each passing day.

John is my hero, my inspiration, the love of my life, and my port in a storm; for that I am grateful.

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Thanks to Dave for the great review on Amazon!

What's going on here?

This is the season for goodwill to your fellow human and a time for peace and happiness in your heart; or so you would think. I was dumb-struck when I watched the news and witnessed the mass chaos and confusion of "Black Friday."

In Michigan, an elderly woman and a teen were rushed to the emergency room when trampled by a stampeding crowd of shoppers. I worked with horses for over twenty years, and I must say that our equine counterparts have better sense then those greedy grabbers; a horse will avoid stepping on humans or other animals if possible, .

The scene at a Florida Wal-Mart turned nasty when a man boldly cut the line then attacked all who confronted him.

One of the saddest things that I heard involved an older woman and an X-BOX. The lady cashed her entire paycheck, spent the night outside the Best Buy in the cold, but was one of the lucky recipients of a new X-box for her son's Christmas. She was elated with her purchase and thought all was well until she arrived at her home. After exiting the car, she was confronted with an armed man who took the system from her; now she has no gift for her son.

Yesterday I read Big Dave's Blog, and was even more appalled to learn that Target has banned the Salvation Army bell ringers from their doors. Okay, I have to admit, when I'm in a hurry to get out of the store, it irks me to be bothered, but it takes two seconds to flash the bell ringer a smile, return his "Merry Christmas," and drop a few coins in the pot. It doesn't even have to be a lot, every little bit helps; even the smile and a warm greeting.

Speaking of season's greetings . . . Target and Wal-Mart have instructed their employees not to say "Merry Christmas" to the customers, but to say "Happy Holidays." Their theory is that it might offend someone to tell them "Merry Christmas." Hmm. This is the first I've ever heard of that phrase offending anyone.

Christmas is so over-commercialized. The stores decorating for the holiday in SEPTEMBER sucks some of the excitement and fun out of the season for me. But there's also a flipside to all of this.

I have to look no further then my toddler's eyes to re-spark my love for the holidays; the excitement that he carries in his tiny heart is contagious. Gloria Estefan's Christmas Through Your Eyes really sums up how I feel when I gaze into those innocent blue eyes. He unknowing puts everything into perspective for me again.

As they used to say in the old variety show Hee-Haw, "Life's not all bad." I received a very inspirational email from the Mom Writer's writing group. The author of the email said that she had bid on and won a special engraved rock on Ebay. When she made the online payment, she left the comment that the rock was for her son "who needed a little courage in the world." Below is what the author--in her own words--said what happened next


"The man and wife who received the payment refunded it saying magic is given,not bought. I thought they were being mean! Then I found a letter from them that said the man remembered being a young boy who had a hard time making his way in the world. His mother had given him a magic rock that carried him through many days. He thanked me for being a good mother and loving my son so much. They're sending this rock for free."

It is refreshing to know in some sense that Christmas is still alive and doing well.

A Wish

Happy Thanksgiving!

Is there an insurance rep in the house?

I am an "accident-looking-for-a-place-to-happen." I have been fallen on and dragged by horses, fallen off the stage during a drama performance in high school, and have had several car accidents.

A couple of years ago, I broke my wrist while riding my son's scooter; that was a very embarrassing situation. To make a long story short, the docs in the ER kept asking me how old I was. I swear I heard giggling as they walked away from my room. The last doc that walked into the room was more business-like, but avoided eye contact and kept the char suspiciously high in front of his face, making only his eyes visible.

"Ms. Roppolo, how old are you?"

"32."

"What were you doing when this injury occurred?" I was in pain, and this line of questioning irritated me. Go ask your giggle buddies, I wanted to scream. Instead, I took a deep breathe and said, "I was riding my son's scooter and flipped over the handle bars."

"Uh huh . . . and . . . how many alcoholic drinks have you consumed today?" I was shocked. Why is he asking me this? I am not a "drinker," so to speak, but I do occasionally indulge in a glass of wine.

"None."

"Really? None at all? Then . . . are you using any drugs, prescription or street?" Again, this question puzzled me. Where is he going with this? What bothered me even more is that John, who had accompanied me to the ER, had a sudden onset of the giggles, which he was trying hard to control.

"No. I'm not taking drugs."

"None at all? Then . . . are you under the care of a mental health specialist?" With that, John's giggles erupted into a full-fledged belly-laugh.

"No I'm not! Are you going to fix my arm?" The doctor lowered the chart and stared at me icily.

"I'll have the nurse to start that now. I'll give your your husband a few minutes to compose himself first. I glanced at John; he was laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks.

"What's wrong with you?" I hissed.

"Don't you get it, Deb? He thinks that you either have to be drunk, high, or crazy to do what you did."

Hmph. so much for the physician's creed of "do no harm," I thought bitterly. Unwittingly, he had damaged my ego. The nurse put my wrist in a cast and I went home. So, because of my past, you would have thought that I knew better then to take on my Christmas tree last weekend.

My artificial tree is a monster; it stands over 8.5 feet, and is super fat. I usually don't decorate until after Thanksgiving, but since Mom was here, I wanted her to see my house decorated. Everything went smoothly until it came time to decorate the top of the tree. Though the hour was late, I was determined to complete the task and surprise my family with a stunning tree when they awaken the next morning. I stood in a chair to decorate the front top part, but since my tree was next to the love seat, I couldn't get the chair around there.Seth had been watching me decorate, and finding himself sleepy, used the couch as his bed for the night. I stared at the sofa speculatively. Hmm. The sofa has nice broad arms, and it is right by the tree. . .

Against my better judgment, I climbed onto the arm of the sofa and began decorating the side of the tree. True to form, I lost my balance and fell into the tree. Seth awoke with a start. "Is anything broken?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Oh . . . I-I meant the ornaments." Seth yawned loudly, rolled over, and went back to sleep. So nice to be thought about, I thought wryly. Luckily, the tree was not damaged and in a short time I finished.

The next morning I beamed with pride as my family fussed over my efforts. Not one of them said anything about the obvious noise the night before. I couldn't stand it. "Did you hear anything last night," I asked Mom. "Anything suspicious?"

"I think I heard someone fall."

"Yeah. It was me falling into the tree. Why didn't you come see?"

Mama patted my back comfortingly. "Honey, you've had so many accidents, I guess I assumed that you would be okay."

I've had many accidents, taken many risks. But life is about living, about taking reasonable risks. Even as I write this, I contemplate what my next risk will be; my guardian angel, on the other hand, is begging to be re-assigned.

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Think you know a lot about Christmas? Try out this link!
"

Nasty comments

It is becoming painstakingly clear that the "good-old days" are a thing of the past. In this hi-tech, "dog-eat-dog" society, people tend to leave their manners at home.

Just recently, I braved the elements and journeyed to the grocery store with my oldest son, Seth. The hour was late, and shoppers jammed the aisles as tightly as sardines in a can. My patience strained, I maneuvered the heavy grocery-laden cart through the sea of arms and legs. Seth is at the age where I'm "uncool" to be seen with, and was walking slightly ahead of me. Two young men walked towards us and bumped roughly into Seth, almost knocking him to the floor. It takes a lot to anger me, but the sight of my child being manhandled sent my blood pressure sky-rocketing, and my mouth overloaded my brain. "Uh . . . excuse you," I called after the youth.

The boys turned around, and studied me critically. One of the boys, a blonde, elbowed his buddy in the ribs, sneered, and said loudly, "Oh look, a b**** and an idiot that can't walk." They slapped each other on the back, gave me the finger, and laughing loudly, jogged down the aisle. I literally saw red; I hadn't been that furious in a long time. I never would have been allowed to act like that, I fumed. Briefly I fantasized about running them over with my cart. Jonathan's voice brought me back to reality.

"Hey Mom. That was hateful of them, wasn't it?" I was ashamed of my actions, I had let my temper get the best of me, and had set a bad example for my very impressionable son.

"Yes baby; it was very hateful of them. I shouldn't have "popped off" to them like that either."

"That's okay; you were just sticking up for me." The rest of the shopping trip was uneventful, and we made it home with the groceries. But rudeness also lurks online as well.

Just this morning I was reading a very wonderful fellow writer's, Linda's, blog. Let me start by saying congrats to her for finishing her NaNo writing goal. What an accomplishment!

I am mostly a children's and a short story writer, and don't have the patience to write a novel right now. There are a few people that have the mis-information that writing is a very "tame" branch of the entertainment industry; wrong. When it comes to success and money, writers can be just as "cut-throat" as anyone else. Some are quick with jealous nasty comments.

What ever happened to loving your fellow human? Call me old-fashioned, but I long for the days where you were given warmth, not hostility.

Forty pounds of what and a crate of what?

The rising cost of beef and poultry has just about turned this old cowgirl into a vegetarian. The other day, while browsing through the meat department of my local grocery store, I saw a delicious- looking standing rib roast.
Mmm. That would taste wonderful this Thanksgiving, I thought as I picked it up and searched for the price. I gasped in alarm, and felt nauseated when I saw the price. There it was it big bold print: $64.99 Very carefully, I placed the roast back where I found it. I still couldn't believe what I saw. I grabbed a meat attendent that was rushing by.

"E-Excuse me. I-Is that roast REALLY almost seventy dollars?"

The attendent examined the roast briefly and smiled--I thought too happily-- back at me. "Yes. It's a twelve pound roast at a little over $5.41 a pound." I stammered a "thank-you" to the attendent as he scampered off.
In a disbelief I looked at the prices of the other meats: $2.99 a pound for ground meat; $2.00 a pound for poultry; they had even raised the price of my cod to $4.00 a pound. Needless to say, I did not go home with a lot of meat. That night I lamented to John about what happened. "We'll just have to at more veggies," I said.

John took what I said literally. The next day he went to the local vegetable stand and returned with 40 lbs of sweet potatoes, a crate of tomatoes, and other various in-season veggies. I stared at the boxes in disbelief. I loved sweet potatoes and tomatoes, but how many ways were there to prepare sweet potatoes and tomatoes? Thank goodness for the internet.

In the past few days we have had tomato soup, sweet potato soup, and sweet potato fries with other dishes. I don't want to waste these veggies, but I'm running out of unique ways to prepare them and everyone is getting burned out. Hmm. Maybe I'll try a sweet potato milkshake (LOL).

A bouncing baby . . . truck?

A few days ago the family truck breathed its last and departed this world. It had a special place in our heart; it was the vehicle that I brought my youngest son home from the hospital in. With over 100,000 miles and a blown transmission, we decided to part company with it, tighten our belts and look for another vehicle.

After a few days of searching, John came home and announced that we were now the owners of a 1993 GMC Jimmy. We had decided to go the used car route because we didn't want another car payment. My joy was short-lived when we went to the garage to aquite my new wheels. The body was good, but color was an eggshell white, and was in dire need of a wax job.

Maybe the interior will be better, I hoped. Wrong. The interior looked like it had never seen a vacume, and the stale smell of body odor permiated through the whole auto. I've had used cars in the past, but never one this filthy. Still, the eternal optimist, I thought the small SUV had promise.

John walked to the door, stuck his head in, and wrinkled his nose. "Let's get this thing detailed. . .today!" I was glad that hubby and I were on the same wave-length. The motor to my new ride purred like a kitten as I drove it to the detail place.

A few hours later, the detail shop called us and let me know that the Jimmy was ready. When we arrived, I couldn't see the vehicle anywhere. Surely it hasn't been stolen. A grundgy young man approached me, handed me a set of keys and told me that the Jimmy was ready.

"Okay, where is it?"

"You're standing beside it," the guy laughed. I turned around in shock. I was standing beside a gleaming off-white GMC.

"This can't be mine."

"Oh but it is." The young man showed me the inside. A pattern. . .beneath all the filth my interior had a pattern! The whole Jimmy smelled fresh and sweet, and I thoroughly enjoyed the drive home in it. Remarkable what a little soap and water can accomplish.

What's You're Favorite Holiday?

According to my daily OM, your favorite holiday determines what kind of person you are. Interesting. There are many holidays that I enjoy, but my favorite is Christmas. My curiosity piqued, I went to the site and took the quiz.

Here is what my favorite holiday--Christmas--says about me:

Winter Holiday

Childhood magic and wonder have never lost their appeal for you. Courageous and forthright, your ability to find beauty in the darkest days is an inspiration to others, as is the generosity of your spirit.

Hmm. Me? An inspiration to others? I don't know about that, but I am the type that tries to find some good in everything. I guess I could be called the eternal "rah-rah" girl. I hate to see people down, but my "Pollyanna" persona sometimes gets on others nerves; mainly my family's.

I do love Christmas. For me it is still a time of magic and excitement; a time for friends and faimily, for sharing and caring.

Okay. . .I'm a kid with a new toy. I got this link at Mary's Freebies, and "lookie" what I made!

Blue has no Clue

A few months ago Blue walked into our lives and left his paw prints all over our hearts. Orginally he belonged to ou neighbors, but after discovering our cats' food and our two young sons, he decided to make our house his new home. After we discovered who he belonged to, the appropriate call was made, and the owner picked him up. I had always wanted a Husky, and I couldn't help but wish that this dog was mine. I was alarmed at how thin he was; it was obvious that the poor pooch was not being fed.

A few days after the owner picked him up, I opened my front door one morning and found Blue happily eating with the cats. Again we called the owner and he trudged over to pick up the dog. "I just don't understand why he doesn't stay at home," our neighbor complained.

Maybe if you tried feeding him, he'd stay at home, I thought nastily. I couldn't watch as the neighbor loaded a whining and resisting Blue into his truck. My heart broke as I watched the truck drive away with the dog hanging his head out the window and howling. I was depressed the rest of the day; I felt I had betrayed a friend.

A few days later--yep, you guessed it--Blue was again on my front porch. We called the neighbor, and he seemed less then enthusiastic to pick up the dog. That was a month ago, and Blue remains with us. I was concerned that the former owner could take him back; after consulting with a dog catcher, I found that, in my state, if you feed a dog for more then three days, and maintain proof that you are feeding the dog, according to Texas law, the dog is yours. If the former owners want the dog back, they have to reimbursh the cost of the food.

Here is where Blue has no clue. Just within the past few days, Blue has got a case of the wonderlust. Not to go into any distastful details, but we think our boy has a girlfriend somewhere. So . . . have called the vet and arranged for Blue to have an *ahem* surgury next week. If Blue did have a clue, he would be heading for the hills.

BTW, Blue was already named when he came here, and I guess he got the name because of his sky-blue eyes. I'll post pictures when he gains more weight.

A Couple of Weekends Ago

Up until a couple of weekends ago, every one of the book signings have gone off without a hitch; the last one went well, but there were some serious problems. I put half of the fault on my own back. That week was the week of Mom's heart surgery, and I wasn't as focused on the book signing as I normally am. I didn't get to promote myself as well as I should have, but there's no one to blame but myself.

Anyway, the morning of the signing was a blur. The night before my hubby and I decided to redecorate my office into a guest bedroom for my mother. What we thought was a small, 2 hour job ended up lasting most of that night and the next morning. We were almost done that morning when we received a call from Mom at the hospital; they were releasing her that day, but she didn't know when. That threw my family and I into a tailspin. Not only did we have to complete the project before noon, we also had to clean the rest of the house, do laundry, AND I had to get ready for the signing that afternoon. Long story short, we cleaned our house in less then three hours.

After lunch, John dropped me off at the book store for the signing and left to pick up Mom at the hospital. Normally, I'm pretty calm, but the events of the morning, and five cups of coffee, left me extremely jittery. To make matters worse, the book store was not prepared for my signing. To my horror, I noticed that my flier was not in the door, and the signing table still had the books from the previous visiting author on it; none of my books were to be seen anywhere.

Okay, no big deal, I thought as I walked to the customer service desk. I was met by a male employee, obviously irratated because I interrupted his flirting session with a female employee. I ignored his sour expression, extended my hand, and introduced myself. The guy sneered and actually said "What do you want?"

I felt my blood pressure rising. What a creep! I took a deep breath, smiled, and explained my problem.

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

I was fast reaching my boiling point. "Would you please ask someone to help me move the other books. I don't know where they belong.

"Hmm. Okay." The fellow turned his back on me and started another conversation with the pretty female employee.

Surely he'll call someone. Wrong! After a few minutes I gave up on getting help from the creep at CS, and started looking for help elsewhere. After a brief search, I found a floor manager that was more then happy to help me.


The rest of the signing went well. I met interesting people, and I enjoyed signing the books for them
Part of me wanted to report the rude employee, but what good would that have done?

An oops and my toddler

Oh crap . . . I've really done it this time. Always the one eager to take risks, I tried the Haloscan comment program. I like the program, but it erased all the comments left in the past. Arrgh!

My toddler, Robert, has been battling allergies for about a week, and tonight he had another round with them. He was in wonderful spirits when he went to bed, but a few hours later he awoke with a hollow rasping cough. That sound causes my heart to sink to the bottom of my stomach.

When he was an infant, he had RSV, and was almost hospitalized. Ever once in a while now, he has an asthmatic episode, and I have to give him a breathing treatment. It's quite an ordeal. He sits in my lap and cries almost the entire time; he hates the mask being put over his face. He's still too young to understand that this meant to help him, not hurt him. By the end of the treatment, we are both physically and emotionally drained. I can honestly sympathize with him. When I was a little older than he was, I was hospitalized with pneumonia. After I was released, I got another case of pneumonia; this time I almost died from it.

That's why I have a tendency to panic when I hear that horrible cough; I'm scared to death that it will turn into pneumonia, and I'll loose my baby. If that ever happens, I'm done for. My children are my world. I love them more then anything.

Thankfully, after listening to his tiny lungs, my husband and I determined that it was just upper congestion; no need for a breathing treatment. It was difficult for Robert to sleep, so I held him while I rocked in the rocking chair. I was prepared to stay up all night if I had to.

Robert sighed lightly and laid his little angelic face against my shoulder before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I watched him sleep; he looked so vunerable, so innocent. It seemed like only yesterday that I first held him in my arms. I will do anything withing my moral fiber to insure his happiness and well-being. He is hope, he is the future, he is my child who I will treasure forever.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

"Try before you buy"?

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm a freebie and a coffee addict. As I've said in earlier blogs, I can't start my morning without a steaming cup of coffee. I've tried to quit before, but without that much needed boost of caffine, I'm not a pleasant person to be around.

Maybe I'm over-exagerating on the freebie part though. It's been several months since I've been able to search for great deals on the internet. I'm not really looking for "something-for-nothing," I'm just a very cautious consumer. Years ago, when I was newly married, I made the mistake of buying a product without sampling it. I was sold on the flashy packaging and the ads I had seen for it on the television and magazines.

Without batting an eye, I paid the expensive price for the product, and went home with my new prize. I prepared it according to the package directions, and waited with bated breath until it was through cooking. I closed my eyes blissfully and waited for the flavors to dance in my mouth, or so the ads said it would. It never happened; to be quite honest, the product tasted like crap. Disgusted, I put the product where it belonged, in the trash. I had spent over four dollars for that item; it was money that I really couldn't spare at the time.

That's why I support the "try-before-you-buy" theory. I look for samples either at places like Costco, or online; I don't want to waste my money again. A great place to find freebies is Mary's Freebies.

After all, "a penny saved is a penny earned."

ON A TOTALLY DIFFENT SUBJECT:

The other night my mother, sons, and I were sitting in the living room watching television. The hour was getting late, and everyone's eyelids were starting to droop. At one point, my mother looked toward the clock and asked, " . . .is it sin yet?"

What she had meant to ask was ". . .is it ten yet?" Always the one to have something smart to say, I smirked and said, "I don't know, but if we keep talking, it will turn into sin!" We all laughed until we were crying. With all the stress that we've been under, we truly needed that laugh.

RX

Humor is uplifting and great medicine for the soul. In my opinion, show me a happy person, and they're probably a relatively healthy person. This week I have been a walking prescription bottle.

I honestly can't believe the things that have happened this week. It all started on Sunday. I was cleaning the house for my mother's arrival. Even though Mama would be staying with us for her heart surgery, I was always glad to see her and was singing while I cleaned. I come from a very musically inclined family, but instrumental, not vocal, is more on my skill level. I've never thought that I was another Karen Carpenter, but I thought my vocal abilities were "fair." Imagine my surprise when I heard my dogs howling.

As a test, I abruptly stopped singing; the darn dogs stopped howling. I took a breath and started on the second verse. Yep, you guess it. I again had two canine back-up singers.

"Maybe you could try singing 'How Much is that Doggie in the Window?'" John asked with fake innocence.

Okay smart guy, I thought, you'd better be glad that I have had my coffee this morning. Or I'd . . . I'd have something really smart to say back. Even though coffee jump starts me in the morning, sometimes it takes a while for my "electrical system" to be fully functional.

Monday came and went without a hitch; Tuesday was the day of Mama's surgery. We had to awaken at three in the morning, and make the thirty minute drive to Austin for the surgery. The lab had made a mistake the week before and forgotten to do my mother's blood work.

My mother is an eternal morning person, while John and I are not. Needless to say, neither one of us received our daily transfusion of coffee, so the ride to Austin was not very pleasant. I sat in the backseat and talked to my mother while John drove.

"Must you talk while I'm driving?" I glanced out the window at the interstate. We were the only cars on the road.

"Must you drive while I'm talking?" I retorted. Yeah, I know. That statement made no sense. But who makes sense at four in the morning.

We arrived at the hospital, and before I could put the diapers in my bag along with the peanut butter sandwich I had made for the toddler, Seth ran off with the bag. I had to walk into the hospital carrying a stack of diapers and a foil wrapped sandwich.

I was the first to approach the information desk, and was greeted by a well-groomed receptionist.

"Hello dear," she crooned. You must be looking for mental health services. It's . . ."

"Why would I be looking for them," I interrupted. "My mother is having surgery." The lady mumbled an apology, and avoiding eye contact, directed us to where we needed to go.

"She probably thinks you were a patient by the way you look," John giggled as we walked away. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirrored window as we walked past, and was shocked at what I saw. I was disheveled from the wind outside, there were diapers poking out of my jacket pocket, and I was carrying that darn sandwich in my hands.

Despite all this, Mama made it through the surgery with flying colors.

The great finale was yesterday. My family and I returned to the scene of the crime --the hospital-- to visit Mama. I was talking to Seth and not watching were I was going as we walked down the hall. Suddenly, I ran into the glass elevators with a thump and bounced off them. I saw that a woman was watching me, and I couldn't help but laugh. Together, we laughed until tears ran down our faces while John and my boys walked ahead, pretending not to know me.

In my opinion, I am a walking prescription for laughter.

Facing my demons . . . again

A few years ago, while on my way to work, I was involved in a near fatal car accident in which I was the driver. The driver of the other car decided that I was not driving fast enough--actually I was speeding--went around me in the median, and ran me off the road. I lost control of my car, ended up in opposing traffic, and was hit by a 1/2 ton truck pulling a trailer. Below are pictures of my car.

As a result of the accident, I had over 200 stitches and staples in my face and in my head, massive head trauma, inoperable nerve damage in my right arm, and drifted in and out of a coma for three days.

I had already built a wall of self-pity around me after Daddy's death; now this made the wall higher and unable to be penetrated. I distanced myself from everyone that loved me, but I was determined to overcome my disability. I have to give credit for my tenacious spirit to my faith, parents, my hubby, and well, just plain stubborness on my part.

It's been seven years since that fateful night, and much has changed. I have no scars on my face, and the scars on my heart have almost entirely faded away. I also have about 90 % use of my arm now. I posted this for a couple of reasons. The first to show what I have overcome; the second is more complicated.

I wanted you all to see that no matter how large an obstacle is in your life, it can be overcome. You have to have faith in yourself and never give up. Believe in yourself and you can accomplish anything you set you mind to; continue to doubt yourself and you will accomplish little.

Bouncing off the walls and a lesson

The book signing was wonderful this weekend. The book manager invited me back for another signing and informed me that after my event this past Saturday, Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul was #2 in store sales. Wahoo!!!!!!!!!

I met several interesting people at the signing, but the one who impressed me the most was a thirteen year-old girl.


She aproached my signing table at Hastings and started a conversation. She confided that she wants to be a writer, and wanted to know if she could "hang out" with me for a little while.

We chit-chatted a whilr, then she asked for the reason why I wrote "Some Snowballs. . ." I explained that it was a tribute to my father, his dog, and the unbreakable bond that they had for each other. Her eyes filled with tears as she confided that she had just lost her daddy a couple of years ago. I felt so sorry for this child; she looked so lost and lonely. I knew that was probably how I looked nineteen years ago.

I told her that the pain does get better with time. She said, "I know, and I think tragedy always makes us stronger."

I know in the back of my mind that an adult told her this, but her logic at that moment floored me. She stayed with me for about an hour until her mother told her that it was time to go. That young lady really made an impact on me.

Bella

A sit here typing, tears are streaming down my face and there's a hole in my heart. No, I'm not mourning for a lost loved one. I'm mourning for a dog, a stray dog at that. A few days ago this petite, salt-n-pepper Australian Shephard mix walzed into our front yard and into our hearts.

As I have written on earlier occasions, I live in the Hill Country of Texas; for the most part still a very rural area. It's not uncommon for stray dogs tp appear in our yard. Their owners--I'm trying to be nice here--just tire of them and dump them in the country to suffer a slow death. Most of the time we usually call a rescue group or the pound; but this dog was different.

She had a look in her eye; a look that said, "I've had a horrible life and need someone to love me. I don't think I can make it by myself. Help me." She was emaciated, and cringed when I made a move to pet her. She also whined constantly, which told me that she had been abused in addition to having been starved. I was livid; if I could have had her former owner in front of me, they would have been crindging and crying after I got through with them.

I just couldn't turn this dog in. I went into town and bought her food. Over the past few days, with patience, I got the dog to come up to me. Before long, she was accompanying me on my nightly walks. She strolled causually in front of me, her mouth opened in a wide doggy grin. She knew that at last, she had found someone to love her. I made up my mind yesterday that we were going to keep her; how I was going to tell John was yet another obstacle to overcome.

Every dog has to have a name, so I called this one "Bella," for both her spirit and her appearance was "beautiful."
Needless to say, Bella was missing this afternoon. After talking to John, he solemnly told me that someone had hit and killed my new friend.

Though I mourn for her, I know that at last she has found peace.

The event

Did I say earlier in the week that a dozen butterflies were tap-dancing in my stomach? If you think I was nervous then, you should have seen me this past Saturday morning; I was a wreck. I woke up at 2 A.M. that morning and had the hardest time getting back to sleep. I had too much on my mind. I finally slipped off into a restless slumber just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. All too soon I was awakened to the smell of fresh brewed coffee.

Coffee at this hour? Somebody must be out of their mind, I thought. Groggily, I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Oh great. It was already six o'clock. Just a few precious hours until the signing. I've just gotta do something to get my mind off everything for a while, I mused, running my fingers through my hair.

I couldn't see much because I had slept with my contacts in, so I followed the smell of the coffee to the kitchen. John was already sitting, half-asleep, at the kitchen table. We both blew kisses at the general direction of each other and mumbled drowsy "hellos;" neither one of are morning people until we have that first delicious sip of coffee. I set a mixing bowl on the counter with a plunk, and combined ingredients together to make cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Kneading the dough was very relaxing. Finally, it was time to go.

The ride to Waco was uneventful, except for my well-meaning family asking me if I was nervous every 5 minutes. Everytime they asked, waves of butterflies in tiny tap shoes did the "River Dance" in my stomach. I tried hard to be polite, but I wanted departly to be left alone to my thoughts. As we arrived in the parking lot of the book store, I felt my pulse quicken. The store looked to me like a giant gaping monster, waiting to devour its' prey; like the frightened little bunny I am, I wanted nothing more then to scurry home and hide, but that was not an option.

I was greeted by the manager of the store, whose personality put me instantly at ease. They came forward with a HUGE wooden table and padded chairs, and even helped me to set up. I can't say enough good things about the staff at Hastings book store; they treated me like royalty. They constantly asked me if I was "okay" and if they could get me anything to drink or eat.

At the beginning, the flow of shoppers into the store was very slow, and I got a little bored. The first person to my table was a tiny white-haired lady with a trouble expression on her face. She studied my books and info, then, in a wavering voice, said that her sister had loved dogs. Oops. . .I missed the word HAD in her sentence. Undaunted, I suggested that if she buyed a copy of the book, then I would be happy to sign it for her. Tears ran down her face as she explained that she had just attended her sister's funeral a few days ago. I spluttered a heartfelt apology, then listened as she told me story after story of her sister. Her stories were interesting, and I found myself engrossed in them. After a while, she said "good-bye" and tottered off. I felt blessed to have met such a person.

I had a blast that whole day, and the store sold out of all the ". . .Dog Lover's Soul" that they had; all signed by me.

I had several people come by and talk to me, and had a few to gawk at me from a distance. The best moment of the day was when a shy young lady--around the age of 20-- approached me as I was getting ready to leave. I had a few people still around me, and her quiet voice was almost inaudible. Very gently she tugged at my arm.

"Ms. Roppolo, may I have a minute of your time?" I was surprised and touched. Everyone either called me "Deb" or "Debbie," not very many were that formal.

"Sure," I said.

She held out her hand, took mine, and shook it. "I just wanted to say what a pleasure it is to meet you and shake your hand."

I was extremely touched. "Oh no, hey. It's nice to meet you." I stammered. That was a wonderful ending to my magical day. I'll say it again, none of this would have been possible without God.

This weekend is San Marcos. I can't wait!

Calm, cool, and collected? Hah!

I'm occupying my mind with different tasks today so I won't dwell on this weekend. Even though I'm extremely excited, I can't help but be afraid that no one will want to buy the book. I've really worn myself out over this book signing, and I have to admit I would be devasted if that's what happened.

One thing that comforts me is knowing that I won't be walking into that book signing alone. Of course John and the boys will be there for a VERY short while, but not everyone will be visible. The spirit of my father will be sitting there beside me, along with all my other family members who have passed on before me.

I've been on an emotional rollercoaster this week. I am incredibly touched that my hometown paper ran an article on me. I called the editor to thank her. She informed me, very warmly, that she enjoyed doing it. After I hung up with her, I realized that she had known me all my life. Another high was when all my old teachers that I emailed got back in touch with me and told me that they were proud of me; that still brings tears to my eyes.

I can't believe I didn't see all the compassion of my hometown folks when I lived there as a child. I was too busy planning on how to get the heck out of there and head for the "big city." San Marcos may have all the glamour, but it lacks the compassion in most cases. It does have its' bizaare and sweet moments though.

I called Kinko's copying to get a price on a poster for the signing. I was embarressed when the employee asked me for the dimensions; I had no clue. "Umm. . .I guess big enough to fit on the front of a table."

"Madam, what will you be using the table for? What kind of event?"

"Just a regular event."

"People display signs different ways according to the events they have. Now what is the event?"

"A book signing," I blurted. "I'm one of. . ."

"A book signing! Then that must mean you're a published writer!" I listened in shocked amusement as he SANG me a congratulations song! I had no idea who this fellow was, but I was flattered.

"You don't understand," I interjected before he got to the second verse. "I'm only one of 101." I hastily told him about Chicken Soup.

"But that doesn't matter to me. You're still published." That crazy guy almost moved me to tears. Even though the poster would be WAY too expensive there, by the end of the conversation I had made a new friend.

Speaking of friends, thanks again to all of you who have offered praise and support through all of this; it means a lot to me

On a whim

Last night I began thinking; if that's not scary enough, I began thinking about my high school years. I was very much into the extra-curricular aspects of school and less in the educational part.

I was a very difficult student. My teachers often complained to me that I had the potential to be a "straight A" student instead of the "A-B" student that I was content to be. I always let their speeches go in one ear and out the other. I'm happy being a "B" student, why can't they be happy for me, I often wondered.

When I got in college, my attitude changed because I found that I HAD to apply myself. Unlike me high school teachers, the professors didn't mind giving you a failing grade. They didn't stay up nights worrying about how they could motivate me to realize my full potential. While I was in college, I made the Dean's List twice and was inducted into Alpha Sigma Lambda, which was a national academic honor society.

Over the years, I have thought about my high school teachers, and it touches me when I realize the compassion that teachers have for their students. All too often teachers are criticized and not given the thanks that they deserve. I decided to take action.

On a whim, I Googled my old high school's name and found their website. I looked in the staff directory of the high school, and was delighted to see that many of my teachers were still teaching there. Perfect! I sent them an emotional email, thanking them for all they did for me, never expecting to hear a reply from any of them. After all, it has been seventeen years since I darkened the doorways of the high school; there was no way they would remember me.

Later this morning, I checked my email; there was a reply from each one of them. They told me that they remembered me, and that they were, and always had been, proud of me. I was overcome with emotion.

We idolize people such as Madonna, but the true heroes are the teachers.

Rush, rush

I'm feeling queasy at my stomach for several reasons. I hate to do the "list" thing, but I think it's the only way I can explain everything.

1. I have a book signing this weekend-- This was a last minute decision on my part to do a book signing at the Hastings book store near my hometown. I have to fax the press release to the respective media there; I've already created a new flyer for Waco's Hastings and faxed it to them, so that's taken care of. I'm really nervous because this is the "hometown crowd," the people who were my worst critics when I was a young adult. After the signing at Hastings, I may have another signing at the local B. Dalton's book store.

2. I'm still trying to get everything ready for my book signing NEXT weekend. I have to contact all the local papers in the greater San Marcos area, and get the release to them.

3. Some thirteen years ago, I was a deputy sheriff and took a thug off the street. I can't divulge too much info right now because I have to testify in court next Monday about the case. Won't that be cute when the defense asks, "Mrs. Roppolo, what do you do for a living?" My reply will be that I'm a freelance writer. The defense will have fun with that.

4. I just sent my new children's early reader chapter book, "Daisy's Soggy Boggy Day," off to the publisher. I still haven't heard from the publisher about my children's book, "What's Up Your Nose?'

After all this is over, I'm probably going to sleep for a month! (LOL)

New Orleans

It's been well over a month, and still the images of a devastated New Orleans haunts my thoughts. My heart breaks for the victims and their families.

I am so very glad that our Uncle Nat was found alive. He's a Catholic priest, and when the hurricane hit, he went to Mercy hospital to minister to the sick and dying. For a week we were on "pins and needles;" we had no idea if he had survived the brutal force of the storm.

i had visited him a few weeks before the hurricane, and he constantly worried over me. He thought that I wasn't eating enough, and kept pushing food at me. I agonized the whole time he was missing. I KNEW that he wasn't eating enough, if any.

Uncle Nat is such a remarkable person. He immigrated from Sicily in the 1930's as a young boy, and lived with his family in New Orleans. At 78, he still is active in the priesthood and walks 3 miles a day.

He was among the last to be evacuted, and was evacuated just in time. He told us later that he was having difficulty urinating. He and the rest of our family members that left New Orleans are still in shock; they refuse to talk about what happened.

Wonderful people, such as Katrina Martin-Davenport, have created websites that offers "messages of hope in the wake of Hurricane Katrina." The name of the site is "Katrina Heals," and definately worth a look.

If you are a pet lover, here is a wonderful poem that was emailed to me. The poem is called "Sit and Stay."