A Simple Country Girl's Dream

2007-10-05T16:56:00.000-05:00

I have the same picture over at my other place. I wanted to share how absolutely beautiful Manhatten was at sunrise.

A request...

2007-08-31T20:47:00.000-05:00

Hey! Between the bus eating my children, the truck playing hide and seek in the parking lot, and that hectic first day of school, I’ve thrown my hat in the ring and participated in this:

You would have my undying gratitude and my first born child (no…you’d just bring him back after an hour)if you voted for me. Thanks! I’ll go into more detail about the bus and the parking lot later. )

Just click on the button or here.

Happy Days!

2007-05-13T08:25:00.000-05:00

Happy Mother's Day!

You're purrfect just the way you are!

Maddening person that I am, I'm keeping this site to post pictures, and the other place to post journal entries.

Oops. I forgot to post the direct link to my column. Here tis'.

Check it out!

2007-04-17T10:13:00.000-05:00

Good morning everyone! If you want a grin, or even a giggle, check out my monthly humorous column at Sanity Central. For a gut-busting belly laugh, indulge yourself by taking a gander at the other wonderfully written stories.

2007-03-19T13:20:00.000-05:00

2007-03-08T17:22:00.000-06:00

psst

2007-02-22T19:43:00.000-06:00

I'M OVER HERE!

This-n-that

2007-02-19T17:21:00.000-06:00

When the cat's away, the mouse. . .well. . .this mouse at least, throws herself a pity party the likes of which no one has ever seen. You'd think that after fifteen years of marriage, I'd be used to it when John leaves town for a conference; that my heart wouldn't be ripped to shreds as I stand in the front door, watching him drive away. But it was.

And so, while dear hubby was away last week, I found other ways to amuse myself. I found this link on chelle's site, and entered the Mom Idol singing contest . If you feel brave, and would like to be tortured, please feel free to check out the song I sang. Blogger will not work the way want it to, so here's the link:

I found this meme over at Much More Than A Mom's.

Five Facts About Me

1. When I was fours old, I thought I might have the power to resurrect dead animals. Our cattle dogs would bring wild rabbits they had just killed into the front yard. An animal lover at an early age, I risked life and limb by wrestling the prey away from the hungry dogs. Shedding tears of sorrow over the bunny carcass, I tied one end of a rope to the animal's neck, the other end to my tricycle, got on, and rode up and down the drive, as hard as my chubby legs could pedal, dragging the corpse behind me in the dust. I believed that if I went fast enough, the rabbit would come to life. Mom looked out the kitchen window and saw what I was doing. She screamed, told my dad to make me stop, and well. . .that ended my bunny "lifesaving career." And you thought Stephen King was weird.

2. I might have said this one before, but I brought one of my horses into my mother's house. Several months after Daddy was killed, Mom decided to have the re-modeling of the house completed, so she hired some workers to complete what my dad started. On day, when I was leading a four month old filly past the house, a worker remarked that the horse was very well-trained to the halter, but he bet me that I couldn't get the filly inside the house.

Wordlessly, I led the horse across the porch, through the front door, where she patiently trip-trapped behind me on the particle board to the kitchen. Mom, who was at the sink, told me--as if it was an every day affair--to get the horse out of the house. The worker, redfaced, stuttered as we walked out, said, "I-I didn't think you'd take me literally."

"Don't ever dare me to do anything," was my icy reply.

3. I used to eat Mircle Whip sandwiches when I was little.

4. I stood on the sidelines during an NFL pre-season scrimmage, and got to put a Superbowl ring on my finger. This occurred the very last summer the Dallas Cowboys had their training camp in Austin. I was field security, which meant I had direct contact with the players and special guests. One afternoon, when practice was over, I was introduced to an ex-Cowboy; one who'd played with Dallas the first time they went to the Superbowl.

I'd told him I'd been a fan since I was small, that "Go Cowboys," were among my first words spoken, and how my dream had been to play for them. Laughing, the gentlemen took his Superbowl ring off his finger, placed it in my palm, and said, 'Here sweetheart, wanna try this on?"

My heart pounded in my chest as I gazed at the piece of jewelry. "Go ahead, put it on," the ex-player urged. "You're not gonna hurt it. That thing has been dropped so many times it ain't even funny."

My hands shaking, I tried it on each finger. On each digit, the ring looked like a donut on a stick, until I tried my thumb; it fit then, but barely.

A few days later, I found myself on the sidelines, thousands of people screaming and cheering as the Dallas Cowboys scrimmaged the Oakland Raiders. It was a magical summer, a summer in which dreams came true.

5. I love pickled beets.

Who's influencing who?

2007-02-14T23:32:00.000-06:00

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Having a preschooler again is definitely having an affect on me. We watch Barney—I think we have every DVD—several times a day. I can’t stand that prehistoric creature, but still I find myself pausing in the housework, glued to television so I can see what Barney does next. I know all the lyrics to the Barney songs, and the CD case in my truck—which once boasted the soulful sounds of Luther Vandross or Pink—is now overflowing with titles that include Toddler Tunes and Just 4 Kids.

Can you imagine what it’s like, on a warm spring day, to have the windows in your truck rolled down, and stop beside a bass-thumping car at the red light (who also has their windows down). Not to be outdone, you reach into your CD case, and not looking at the disc selected, pop it into the player. Soon, you’re jamming to the sound of Hickory Dickory Dock or Old McDonald. The sound of laughter reaches your ears as the light turns green and the other car races away, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust and embarrassment. It’s happened to me before, and I must say it’s not a good feeling.

I even count money differently. The other day I was in the checkout line at the store. When it came time to give the cashier my money, grabbing her hand I pressed the coins individually into it and said, “That’s a quarter. . .twenty-five. . .and one more quarter makes fifty—“ I saw the shock in her eyes, and luckily was able to stop myself. Of all days, Robert chose that one to stay at home with his dad.

“Haha. . .I have a preschooler at home,” I said, my face reddening.

“Uh-huh,” the cashier replied, jamming the receipt in my hand, obviously glad that this crazy woman was leaving her line.

I need help; either Robert has a bigger impact on me than I thought, or I’m already regressing into my second childhood. Either way, I’m a mess.

2007-02-09T20:18:00.000-06:00

All your comments had me in stitches; you all are hilarious! Thanks for the welcome to Crazyville, I'm glad to be part of the whole wonderful bunch. Since I am a member of the "bunch," does that make me a "Grape-nut" (as in the cereal)?

This past Monday, I received an email from Chicken Soup saying that a story I submitted was under consideration. Nothing is final, there's still a chance it might be rejected; but like last time, they sent a contract for me to sign. Instead of celebrating like I wanted to--a latte and a candlelight soak in the tub--I spent that afternoon and the next two days caring for a flu-stricken husband. Bless him, I've isolated him from all form of life--even the dog--and chased after him with a can of Lysol, spraying everything he comes in contact with.

"Why don't you hire a tanker truck filled with rubbing alcohol and spray down the entire house with that?" John said irritably as I steamed cleaned his favorite spot on the couch today.

"Hey, if you think it'll help--" I replied with fake innocence.

He walked away, shaking his head and mumbling something about "no justice for the ill." Oh well, I may be over-reacting, but his bug is not something I care for the family to share with him.

Back to the story.. . .I'll know Chicken Soup's final decision in a few months; right now I'm just praying and keeping my fingers crossed.

Wanna come?

2007-02-08T14:25:00.000-06:00

I've been a bad girl--so bad I can barely stand myself. The truth is . . .it's February and I still have my Christmas tree and decorations up. Some might speculate that after the tree grabbed me and tried to eat me a little over a year ago, I have a deep seeded fear of the artificial giant. I don't use the arm of the love seat as a ladder anymore, teetering precariously on its edge while standing on tip-toe to reach the uppermost branches of the tree; so that's not the reason.

The pure and simple truth is that for the past several weeks, I haven't been home much. This first part of the week, I received some wonderful news. My fax machine is rebelling against me, so, in a few minutes I'll be rushing off to town to fax the paperwork the contact people need.

Pretty soon I'll be going crazy; wanna come?

Canning the Spam

2007-02-02T09:14:00.000-06:00

If you're on my blogroll and don't have the Centurytel email address that I refer to in this post, let me know and I'll send it to you.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. There in my private, unpublished email account’s inbox was spam, loads and loads of it. For months I’d thumbed my nose at spammers by keeping this account secret, giving the address to just a few people I trust, and using it for my freelance work.

Then, one day a lady—it’s no one who reads this blog—broke a cardinal rule I set for her. She has a habit of forwarding multiple emails to people’s inbox every day; some have politely asked her to stop, others ignore her.

When I gave her this address, I asked that she not include it in ANY of her forwarding emails, that if she wanted to forward jokes, send it to my YAHOO account; that was like asking the wind not to blow. A few weeks later, there was a forwarded email from her; a few days later, here came the spam.

I flick “cyber-boogers” at the spammers by blocking them; that doesn’t phase the little darlings. They retaliate by changing their address and sending me twice as much junk the next time.

And so now, I sat there in my squeaking desk chair, peering between my fingers and hoping, by some small miracle, the spam had disappeared on its own. I wasn’t that lucky. It was still there, all twenty-five messages, wanting me to see or do various things.

Disgusted, I rose from the chair and stomped out of the room, leaving my email for later.

I flopped on the living room couch beside John , snuggling against him, enjoying the roughness of his “five o’clock shadow” on my cheek, and the sweet, spicy fragrance of his cologne.

“Should I get my penis enlarged?” I asked mischievously.

“W-What?” John turned his attention from the TV show long enough to study my facial expression. Seeing the humor sparkling in my eyes, he smirked and replied, “I didn’t know you had one, but if it makes you happy. . .”

“That’s news to me too. Maybe I’ll have it done after I get my free prostate exam.” Laughing, I got off the couch and went back to my email.

Like every one else, I’m tired of getting junk emails. Tired of getting messages that read:

“Take a look at this hottie.” I never open them, but just the sight of them makes me feel ill.

I’m seriously thinking of taking a picture of myself before coffee one morning—hair waving everywhere, no makeup, bloodshot eyes—and sending those creeps an email that reads “Take a look at THIS hottie.”

Think they’ll get the same feeling of revulsion I do when I get their emails?

Update

2007-01-27T20:34:00.000-06:00

Thanks everyone for your warm wishes and good vibes sent our way. Out of 82 cages--6 were disqualified--my son placed 34 out of 82! That's extremely well considering it's his first time to show.

For the past couple of days, we've spent most of our time at the fairgrounds. The fair is over, and it feels good to relax. We had the livestock action this afternoon--it was an all day thing--and Seth's rabbits were auctioned at $450. Needless to say, he's excited and so am I.

Dragging my weary butt off to bed now. More later.

Excuse me, but your rabbits are showing

2007-01-24T08:07:00.000-06:00

The 4H livestock is this week, and for the past several days, things around here have been running full throttle.

Seth is showing a cage of young rabbits, and we’ve been working with them constantly. When I was young, I had to groom my horses for public appearances, but I never knew you had to do the same for rabbits. Each bunny has to be spritzed lightly with water, and then brushed to ensure his or her coats are a sparkling snowy white. Rabbits that scramble all over the platform—looking for an escape route—during judging, will be disqualified.

And so, most of Sunday afternoon was spent watching NFL football, while a young Californian rabbit dozed in my lap.

It soon became obvious she was a Saints fan; she peed on my lap every time the team scored, which unfortunately wasn’t very often. Of course, she was a Saints fan. You wouldn’t expect a rabbit to root for a team called the Bears would you?

Tonight, the three best—physically sound—bunnies will be packed up and taken to the fairgrounds while the other two remain here with their mother. Wish us luck!

Someone please turn off the air conditioner

2007-01-19T08:37:00.000-06:00

For the past few days we have been in a deep freeze, hit with freezing rain and snow, and the temp staying just below freezing.

I was once used to this kind of weather. Many years ago, the winters on the Texas plains were I grew up were "bone-chilling" cold, sometimes freezing newborn calves born in the pastures, and ignorant chickens who escaped the warm confines of their coop, and insisted on roosting in the trees.

I remember several occasions when I rode with my dad in the tattered old ranch truck, searching every nook and cranny of the pastures for newborn or sick calves. If some were found, they were carefully loaded into the back of the truck, wrapped in old horse blankets, and taken to the house, where the garage, more blankets, and an old propane heater awaited. Happy to say, we saved more than we lost.

Anyway---

It's been several years since we've had that kind of winter; my body has become accustomed to the balmy 60 degree F. winters we now have, so the freezing weather was a shock to these bones.

The rabbit hutch--where Seth's 4H bunnies live--had a heat lamp installed, and the outside of the hutch was wrapped in tarp. Every day, while we froze our behinds off feeding them, the darling "Bunny Foo-Foo" family basked in their warm home.

My family spent time on the couch, cuddled together, enjoying pots of coffee, bowls of soup, and old movies.
Now, the temp registers a whopping 43 degrees, and we're happy for the heat wave.
---------------------------------------------------------------

When I speak, a twangy, Texas accent--of course--comes out of my mouth. Through the years, it's gotten better; but when I'm tired, it's more pronounced, making it a nightmare for some people to understand some words.

Several years ago, I was a dispatcher for a local sheriff's department. One stormy, winter night, at 3am, I took a call from a distressed woman, who was worried about her new car parked in her drive, and the possibility of hail.
"I don't know that information, but if you'll hold, I'll find out," I promised. "Business" was at a standstill because of the weather, and we were happy to get any sort of call.

Turning to Lisa, my fellow dispatcher for the evening, I asked if she knew about the possibility of hail [ H-A-I-L].
Just having moved from Pennsylvania, she was fairly new to our department, but we had worked together quite often, and functioned well as a team.

"What?" she asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

"Is it going to hail?"

"What? I can't understand you."

"Is. . .it. . .going. . .to. . .hail?" I asked, losing patience by the second.

"Are we going to HELL? What kind of call are you taking?"

"No. H...A...I...L. HAIL!"

"Oh, it's your accent," Lisa giggled. "I thought you were saying HELL. No, according to the last teletype, we aren't."

Taking the phone off hold, I apologized to the lady for the wait, and assured her that there was no hail in the forecast. Lisa gave me heck over that incident for months.

Good thing I depend on writing rather than speaking; I'd be in trouble.

Things that lurk in the dark. . .

2007-01-15T16:38:00.000-06:00

There aren’t many things that alarm me; after being shot at and later—in an entirely different matter--stalked by a mentally unstable person, my life now seems tame in comparison. The paranormal though, sends me scampering for safety of my bed, where I hid beneath the warm fortress of blankets, quivering like a pile of Jell-O.

And that being said . . .

A few nights ago, I went outside after eight, armed with the MP3 player given to me at Christmas by John. I hadn’t had a lot of time to peruse the Internet and look for songs, so I was content to use the radio function on the player. Big mistake.

There was a chill in the air; the moon had just peeped over the roof of my neighbor’s “Amityville Horror” style house, and was shining through the barren branches of the trees that lined my driveway, casting eerie shadows that stretched across my path.

As I exercised, enjoying my favorite radio station, the advertisement for the new horror flick, Prime Evil, played on the radio. The announcer, in an ominous voice, spoke of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and another Texas killer that was never caught. I quickened my pace, my hands sweating despite the cold, my heart hammering in my chest.

The shadows no longer belong to the tree limbs; they were the arms and hands of the undead, snatching and reaching at me, seeking to drag me down to their home in the festering bowels of Hell.

I almost said it and did it in my pants when something large raced by and hit my legs. Tripping over my own feet, I almost fell into the barbed wire fence in my haste to reach the safety of my house. I recovered, and imagined the newspaper headlines had I not regained my footing:

Woman Found Dead In Own Driveway. Deputies To Investigate Offensive Odor Resonating from Corpse.

The “thing” that brushed past me, stopped a few yards ahead. In the dim light, I saw the feathery, curled tale of my dog. I had to laugh at my crazy imagination.

A couple of days ago, I received a package in the mail from a close and dear writing friend. Among the goodies inside was one of my favorite movies, The Diary of Ellen Rimbaur, another Stephen King masterpiece.

Seth stayed up and watched it with me; afterwards, my teenager asked if he could sleep with a nightlight. I obliged, of course. After all the “chicken” blood that runs in his veins is hereditary.

2007-01-09T20:05:00.000-06:00

Oh, by the way. . .I just learned it was "Delurking Week." Please drop me a line just to say "hi." I don't bite, except on Mondays, so you're safe.

Much More than a Mom's post on her blog inspired me to share this. This story was published in Sasee magazine in February 2006, and later on JustforMom.com

Honey, Where’s the Instruction Booklet on this Kid?
by Debbie Roppolo ©2006

When I was a young adult, I thought I had the world by the coattails; there was no task too great, no obstacle I couldn’t overcome. I was also a self-proclaimed authority on childbirth. I had seen horses and cows give birth, and it all seemed very simple.

Reality hit when I became pregnant. Some women radiate beauty when they are expecting; I did not. Countless trips to the bathroom—because of morning sickness—left me with the feeling that I had no toenails remaining. The toilet and I began to know each other on a first name basis.

During a journey to the bathroom during my seventh month of pregnancy, my well-meaning husband, John, intercepted me in the hall. "You’re beautiful, Babe."

I stared stupidly at him through blood-shot eyes. Beautiful? Ha! I thought, glancing in the hallway mirror. My eyes looked like poached eggs, and my bloating midsection convinced me that I was beginning to look like a cow. Okay, either John has become blind, gone insane, or he is the worst liar I’ve ever known, I thought, shuffling down the hall to the bathroom.

After giving birth to my son, I thought parenthood would be a breeze. During my stay in the hospital, pediatric nurses took care my son; I was pampered and treated like a queen. Reality once again reared its ugly head the day we were to leave the hospital.

A smiling nurse brought our precious little bundle into the room as we were packing. "I’m really sorry madam, but I didn’t get a chance to change your son. You might want to change his diaper before you leave."

Change his what? Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and my heart pounded frantically. I had no clue how to change a diaper. "John, I don’t know how to change a diaper."

"You mean you’ve NEVER changed a diaper?" John asked in disbelief.

"No." I whispered. I gazed at the pale green linoleum tiles on the floor and wished I could melt into its cracks. John held me in his arms while I wept, then patiently "walked" me through the process of changing a diaper.

That was the biggest crisis I experienced until Jonathan reached six months of age; then one day it was obvious that all was not well with Jonathan. My usually good-natured son was crabby and lethargic. John was at work, so I sought the advice of my mama. Between sobs, I described Jonathan’s symptoms to her over the phone.

"Oh honey, he’ll be okay. It sounds like he’s a little constipated."

Always on the verge of being a basket case, I began crying in relief. "Then he’ll be okay? What can I do to help him?" I crossed my fingers and hoped Mama did not suggest a soapy enema.

"Just give him a little prune juice in his bottle."

"That’s all? He…he’ll be fine then?"

"Yes honey. The prune juice is all he needs. That and a little time," she chuckled. Relieved, I slumped into a kitchen chair after I got off the phone with Mama. She was right, she was always right. Jonathan would be fine after he drank the prune juice. Mama forgot, however, to tell me to dilute the prune juice.

I gave my little fuss-box eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle, and checked his diaper every few minutes for the results. I thought Mama said this would work, I fumed. Oh well. He loves the stuff, so I’ll give him another bottle full. What could eight more ounces of prune juice hurt?

That same night, John took Jonathan and me out to supper at our favorite Mexican restaurant. On the way to the restaurant, I heard the baby grunting in his car seat. I glanced back at him and saw a tiny face, red with exertion. Hmm. Guess the prune juice worked after all, I thought.

Every female, at least once in her life, has the dream of everyone staring at her when she enters a room. This happened when we entered the restaurant; almost every head turned to look at me as we made our way to a table. I had dressed attractively; I assumed everyone was admiring my beauty.

I walked past a nearby table; a man seated there stared at me with a look of horror and revulsion in his eyes. His wife, calmly eating her food, patted his arm and said "Don’t worry about it dear. She probably doesn’t realize it yet."

Realize what? Horrified, I realized what everyone was staring at. There was a thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored goop covering my arm and the front of my shirt. In disbelief, I saw a trail of goop on Jonathan’s back that went from his diaper to the top of his neck. It was Jonathan’s bowel movement.

John, who is well known and liked in our town, was making the rounds of the restaurant, shaking hands with people that he knew. When he arrived at our table, I leaned over and whispered, "John, we have to leave. We have to leave now!" I turned our son around and showed John the mess.

A tense smile plastered on his face, John hissed through clenched teeth, "Let’s get out of here!"

We leapt from the table and headed towards the door. My stomach churning, I held Jonathan at arm’s length as we raced through the restaurant. Everyone who did not see our entrance had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan’s back as we made our hasty retreat.

At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at our son. Always the calm one under pressure, John flashed the couple a winning smile, and said," What ever you do, do not eat the chicken enchiladas!" With that, we fled out the door and into the night.

Any suggestions?

2007-01-08T17:27:00.000-06:00

I desperately needed this today; it's pumpkin spice coffee topped off with a squirt of whipped cream and a sprinkling of nutmeg. Sorry about the crappy quality of the picture. I'm still learning this digital camera.

Around midnight this morning, I awakened to a heavy sensation on my right side; I began to panic as I struggled to raise my right arm and couldn't. My right arm was the one injured in the accident several years ago, and I was afraid the nerve damage had somehow returned. Just as I was wondering how I could, emotionally, cope with the loss of my arm, the pressure shifted forward, and I felt small, tender hands caressing my cheek.

"Wake up, I wanna go outside. You can drive me in the golf cart." There, perched on my side like a bird on a wire, was Robert. Yeah right, like I really wanted to parade outside in my pajamas, in 36 degree weather at midnight, and race up and down the drive in open-air vehicle with a squealing toddler.

I'm sure the neighbors would just love to be awakened at that hour, and looking out their window, see me, robe flapping in the breeze, zooming around in the golf cart and looking like Ichobod Crane escaping from the headless horseman. The way my luck runs, I'd hit a tree, the police would be called, and I'd be arrested for indecent exposure.

And so, going outside was not an option; I didn't want to be on the next episode of COPS, not to mention both Robert and I catching a cold.

As I explained the latter to him, Robert, screaming loud enough to wake the dead, hopped off me and raced into the living room, thus beginning the battle of wills. Finally, after singing, warm milk, and rocking, Robert fell asleep at 5 AM.

It was too late for me to go to bed then; breakfast had to be made and the rest of the family awakened, fed, and sent off to work and school.

Here's my question: This is the second night Robert has done this. What methods do you use to keep your children in bed and asleep?

Tastes like chicken?

2007-01-06T00:26:00.000-06:00

Last night, after my shower, dressed in the new butterfly-print, blue pajamas my aunt had given me, I plopped myself on the couch between my two best boyfriends, Seth and Robert. Armed with cocoa-flavored Chex Mix (it's a limited edition), and diet root beer, we settled back to watch Animal Planet.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. Wordlessly, Robert set down his drink, walked across the couch, and standing behind me, bit me on the head. I felt his tiny toddler teeth on my scalp as he attempted to graze on my hair like a cow. Recovering from the shock, I grabbed him, and placing him in "time-out," explained to him that people shouldn't bite each other.

I'm not clear on what influenced his behaviour; perhaps it was the commercial for zombie movies we had seen just a few minutes earlier. Who says television doesn't influence children's behavior? I've got some missing hair that proves differently.

---------------------

Your Power Color Is Blue

Relationships and feelngs are the most important things to you.

You are empathetic and accepting - and good at avoiding conflict.

If someone close to you is in pain, it makes you hurt as well.

You try to heal the ones you love with your kind and open heart.

What's Your Power Color?

Pity Party

2007-01-01T08:59:00.000-06:00

I forgot to share this picture of my third little boy.

Happy New Year!

This past week, armed with decongestants and tissues, I waged the war against my children's snots and won. Halfway through the battle, my youngest was sweet enough to share his misery with me by sneezing in my face. Lovely. Traitor.

A few days later, both boys were the picture of health and vitality, while I sat like a lump of forgotten chewing gum on the couch, my only companions a box of tissues and the TV remote control. I couldn't find the latter half the time, and was forced to beg my children to change the channel for me.

Judging from their reactions--especially my oldest--you would have thought I proposed visiting the local 7-11, "Bonnie and Clyde" style. "There," Seth announced firmly, switching the channel to an exercise channel. "You can watch this for a while."

Gee thanks, I thought sourly as I blew my nose for what seemed to be the thousandth time in an hour. I really want to watch people firm their butts while mine is getting mushier by the minute.

I felt like something the dog threw up, my body ached, and both my nostrils were congested. I could only breathe through my mouth, so I wasn't planning on making any phone calls; because of my breathing, I was sure to be mistaken for pervert.

I was a victim of the "poor me syndrome," but I really didn't give a rat's behind. I wanted to be babied, wanted to get back some of the 'TLC" I had given my family in the past. "Baby," I called to Seth, looking as pathetic as I could. "Would you please bring me some hot chocolate?"

"Nope," he replied coolly, glancing at grandfather clock, "I have things to do." With that, both he and Robert disappeared outside, leaving me to brood like a wet hen.

At this stage in his life, I was no longer "cool," not his hero. I felt ancient, my baby was growing up, and the younger one would soon follow. It was a bitter pill swallow, but life must progress. But what the heck is so important he couldn't bring me a cup of hot chocolate? I fumed. Walking to the window. I peeked through the blinds and got my answer. There in the drive, astride a purple mountain bike, was a young girl around Seth's age, her red hair gleaming like a copper penny in the morning sun.

A couple of minutes later, Seth appeared from the garage pushing his bike, Robert behind, as always, pushing his own bike. The girl's face lit up as the boys approached, a dimples appearing as she smiled. I watched as she flipped her hair, her laugh high and musical as she tittered over something Seth apparently said; he, in return, looking like he just won the lottery.

I turned from the window, feeling worse now since I saw that girl, that vixen, working her charms on my little boy. Didn't she realize he had only been out of diapers for twelve years? He was still a baby, my baby. Oh well, it wasn't anything I could stop.

I shuffled off the kitchen, in quest of that cup of cocoa. There, on the top pantry shelf, sat the box; at the moment looking like Incan treasure to my tired, bloodshot eyes. Reaching up I grabbed it and found--nothing. Every envelope was gone. Oh well, I'd have to use the chocolate syrup in the fridge; again nothing.

My remote was lost, there was no chocolate in the whole house, and a girl was flirting with my boy.

Ah well, as Scarlett O'Hara says ". . .tomorrow will be a better day," and it was.

------------------------------
Seth is so unintentionally funny. Here's a few things I found out about this holiday season.

1. He puts his hair in storage until Fall and doesn't eat until there's a holiday--We were playing the PC version of FAMILY FEUD. The question was, "What do you get out of storage in the Fall?"

"My hair!" he yelled out, eager to beat me to the "buzzer."

"And what do you do the rest of the year, go bald?" I giggled, wiping the tears from my eyes.

A few minutes later, the question was "What do you do on the holidays you don't do year around?"

"EAT!" Seth blared.

"So that's not you at the table?" I asked, laughing.

"Guess not," he replied, grinning sheepishly.

My sides were hurting me from laughing by the end of that game.

2. I have a hot dog for a nose.--A few days later, Seth was half asleep, and I was walking by his room, scratching my nose, he asked, "Why are you scratching your hot dog?"

My nose is long, but hot dog length?

3. He wants to know when I'm going to die and who will be on the guest list--He overheard John and I talking about renewing our vows. "What year will you die?" he asked.

"Let me check my calender. Maybe I can pencil in a date." I retorted.

Then he asked who I wanted on the guest list. "For a funeral?" I asked dumbfounded. Then it hit me. He was talking about the renewing of the vows.

Guess my "dingyness" is wearing off on him.

Wonderful time

2006-12-28T13:24:00.000-06:00

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!

Last Thursday we went caroling at the local nursing home. I guess in my idea of a perfect world, the elderly aren't like discontinued figurines, placed somewhere then forgotten. It broke my heart when the home administrator, her voice choking with tears, thanked our group again and again for coming. She told us the residents we would see were the ones who rarely received visitors, especially during the holidays. Leading us down a narrow hallway, she brought us into a large dining room, filled with 50-60 residents, all displaying different stages of depression; some anxiously scanning the faces in our crowd, obviously hoping to see a long-absent loved one. Since I was pushing Robert in the stroller, we were moved to the front of the group. I wasn't too happy with that. I envisioned Robert escaping from his stroller and trying to go for a ride in someone's wheelchair, myself and a stream of people chasing him.

Our group hadn't sang together since last Christmas, but on that night, we were truly blessed, for our voices blended and complimented each other as we smiled and sang to that roomful of people. At the end of the first song, we were surprised by the enthusiastic applause. Robert, always wanting to be the center of attention, stood up in his stroller, clapped, and said, 'Thank you; thank you very much." The residents loved it, and clapped harder. They were so happy to have visitors. Allergies had me down all day, now I was ashamed that I considered not going there with my children.

We left there with a feeling of happiness, a result of the true meaning of Christmas

-------------------------------------

We had a quiet, but wonderful, Christmas. Christmas Day the boys played with their Kawasaki keyboard, and with the Playstation 2 and games Santa left. There's one game that they have a hard time prying me away from--it's called Dance Dance Revolution 2. It has a workout mode I'm in love with. I couldn't help but notice though, there a "clumsy" warning about falling and being too close to the television. Hmm. . .wonder if the designers created that warning with me in mind?

How was your Christmas?

A little more. . .

2006-12-23T08:50:00.000-06:00

I found this fun meme at chelle's blog

The Letter A

Are you agnostic? No.
What is your age? I seldom act my age, so I lose track. Thirty-six.
What annoys you? People who are late and don’t have enough consideration to call and let you know they’re running late.

The Letter B
Do you like bacon? It’s okay. I could take it or leave it. .
What is your birthday? September 5^th
Who is your best friend? John, of course

.
The Letter C
What is your favorite candy? Cinnamon disks
Who is your crush? John (boring, huh?)
When was the last time you cried? At the family Christmas. We lost 4 this year, one after the other.

The Letter D
Do you daydream? Course, that’s how I get some story ideas.
What is your favorite kind of dog? Husky/Malamute
What day of the week is it? Thursday

The Letter E
How do you like your eggs? Fried or scrambled

Have you ever been in the emergency room? Laughing my butt off on this one. Oh yeah. There for a while I thought they’d give us a reserved parking place.

What’s the easiest thing to ever do? Fall in love.

The Letter F
Have you ever flown in a plane? Yes
Do you use fly swatters? Yep
Have you ever used a foghorn? No, my voice is loud enough.

The Letter G
Do you chew gum? Yes.
Are you a giver or taker. Giver

.The Letter H
How are you? In what sense are you asking this?
What’s your height? 5′6 and ¾ inches. (might as well say 5’7”)
What color is your hair? Dark Brown

The Letter I
What is your favorite ice-cream? Chocolate mint
Have you ever ice-skated? Yes
Do you play an instrument? Yes, several.

The Letter J
What is your favorite jelly bean? Any kind that Jelly Belly makes
Do you wear jewelry? Toe rings, wedding ring, silver bracelet, necklace

Have you heard a really hilarious joke? Sometimes

The Letter K
Who do you want to kill? No one!
Do you want kids? As in do I want any more? I’m happy with these two
Where did you have kindergarten? Central Texas

The Letter L
Are you laid-back? Very laid-back; sometimes too much.
Do you lie? Not very much; I really try not to.
Do you love anyone? Yeah, friends, family. . .

The Letter M
What is your favorite movie? Rose Red
Do you still watch Disney movies? Yep

Do you like mangos? They’re okay.

The Letter N
Do you have a nickname? Deb
What is your favorite number? 23
Do you prefer night or day? morning.

The Letter O
What is your one wish? My children be healthy and prosperous

Are you an only child? Yes. My older brother is deceased
Do you wish this year was over? No.

The Letter P
What is one fear that you are most paranoid about? Being stalked, again. Happened several years ago when I was in my twenties.

What personality trait would you look for in someone you wanted to date? Honesty and humor

The Letter Q
Are you quick to judge people? No not really; I try and give people the benefit of the doubt.

The Letter R
Do you think you are always right? No, not perfect
Do you watch reality T.V.? Yeah, sometimes. I, um, like American Idol
What is a good reason to cry? When there’s a good reason for it.

The Letter S
Do you prefer sun or rain? I love rainy days. I light a candle, watch old movies, listen to music, read, or bake.
Do you like snow? I love it.
What is your favorite season? Fall

The Letter T
What time is it? 6:16 pm.
What time did you wake up? 5:30.
When was the last time you slept in a tent? A year ago in my back yard

The Letter U
Are you wearing underwear? Let me check. . . yeah!

The Letter V
What is the worst veggie? Brussel sprouts
Where do you want to go on vacation? Spain or Italy
What was your last family vacation together? This past summer

The Letter W
What is your worst habit? Being sarcastic
Where do you live? Texas

The Letter X
Have you ever had an X-ray? yes.
Have you ever seen the X-Games? no.
Do you own a xylophone? No.

The Letter Y
Do you like the color yellow? It’s okay. Blue’s my favorite though
What year where you born in? 1970
What do you yearn for most? ?

The Letter Z
What is your Zodiac Sign? Virgo
Do you believe in the Zodiac? nope.
What is your favorite zoo animal? Zebra. I’d love to ride one. J.

Crazy Weekend. . .what, you're surprised?

2006-12-19T07:16:00.000-06:00

Last week was a whirlwind of activities. Seth had 4H meetings and a band concert, and some of the family, who missed the party earlier in the month, were coming on Friday to celebrate Christmas; this time there would be overnight company.

I waited until Thursday to do my major cleaning, and paid dearly for my procrastination. The house looked worse than it did before I started; cleaned window treatments were draped over the back of couches--which were pulled away from the living room walls so I could sweep behind them--cookie sheets and empty mixing bowls filled the kitchen sink, and remnants of Christmas wrapping paper littered my bedroom floor.

"There's no way I can get all this done by tomorrow," I muttered, rubbing my forehead as I walked from room to room, surveying the damage. In addition to the cleaning, I still had to finish cooking, Christmas shop, and finish stringing up the rest of the outside lights I had bought a few days earlier.

"Hey Mommy," Robert called from the living room. "I'm helping you clean."

That bodes no good, I thought, my "mommy-sense" tingling as I hurried to the living room. I pressed my fist hard against my lips, fighting the scream that was building inside of me because of what I saw.

There, standing by the antique off-white couch my mother-in-law gave me before her death, watercolors and paint brush in hand, was Robert. "See, I made it pretty," he announced proudly, pointing to the large, rainbow-colored streaks on the cushions. As dismayed as I was, I couldn't remain angry; after all, he did think he was helping.

"Umm. . .yeah. . .that's pretty," I said, kneeling down until I was eye-level with him. "But, you know, we don't paint furniture. Why don't you paint that pretty rainbow on paper, then give it to Granny as a gift?" Robert's face had fallen when he was told he couldn't create masterpieces on the couch, but his enthusiasm returned at the prospect of giving Granny a gift. Great, now I have to add "steam clean the couch" to my list, I thought tiredly, getting manilla paper out of the craft drawer for Robert's creation.

By Thursday night, the chaos was under control, or so I thought. Friday morning I cleaned furiously, as if my life depended upon it; in a way, it did. My mama, the "neat freak", was coming with the remainder of the family, so everything had to be perfect. In the past, when she came to my house, inevitably, she'd find a wayward toy under the coffee table, or peaking from beneath the couch. This led to a five minute lecture from her on the "tripping hazards". Not this time though, this time my house would be perfect. My house isn't filthy; I guess, in a sense, I'm a "neat freak" as well.

At noon, Robert and I stopped cleaning long enough to pick up a couple more gifts Christmas in town--would you believe nothing happened--and grab a bite to eat. I finished up the house when we got back. Later that afternoon, I became a mother again, six times over. John came home with Seth's 4H project, five baby bunnies and their mother. We had just put the bunnies in their hutch when my family pulled into the driveway.

Noisy, heartfelt greetings were exchanged, and we all trooped into the house. I held my breath as Mama coolly glanced around the house. "The house looks and smells wonderful," she said finally. Everything past inspection, and I was relieved.

"But dear," she continued, looking me up and down disapprovingly, "you're not going to go out to eat with us looking like that, are you?"

I felt, and knew I looked like crap. My hair was windblown, and waving in different directions; glancing down at my dirty, rabbit pee smelling shorts, I had an evil thought. "Of course I am Mama, and I'm going to stand up and announce to the restaurant what your name is, that you never let me have nice clothes as a child, and this is the only way I know how to dress," I retorted mischievously.

"Funny girl," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

I showered--rabbit pee isn't my perfume of choice--changed, then we all ate at Texas Red's, an old cotton gin converted into a restaurant. You're served peanuts as an appetizer, and since the floor is hardwood, you're asked to throw the peanut shells onto the floor, so that it can absorb the peanut oil when the shells are stepped on.

Mama didn't understand the philosophy behind the discarded shells at first. "Debra, didn't I raise you not to throw trash on the floor?" she scolded. I tried to explain, but it was in vain, she was convinced I was making excuses. I grabbed a passing waitress, and made her explain it.

"Well, I'm not going to do it," Mama whispered to me huffily. "I think it's rude."

I sighed and slumped in my chair. Mama was a lot of fun to be around, but she was so proper, sometimes too proper. The dinner went great, the only exception when Mama got into the habit of throwing her shells, and accidentally hit my cousin in the face.

The next day, we celebrated Christmas together, and after the cars were loaded with their gifts, we bid the family a tearful good-bye. The house whose walls rang with laughter, now sat quiet, too quiet. The dust had not yet settled in the driveway, and already we missed our family members.

Our sadness was short-lived when a family friend (a surrogate grandfather) arrived a few hours later, gifting us with a slightly used golf cart. Way cool!

Hmm. . .golf cart + me= adventure and possible disaster, don't you think?

What did you do this weekend?

The soccer experience

2006-12-14T15:33:00.000-06:00

Eagerly, I scrambled out of the Ford Bronco; inhaling the fresh, clean scent of the morning, as Seth—four at the time—tugged on my arm like frisky colt. Dew sparkled like polished glass on the grasses, while the sun, a glowing yellow orb in the pale blue autumn sky, warmed the Earth.

“C’mon Mommy. Let’s go, everybody is there,” he urged, pulling me toward the soccer field.

“We have plenty of time,” I replied, “we need to wait for Daddy.”

My calmness was a façade. I had been involved in sports for as long as I could remember, and now I was fluctuating between wanting to play the entire soccer game by myself, and looking for a quiet place to puke. Neither was an option; I had to coach my son’s team in our final game. We were a young and inexperienced team, and despite all our efforts that season, we were playing for the bragging rights of fourth place in a six-team division.

“Gee, thanks,” John quipped, grunting as he lifted a cooler from the rear of the vehicle. “You could help me carry this.”

“I’m watching our child,” I said, “and besides, you’re so much stronger than I am,” I replied, batting my eyelashes and lapsing into my “I’m just a poor helpless girl” routine.

“Good call, Coach,” a soccer parent chuckled, patting my back as she walked past.

“Yeah, right,” her husband retorted, rolling his eyes. “Here, I’ll help ya,” he told John, grabbing the other end of the loaded cooler.

“Come on Seth, let’s go,” their son and Seth’s teammate, Dexter, chimed. We let the boys run ahead to the fields, and walking at a more leisurely pace, we joined them a couple of minutes later.

My teams’ shin guards were too big, almost reaching their knobby knees, but donned in their uniforms, they looked like shrunken versions of the soccer players seen on TV. My heart soared as I watched them skillfully pass the ball to each other; they had come so far in the short amount of time we had.

“Hey, who do we play?” Dexter’s mom asked.

“The Angels,” John replied.

Just the mention of that team brought a hush over the parents standing on the sidelines. We had played them twice that season, and each time they trounced us soundly. “More like “Hell’s Angels,” one dad said, causing a ripple of laughter.

“Maybe they’ll forget and not show up,” another offered.

“Oh no, they’ll show up. They’re playing for first place.” I said. I shook my head, still not understanding how it could be fair to get first place by beating a weaker team; but the Angels were almost undefeated, and if their nemesis, The Raccoons lost, the Angels won the division.

A few minutes before game time, the opposing team arrived; clad in sky-blue colored uniforms, they were the pictures of confidence. “Ready to get beaten again?” My stomach lurched at the sound of the obnoxious voice behind me. Turning, I faced Brandi, a mountain of a woman, and who, perhaps if I could have found a ladder, would have received a swift kick in the kneecaps from me. A sharp glance from John reminded me there were children present, and a normal smart remark from me would not be a good idea.

Instead, I gathered my team around me. “They’ve beaten us every time, and they think this will be easy,” I remember saying, fire in my every word. “But they’re not gonna score one goal are they?”

“No!” retorted the team.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“No!” screamed the kids, boiling out onto the field as the whistle to begin play sounded.

All through the first half, I walked the sidelines, yelling instructions and encouragement to my players. “Stay with them! NO ONE GETS PAST!”

“Gee, Coach,” said the ref, pausing a couple of seconds beside me. “Why don’t you just give ‘em helmets and pads and let ‘em go after it.”

‘If you think it’ll help,” I retorted with mock innocence. My tiny players were determined, and not one goal was scored on them the first half. During the juice break, I raved to them on how well they were playing; it was obvious they were tired, but they still has “the eye of the tiger.”

In the last few minutes of the game, our opponents had the ball and were driving to our goal. Suddenly their player lost control of the ball, and there was a mad flurry of legs as both teams sought possession. Then, out of the dust, emerged Seth, my baby, driving toward the opponent’s goal, the ball well under his control, no one in front of him.

I felt like I was in a dream as I raced down the sidelines, hurdling coolers and chairs, while calling to encouragement to my son. Not only were we going to win, but also my baby was going to score the winning goal!

Then it happened. I watched in dismay as Seth stopped abruptly and bent over. Was it an injury, a cramp? I couldn’t believe what I saw next. Plucking a flower from the field, he abandoned the ball, and trotted over to the sidelines towards me, the plant clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. I felt like a deflating balloon as I watched the other team kick take the ball back down the field and score.

That’s the game,” the ref called, glancing at his watch. I couldn’t block out the jubilant cries of the Angels, and I hate to say it, I felt ill. It’s not so much we lost; it was the fact we lost to Brandi.

“Mooommmmy,” Seth yelled, pulling at my sleeve. I picked this flower just for you ‘cause I love you. It’s so pretty, don’t you think?”

I took the slightly smashed dandelion he offered me, thankful I had such a loving, considerate child. The other team may have taken home the trophy, but I, I had the real prize.

Made My Day!

2006-12-12T08:21:00.000-06:00

Much More than a Mom, presented me with this:

for my post entitled, " New Concept on Scratch and Sniff Packaging".

She's so sweet to think of me, and I'm flattered!

An Urgent Warning

2006-12-10T15:37:00.000-06:00

If you have a space heater, or are thinking of getting one, please read this.

In the wintertime, where I reside, the temperature rarely dips below 40 degrees Fahrenheit, either in the day or night, making the use of Central Heat unnecessary. Instead, we use RIVAL floor heaters. When we bought the heaters a couple of years ago, the smiling sales associate pointed out that this brand of heater came with a safety mechanism; it cuts off if tipped over. We never had any trouble with them until a few nights ago.

This Thursday, after my usual nightly walk, I collapsed on the couch with the remote. Everyone else was asleep, and I intended on having some much needed “me time” with the TV.

I can’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew, I was awakened by the sound of an extremely loud commercial. Yawning, I turned off the TV, and rolled over on the couch. “Might as well bunk here tonight; don’t wanna disturb John,” I muttered to myself.”

I closed my eyes, only to open them with a start. It’s unexplainable, but something didn’t seem right. As if led by an unseen force, I got off the couch and walked down the hallway, pausing in front of my oldest son’s room. Just outside the door, my nostrils were assaulted by a foul acid smell.

To my horror, the floor heater in his room was laying face down on the floor, the motor running full blast. As I said earlier, the darn thing is SUPPOSED to have an automatic cut-off switch, but it didn’t cut off.

It what seemed to me like slow motion, I jerked the heater off the floor, turned it off, and unplugged it. My heart caught in my throat when I saw the damage. The heater had burned a palm-sized spot into my wooden floor. The spot was as hot as a stove burner. I felt sick when I thought about what could have happened if I hadn’t awakened; we all would have perished in a house fire.

Therefore, I beg of you—no matter how the manufacture guarantees the safety of their product, if you can, please refrain from using floor heaters. It is literally, a matter of life or death.

Finally, a solution

2006-12-06T09:13:00.000-06:00

It's that time of year when "visions" of cheesecakes, and chocolate "dance in [my] head"; however, an abundance of leftover turkey is my nightmare.

At the party, we had pans of homemade baked ziti, lasagna, sausage and peppers, baked ham, and roasted turkey. Everything had been demolished with gusto, except for that cursed yard bird. There it sat, mocking me at the end of the table, the new giant "albatross around my neck." Thanksgiving had just barely faded into the past, and everyone, like me, was sick of turkey.

"Wouldn't you like to take some yummy turkey home?" I begged my 3 year-old great niece who was "helping" me in the kitchen.

"Ew, no!" she said swiping her hand over her mouth. "I tired of turkey."

"You and me both sis," I said tiredly, starting to wrap up the left over bird. Then it occurred to me that the internet would probably have a wealth of turkey recipes. I froze half the bird, and put the other half in the fridge.

After the last tearful good-bye was made, I went in search online for a good recipe. I wasn't disappointed. Here's a couple of recipes I found, one on the net, one I found on my recipe CD.

The one off the Easy Chef version 4.5 CD:
Leftover Thanksgiving Turkey Enchiladas

Leftover cooked turkey (white or dark
meat pieces)
1 or 2 cans cream of celery soup or
cream of chicken, cream of
mushroom (whichever suits your
taste)
1 can diced green chilies (I eliminated the chilies and used chopped bell peppers which I sauteed with the onions)
1 reg. size pkg. plain tortilla
chips, crumbled
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Cheddar cheese, grated
1 (8 oz.) pkg. Monterey Jack cheese,
grated
1 sm. onion, chopped
1 jar jalapenos (optional)

Saute onions in butter or margarine in medium skillet until golden brown. Add green chilies, soup, and 1 soup can of water. Stir and simmer until heated. Crush tortilla chips, using 1/2 of package. Spread a layer in bottom of baking dish. Evenly place a layer of cooked turkey on top of chips. Spoon a layer of 1/2 of soup mixture over chips. Add jalapenos, if desired. Sprinkle with 1/3 of both grated cheeses. Repeat chips, turkey, and soup mixture; top with grated cheese. Quantity is determined by the amount of turkey available. For larger amounts, simply continue to layer ingredients. Conventional Oven: Bake in oven at 350 degrees until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly.

Microwave Oven: Heat at medium high power until thoroughly heated and cheese is bubbly. Note: This dish is great during holidays after everyone is tired of turkey and dressing. Cooked chicken also works great. This recipe reheats well and tastes even better as a leftover!

Click here for the internet recipe

Last minute torture. . .er. . .trip

2006-12-04T12:10:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry I haven't been around lately; I've been extremely busy with this family get-together. It was wonderful!

“Darling, let me take you away from all of this,” Rhett Butler said, pointing at the clutter in my kitchen. Globs of cookie batter sat hardening on cookie sheets, while rivers of turkey gravy poured off the counters and congealed on the floor.

John stood by the stove, wearing a Chef Boyardee hat. “How many minutes per pound do I cook the turkey?” he inquired, waving a baseball bat sized thermometer.

“Just ignore everything, and come with me,” Rhett demanded, sweeping me into his powerful arms.

“I-I can’t,” I whispered “my family needs me,”

“Then kiss me once and I’ll be off,” he mumbled.

I watched him through my eyelashes as he lowered his head to kiss me.

“Mama, wake up,” an obnoxious voice screeched, interrupting my dream.

Opening one eye, I saw my oldest regarding me grouchily. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Sick?”

“No.”

“What time is it?”

“Six o’ clock”

“Already?” I asked, yawning. It seemed like I had just crawled into the bed a few minutes earlier. I stayed up until 3 AM, every night that week preparing for the family party, and now, on Friday morning, the lack of sleep was catching up to me.

Wearily, I slunk out of bed and shuffled off to the kitchen, where my savior, the coffee pot, was awaiting. Leaning against the counter, I sipped my coffee and made a mental “to-do” for that day. Suddenly, a feeling of uneasiness enshrouded me, tying my stomach in knots.

“Something awful is going happen today,” I announced, to Seth and John, kissing them on the cheek as they left for work and school, “so be careful.”

“I’m not worried, I don’t have the history you do with mishaps. It’s all in your head; if you think something bad will happen, it will. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.” I watched as he drove away, almost running over my black cat, Midnight, as it scampered toward the porch.
“He’s right,” I told the purring cat as I scratched the white spot under his chin. “Nothing will happen.” Famous last words.

After kitchen was cleaned—my dream of the dirty kitchen was still very fresh in my mind—Robert and I set off to town. We had just entered the interstate, when I heard A LOT of road noise; glancing in the mirror, to my dismay I saw the back window of the Jimmy had come open. Behind the backseat was a whirlwind of empty trash bags I used to line the carpet when the dog rode with us.

Pulling over, I stopped on the shoulder. Mama always told me not to play in traffic, yet here I was, on one of the busiest roads in Texas, jumping out of the truck to close the window, and praying I didn’t become a hood ornament for some inattentive drive.

“Was that fun?” Robert asked after I got back in the truck.

“Yeah, loads.” I replied wryly.

“Can I do it?”

“NO!” I replied quickly, mentally kicking myself for being sarcastic. I should have known my daredevil son would have taken me seriously. “Never play in traffic; it’s very dangerous, and I don’t wanna lose you. I was just trying to be funny when I said getting out in traffic was fun.”

Soon, we arrived at the grocery store. Oh great, I pouted, glancing at my watch as we scampered across the parking lot. I’m running behind schedule; there’s no way I can get everything done in time. I still had two more stops, plus cook; clean the house, and steam clean the rug and furniture.

I plopped Robert into the shopping cart, and faster than a miner can spit, we zipped up and down the aisles. Then we encountered IT. . .every harried shopper’s worst nightmare. . .the unattended cart in the middle of the aisle. “Mama will just move this and we’ll be on our way,” I told my son as I gave the cart a push. It didn’t go the way I wanted, and instead rammed a display of Q-tips, causing them to rain down on my head and scatter everywhere.

The people in the aisle stared at me, some hiding smiles behind their hands as I stared at them. Either I can be indignant, or I can play this off as humor. “Why does this always happen to me?” I asked jovially. Everyone chuckled with me.

“Don’t worry honey,” an older woman said patting me on the back. “It happened to a store employee just a few minutes ago.”

“My next trick will be getting out of the store unscathed,” I joked as I picked up the Q-tips.

Our next stop was the Dollar Tree, where I planned to get a few table runners. I saw them a few days earlier; they were very ornate, polyester, and a dollar. I couldn’t beat that deal with a stick. Evidently, other people thought the same thing. When we walked in, there were no shopping carts.

Standing near the door, I held a wriggling Robert, waiting for someone to return a cart. An older woman appeared by my side evidently waiting for a cart too, but I thought nothing of it. As a shopper was returning the basket, the lady stepped in front of me and yanked the cart away. “I need it more,” she told us.

Fighting the urge to “deck her halls,” but not with “boughs of holly,” I excused her rudeness by calling, “I hope you find what you need; don’t worry about me, I’ll just stand here and wait for another cart.” A sympathetic customer hastily unloaded their purchases on the counter, and smiling, wheeled the cart over to me. There were only five runners left, the amount I needed; I felt a sense of triumph as I was checking out and heard the rude woman tell ask a clerk if there were any more runners left.

Our last stop was Wal-Mart. Robert eagerly climbed into one of the electric kiddy carts as I paid the dollar. He sang to the Barney tunes as we started shopping, then, as suddenly as it began, the cart stopped. Once it stops there’s no way you can push it, the wheel lock up. Luckily, an employee saw it stall. “Go tell them at customer service, and I’ll wheel this out to the lobby for you,” he said.

I extracted a screaming, red-faced Robert from the cart, and half dragged/ half walked him to customer service.

“Can you help me?” I asked a gum- popping, fingernail painting, employee at the desk.

“I guess,” she sighed, blowing on her nails.

“Look lady,” I said, plopping Robert on the counter. “I’ve had a very stressful day, and I could probably bite steel nails right now. I’m SO SORRY I’m bothering you, but I was told to come up here and tell you my kiddy cart broke down.

“And what do you want me to do?” she retorted.

“Was it CART 6?” another desk employee asked me.

“Yes.”

“That’s the same cart that broke down on me last night,” the second employee said.

“And, again, what am I supposed to do about it?” the first employee asked.

“Give her the dollar back,” her co-worker replied coldly. “I’m so sorry madam,” the co-worker told me.

Grudgingly, the first employee handed me a dollar from the register. Robert was forced to ride in a regular cart, which he hated and didn’t mind telling me.

Oh well, lately most of the shopping trips went smoothly; I guess I was due for drama.

2006-11-28T19:16:00.000-06:00

I grabbed this from Big Blueberry Eyes website.

Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Ooo. . .tough choice. . .I have to choose hot chocolate.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? He's flexible; some are wrapped, some unwrapped.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? White lights on the house and trees; colored lights on the Christmas tree.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? I used to, when I was little. I think I enjoyed getting it because it was a good excuse to climb a tree.

5. When do you put up your decorations? Thanksgiving day usually, but this year they went up before Thanksgiving.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? ham, lasagna (I must be related to Garfield)

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? Drop by Queen of Cute Shoes's blog and find out; I'm the guest blogger today. (Thanks again Stephanie!)

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? Santa's still here at our house. I'm a student of the story, "Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Of course!

10. What kind of decorations are on your Christmas Tree? A collection of things I've made and been given over the years.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread? I love it, but haven't seen any since the mid-80's.

12. Can you ice skate? Yep! But it's been so long since I've been on skates, most of the skating would be while I'm on my backside.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? The two Welsh ponies Dady gave me when I was 8.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? family, friends, traditions.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? cheesecake

16 What is your favorite holiday tradition? Giving gifts of cookies we made to friends and neighbors.

17. What tops your tree? A star (It was my MIL's)

18. Which do you prefer giving or Receiving? Giving, of course. You can't beat that feeling you get whe you see the receipiant's face face light up with joy.

19. What is your favorite Christmas Song? I love all of them, but I love Oh Holy Night, and Christmas at Our House the best.

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yummy? Y-U-M-M-Y!

If you're curious. . .

2006-11-26T19:37:00.000-06:00

I hope everyone had a great holiday! I over-ate, as usual, and now I feel like I'm related to the Goodyear blimp.

I've tried all day to put a montage I've made on this site, but Blogger is being a booger head and isn't co-operating. If you want to see the face behind the screen, you can see the video here.

The dream

See ya'll tomorrow!

A Wish. . . .

2006-11-23T07:03:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

New concept on scratch and sniff packaging

2006-11-20T19:28:00.000-06:00

You all will never believe this. . .

Saturday, the family and I where running around like chickens with our heads cut off, trying to gather supplies for Christmas.

We have a superstore Wal-Mart in my town, but on a whim, we went to the new one in a town just a few miles north of us.

I will say, I was impressed; this store seemed cleaner and better organized than ours. Everything was going great until I met the associate from the netherworld.

Sent by John, Seth and I embarked on a quest to find honey. After five minutes of running up and down the aisles, we remained empty-handed.

"Hey, there's someone who can help," Seth proclaimed, pointing at the blue vest clad employee, who was stocking shelves.

"Excuse me madam, but can you tell me where the honey is?" The associate gave me leave-me-alone look, before turning back to her shelf stocking. Normally, to be ignored like this would have irritated the crap out of me, but I was in a mischievous mood because of the wonderful time the family was having together.

"Honey, can you tell me were you keep the honey?" I asked. Seth fought to keep his giggles under control as we approached her; still, she ignored us.

"Madam, could you PLEASE tell me WHERE YOU KEEP THE HONEY? I all but bellowed.

Again the associate turned to look at us, a package of instant potatoes in her hand. "Is there something you need help with?" she asked, a mystified look in her eye.

"Yes," I began patiently, "I need to know where the honey is."

"Umm, gee. . .I don't know," the woman said, scratching her butt crack with the package of potatoes.

Oh please let me be wrong about what she's doing,I thought, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying not to gross out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seth, staring open-mouthed at the woman.

The more the woman thought, the harder she scratched her butt with the potatoes. "I don't usually handle the food department."

Gee, I wonder why, I thought sarcastically, feeling a little sickened by what I had just witnessed. She put a whole new meaning to the term scratch and sniff packaging. LOL

The Demise of Mr. Zucca

2006-11-17T13:02:00.000-06:00

“So we’re in agreement then,” I said calmly, gazing over the rim of my coffee mug at my husband. “Today is the day we get rid of Mr. Zucca.”

“Yeah, I guess,” John mumbled distractedly as he read the sports section of the newspaper.

“So, when are you going to do it?” I asked, rising from my seat and clearing the breakfast dishes off the table.

“Sorry, can’t help you there. I’ll be at work all day. If I were you, I’d wait until Seth left for school; the less witnesses, the better.”

Did you honestly think he would do that kind of job for you? This has happened before; you’ve taken the heat, and he’s come out smelling like a rose, my inner voice nagged.

My anger fueled my cleaning efforts, and within minutes, the kitchen was cleaner than the kitchen on the Mr. Clean commercial.

Now to take care of Zucca. Ugh, just the mere thought of him made my stomach churn like a clothes washer. He had arrived with celebrity status fanfare the week of Halloween, and in my opinion, had long overstayed his welcome. He was trouble from the very beginning; he showed up at the most inopportune times, always getting in the way.

Every morning he sneered at me as I passed him in the hall. Well, after today it would all be over. My hands trembling in eager anticipation, I removed a sheathed butcher from the kitchen drawer, and put it in my wind suit pant’s pocket. Then, with all the care one gives to an elderly person, I took Zucca outside and sat him on the picnic table.

Quickly, I took the knife from my pocket, unsheathed it, pausing momentarily to admire the way the sunlight glinted off the steel blade. It's over for you, I thought as plunged the blade deep into Zucca A wave of grim satisfaction washed over me as I rocked the knife back and forth, embedding it deeper.

After the cuts were made, I reached in, and pulling out a handful of guts, threw them on the ground. I knew I should have put them in a trash bag, but who would want the festering stench in their garbage can. This way, I was giving back to the Earth.

I sliced Zucca into pieces, then carried him back into the house, where I dumped him into a galvanized pot, covered the pieces with water, and brought it all to a boil on top of the stove.

The way I see it, Zucca will taste wonderful in a pie this Thanksgiving.

Umm. . .you did know I was talking about an uncut pumpkin, didn’t you? A pumpkin with a painted on face?

All I want for Christmas

2006-11-14T19:26:00.000-06:00

This weekend, as I sat on our overstuffed green sofa, engrossed in an old episode of the Sopranos, reality jumped up and took a bite out of my backside. In less than a month, there will be sixty of your family members here for Christmas; and what have you done to prepare, nothing. What prompted me to think of it at that moment, I don't know; perhaps the sight of Tony Soprano beating someone senseless brought back some deep seeded memory of my cousins and I wrestling over toys when we were children. I sighed as I ran my hand through my short, wavy hair. Unless you counted the half-eaten peppermint on the stereo, there was not a shred of Christmas cheer to be seen.

I knew the next few weekends would be filled with cooking and cleaning. Better decorate now; this'll be the only weekend free.

"Where are you going?" John demanded as I struggled to get off the couch. We had watched two episodes, back-to-back, and needless to say, my rear was quite numb.

"I'm gonna start decorating for Christmas."

"Now? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Hey, I know, we'll start calling you Wal-Mart." John quipped.

And I could call you Ace Bandages, cause you might need them, I thought nastily as I tugged and pulled on the Christmas boxes by myself. With the kids' help, I had the Christmas tree branches placed in record time. In a late show of gallantry, John offered to clean the storage room.

"Hey Mommy, let's hope you don't fall into the tree this year." Seth said , chuckling.

Maybe it was just being paranoid, or maybe the swift hand of Fate, but after my son's comment, everything started going wrong. A small curio fell off the wall and hit me in the back; later , Seth smashed the door into my face as I was walking in from outside, almost breaking my nose, AGAIN.

The tree was finished, and stood there majestically, bathing us in the glow of the twinkling lights. "Let's write letters to Santa," Seth suggested. Even though he no longer believes, it's a tradition we still carry out for Robert's sake.

I sank to my knees at the coffee table, my nose feeling like I'd been three rounds with a prizefighter, and the back of my head throbbing. In my neatest handwriting, I wrote: Dear Santa. All I want for Christmas is to stay in one piece, or a free upgrade on my medical insurance.

You make the call

2006-11-11T12:22:00.000-06:00

I'm seriously thinking of moving this blog to another server. Blogger has not let me post or comment for days.

The hype and fanfare that accompanies election day in my state has been over since Tuesday, but I still feel flatter than a head of hair on a rainy day. Though retired from politics, hubby spent a lot of time away from home assisting friends with their campaigns, and it's good to have him home on the weekends again.

Thankfully, a friend of our family will resume his position as state representative; some other political acquaintances did not fare as well. I don't miss the political scene; in fact, I hated it. We had to live our lives under the scrutiny of the public, and it was emotionally, mentally, and physically tiring. One day, during hubby campaign, I went to town while my oldest was in school to run a few errands.

At each place I stopped, the same woman appeared there also. When she followed me to a friend's boutique, that was the final straw. My hands shaking with barely contained rage, I eyed her coolly, then told her, "Take out a pencil and paper and take notes, honey."

"Why?" she asked, a fox in the hen house grin on her face.

"Because, if you lose me in traffic, this way you'll know every place I'm going to be." She left in a tiff, and I didn't see her the rest of the day.

Society believes that if you are in politics or are a celebrity, invasion of privacy is the price you pay, and I can "buy" that, to some extent. But where do we need to draw the line?

I wanna know what you think. You don't have to sign your name, just please tell me your opinion.

Sunbeam dancin'

2006-11-07T20:09:00.000-06:00

I'm trying to keep my mind off the elections tonight, so I think I'll take a trip down memory lane.

When I was a young child, every afternoon I grabbed as many toys as I could in my chubby, sticky hands and toddled off to the kitchen, depositing my bounty and myself in the middle of the floor. Mama became a contortionist as she reached over and around me to retrieve things out of the fridge for supper.

“Can’t you find a better place to play, honey?” she always asked.

Stubbornly I shook my head. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Engrossed in the adventures my plastic toy horses and I were having on the wooden floor, I lost track of time until the faint strains Andy Griffith Show playing in the living room reached my ears, and the kitchen was filled with the soothing smell of supper bubbling in covered pots on the stove.

I knew it was almost time; slowly I stood, forgetting everything, and faced the kitchen window. As if on cue, a large beam of sunlight shone through the window, bathing the dandelion-colored kitchen in an almost celestial glow.

Dust particles danced in beam, as if they were tiny kitchen imps. With the innocence of a child, I too danced in the sunbeam. “Look Mama, I’m getting sprinkled with fairy dust,” I squealed, resembling a small windmill as I whirled. “Make a wish!” I shrieked, pausing long enough to wish, then resumed my dancing

“Don’t spin until you get sick,” she said, looking away from the stove and smiling.

As I grew older, I stopped the crazed dancing; but that time of day remained magical. I still stood in the sunbeam, soaking up its warmth, as I closed my eyes and “made a wish”.

My attitude changed after Daddy’s death. On day, several months after the funeral, in desperation I ventured into the kitchen in the late afternoon hours. I was emotionally numb; I longed to feel something, anything, some resemblance of my former self. Like an old friend, the sunbeam shone through the window, and as in years past, wrapped me in its’ embrace. It didn’t help; nothing cold warm the dark recesses of my heart.

“Make a wish,” a voice whispered in my ear. Turning, I saw my mother, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, standing behind me. “You once told me it was fairy dust, remember?”

“It’s just dust. . .plain old dust, that’s all.” I remarked acidly. I pushed past her, turning my back on my childish beliefs for what seemed forever.

I never again thought about those fun, mystical times until recently. A few days ago, I was folding clothes in the living room, watching my favorite late afternoon shows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my toddler dancing joyously in a sunbeam shining through the living room window. Childish, girly giggles of the past echoed inside my head as I watched him slap happily at the dust particles in the light.

“Hey Robert, know what that is? That’s fairy dust. Now quick, make a wish,” I said hoarsely.
The magic of the sunbeam has now been passed down to another generation; may it live forever.

The aftermath

2006-11-03T09:01:00.000-06:00

Halloween morning I "hit the floor running" and didn't stop until bedtime that night. That morning I raced around like a dog with it's tail on fire, cleaning the house and occasionally barking reprimands such as: "No Robert, the kitty will not look good wearing Mommy’s lipstick" and "The dresser is not a mountain, so stop climbing it."

Of all the mornings, my house picked this one to look like a disaster area. I had just done the last load of laundry when I noticed the house was quiet, too quiet. What is that child into? I wondered. I didn’t have to puzzle over it too long; as I walked down the hall, the sweet aroma of bananas greeted my nostrils. I walked into his bedroom, and was sickened by what I saw. Globs of banana, resembling mounds of snot were everywhere, on the television, all over the stuffed animals. As I stood there, a glob of banana fell off the ceiling and onto my shoulder; I still don’t know how he managed to get banana on the ceiling.

“Hi Mommy! I’m eating the bananas.” Robert chirped, patting a piece of the fruit into the hardwood floor. He sat on his large stuffed horse, looking like the little girl rescued in the movie Poltergeist. It’s these moments you will look back on years later and laugh your fanny off; however, at that moment I contemplated selling my child to the zoo so he could be with the other monkeys.

“Umm. Well, you did something with them, that’s for sure,” I said evenly. This must be what Mama means when she says I’m ‘getting my raising,’I thought as I cleaned the mess. Next, I plopped a protesting Robert into the tub, scrubbed the banana out of his hair, and dug it out of his ears.

By the time Robert was dressed and fed a snack, it was almost noon when we left. “Foolish mere mortal,” the imaginary voice of Fate boomed in my ear as I zoomed down the road, “did you think I could let you get through this day unscathed?”

As anyone could have predicted, Wal-Mart was packed tighter than sardines in a can. The Halloween aisle was a scene of mass chaos as candy-grabbing monsters, in the form of adults, clawed frantically for those last precious bags of candy.

Robert and I got our groceries and got the “heck outta Dodge.” Oh crap, its already three o’clock, I thought, glancing at my watch. I had the market cornered on stress; trick-or-treating was at five at the mall, and I had very little done.

I picked Seth up early from school, and faster than a scalded cat can run, we headed home with the groceries. Hmm. . .maybe it was the crazed look in my eye--a look that said I could knock over a 7-11 for a chocolate bar and not feel bad--or a sudden prick of gallantry, but Seth unloaded the Jimmy and put everything away. I was a human tornado as I fed Robert a late lunch, made a cake, fed myself, and started making the food for our traditional family party.

At four, everything grounded to a halt in the kitchen, and we got dressed. Seth borrowed my costume idea from last year and dressed as a morning person; he wore his robe, I gelled and messed up his hair, and he carried a coffee cup.

Robert was a tourist. I left him in the shorts and shirt he wore to the store, put a white cap that had PADRE ISLAND emblazoned across the front on his head, and hung a pair of binoculars around his neck.

Being stressed actually served a purpose. I took off my clothes, and put them back on inside out. Then I took address labels, wrote the words, MORTGAGE, KIDS, JOB, MONEY, HUSBAND, and stuck them on my shorts and shirt. My costume: a person turned inside out by stress.

At the mall, Seth and Robert scored about 5 pounds of candy by trick-or-treating at the different stores. Seth’s costume was a hit. There were several at the mall who asked him what he was, and when he told them, they almost busted a gut laughing. They complimented his on his originality, and his face lit up.

John had just gotten home as we pulled up. In the soft glow of the porch light he looked me up and down, taking in my inside out clothes and labels. “Please tell me you didn’t buy groceries like that,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. My mean streak flared up, and I was tempted to say sweetly, “Of course I did; and I told every person I saw I was married to you.” Instead, I said, rather huffily, “Of course not. Are you nuts?”

I embedded myself in the kitchen, and here's what we had:

Scarecrow noses and phlegm-- carrot sticks and Vidalia onion dressing

Witches' blood--guacamole dip mixed with sour cream and served with corn chips

Devil's eyeballs--deviled eggs sporting one black olive slice each for a pupil

Witches' fingers--fried green beans

Blood-- Hi-C fruit punch

A bloody hand— bread shaped into the form of a hand. I placed string cheese inside the finger portions. After the hand was done, I stabbed a plastic knife in the top and drizzled marinara sauce around it

We had a wonderful night, but I’m still trying to play catch up, and the coffee pot beckons. How was your Halloween?

"Howling Good Time"

2006-10-31T11:42:00.000-06:00

Happy Halloween everyone! Candid Housewife--sweet lady--is hosting me as a guest blogger on her site. Swing on over and check out the wonderful recipe she posted, and take a peek at the story I have there.

I'm off to Wally-World for some last minute party items, and who knows, I might hurl a few cans of cream corn if the mood strikes. LOL.

See ya over at Candid Housewife's!

2006-10-27T12:43:00.000-05:00

I had a whole different post typed out, but it got erased. Ahhhhh. Calgon take me away!!!!!

I borrowed this from Much More Than a Mom.

A is for age: Which is a state of mind. In my mind, I'm still a kid, but in real life, I'm 36.

B is for beer of choice: I don't touch the stuff. I'm snobby with what I drink, I drink wine.

C is for career right now: writer

D is for your dog’s name(s): Blue

E is for essential item you use everyday: toilet, computer, and shower, but never at the same time.

F is for favorite tv show at the moment: Bridezillas For the record, I'd like someone to invent a show called Writers Gone Wild. It would feature overly-stressed people, like me, standing on top of the cream corn display in Wal-Mart, and hurling cans at other shoppers. No, I don't do that.

G is for favorite game: Play: Soccer Watch: Football

H is for Hometown:

I is for instruments you play: clarinet, oboe, tenor sax, alto sax

J is for favorite juice: Grape

K is for whose butt you’d like to kick: My own for erasing that story. Hey, that'd be pretty interesting to watch someone kick their own butt.

L is for last place you ate: Sitting on the couch

M is for marriage: Aw, that's awfully sweet for you to ask, but I'm already happily married.

N is for your name: Debbie

O is for overnight hospital stay: Two C-sections, and a car accident

P is for people you were with today: My family

Q is for quote: Live Like You Were Dying from the song performed by Tim McGraw. I know it's not a quote, but I like the philosophy.

R is for biggest regret: Not telling Dad I loved him for the last time.

.S is for sport: Football

T is for time you woke up today: 4 AM

U is for current underwear: White. Pretty darned boring, huh?

V is for vegetable you love: Eggplant

W is for worst habit: Sarcasm and stubborness

X is for x-rays you have had: Wrists and knees. C-SCAN when I had my car accident

Y is for yummy food you ate today: Homemade veggie chili

Z is for zodiac: Virgo.

Aiming high and tripping over my tongue

2006-10-24T17:02:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, GoofyJ wrote about misplacing things. I think I can "one-up" her; you see, a few days ago, I lost my brain.

Last week, I decided I was stuck "in a rut" with my writing. Sure, I've gotten a few things published, and I love what I do; but I deduced, if I want to "go anywhere" in this career, I'll have to start going for the bigger markets. Highlights magazine was my first target.

I read Highlights when I was a small child, and just the thought of submitting something to them made my heart race faster than a herd of spooked wild horses. Everything has to be perfect, I thought. I went over my favorite children's manuscript with a "fine tooth comb," making sure every " 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed". When it got to the point I was so sick of the story, I wished an ill fate for my main character, I tortured my hubby by making him read it. He really wasn't interested in helping; but his mind changed when I threatened to hide the cheesecake brownies I had just removed from the oven. Chocolate, in the right hands, is a very powerful weapon. Finally, I felt the manuscript was ready.

I double-checked the submission guidelines on the website, and wonder upon wonders, saw that they took phone queries, meaning you could pitch your story to them over the phone. There was a lump in my stomach the size of Houston as I dialed the editorial number; to my surprise, the phone was answered on the first ring.

"Highlights," chirped a sunny female voice, "can I help you?"

I drew a blank; my mind was a blank slate. I couldn't remember the pitch I had rehearsed, and for one panic stricken moment, I couldn't even remember my name. .

"Highlights magazine. Can I HELP you?" the editor repeated, obviously agitated.

I couldn't speak, couldn't ever whisper. The only thing I could do was breathe heavy into the receiver, like some sicko. "Umm. . .yes sir. . .I mean madam. I-I wanna pitch a phone query." What the heck is wrong with me? I wondered. I had given speeches before, acted, and was never a loss for words. Now I was doing good to remember who I was.

"Okay. What's the title of your book."

"I'll tell you when I remember," I answered glibly. "I think my coffee has worn off and it's affecting my brain."

"I hear that," Editor replied, laughing softly. "Just take your time."

The floodgates to my brain opened, and sounding like a chimpmunk on a caffeine rush, I spouted off my query. Well, I botched that up. "I honestly write better than I talk." I babbled.

"You did great; wonderful for your first phone query," Editor replied soothingly. "I like your story idea. Send it in and we'll consider it."

I couldn't believe my luck. The next day the entire manuscript was on its way. Haven't heard anything yet, but I'm thinking positive.

After a weekend of vegging out, my brain is back to normal, or what I consider to be normal.

Tail end of the weekend

2006-10-20T10:20:00.000-05:00

I have numerous reasons to be happy this weekend:

1. I had my coffee this morning. Yay for me and for everyone within a ten mile radius around me.
1a. Hubby just stopped by to pick up his baked ziti for an office party, and surprised me with a pumpkin pie spice latte from Starbucks.

2. There's an invigorating chill in the air this morning, signaling the arrival of Fall (we rarely get cold here) and of the holiday season. In just two glorious months, my house will be flooded with family and friends, all who will be here to celebrate Christmas.

3. I thank God every morning my sweet toddler wakes up without an ear infection. He's had a history of ear infections in the past, and it breaks my heart to see him in so much pain; not to mention I worry myself sick about potential hearing loss.

4. We went to the Fall festival at Seth's school last night. Ever the escape artist, I dodged getting thrown in the pretend jail. Hmm. . . If they ever need a female to play the role of "The Fugitive", I'm their gal.

There was a "hair salon" booth there, and giving Seth an argument a used car dealer would be proud of, I convinced him neon-colored hairspray would not show up well in my dark hair. Thank goodness he didn't see the dark neon blue spray. Ever try to wash that stuff out of your hair? Almost impossible. Last time I did that, I sprayed my hair green, it took several washing to get that dye out. I'm really surprised a cow didn't try to graze on my head.

5. Tomorrow I'll be so busy I won't have time to think. Early in the morning, we'll be participating in a fun run for Drug Free week; later in the morning, I'll be in a parade; in the afternoon, I'll be at a Pet Festival. At all three places, my Malamute/Husky, Blue, will be with me. This will be interesting to say the least, because he's never been in the truck. Cross your fingers for me.

6. I'm happy to be alive, period. As they say, "Yesterday was the past, tomorrow is the future, today is the present." Every second of every day is precious; enjoy it and live it responsibly as if it were your last one.

-----------------------------------------------

For my coffee drinking friends:

Coffee-Mate creamer has released new flavors for the holiday season. They are: Peppermint Mocha, Pumpkin Pie Spice, Eggnog, and Gingerbread. I've tried all but the Eggnog.

Peppermint Mocha-- Refreshing, pepperminty

Pumpkin Pie Spice-- The spices are a bit overpowering at first, but the flavor grows on you and is comforting

Gingerbread-- A toned-done version of the PPS; a little too sweet.

The website has interesting articles, recipes, and most important, coupons! The special go for around $1.58 at Wal-Mart here, and with the $1 coupon, that makes the total price just $.58!

Have a wonderful weekend

Quick Trip

2006-10-19T07:52:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning, on the spur of the moment, we decided to attend the Italian Festival in Houston. With visions of chicken Marsala and canoli dancing in our heads, we eagerly wedged ourselves into the Jimmy. Always the obstinate one, the truck refused to start.

"Well, so much for that idea, unless," John said, "Enterprise has a car we can rent."

Luck was in our favor, and we rented a Dodge Magnum for the weekend. Let me be the first to tell you, this is NOT your classic station wagon. To begin with, this fire-engine colored creation had a Hemi engine, which John was extremely excited; very patiently John explained a Hemi was an ultra-powerful engine, very seldom seen in a car. With a "that's nice dear" expression plastered on my face, I "oohed" and "ah ed" in all the right places as he went on about pistons and cylinders. I do well if I can change a tire, check the fluid levels, pump the gas and find the radiator; anything else about cars is over my head and is completely uninteresting to me. The front end resembled the muscle car, the Dodge Charger, and the rear end looked like the George Jetson version of a space age station wagon..

John took me for a spin before we left on the trip. Needless to say, I haven't been in anything so powerful since my younger, single days when I had a sports car.

As soon as we reached the festival, we were greeted by the mouth-watering aromas, and joyous live Italian music. I wanted to see the arts and crafts first, but being a minority in this family, I was out-voted and we looked at the car exhibit instead. The were Lamborghini and Ferrari of all different colors; I have to admit, it was kind of exciting to see a car that costs more than my house. I didn't dare even breath on them, for fear a drop of saliva might escape my quivering lips and drop on a hood marring the finish in some way.

I was relieved when we entered the pavilion, and visited the food booths. I was just sitting down with a mouth-watering bowl of chicken Marsala, when , onstage, the MC announced a Trivia Contest. The winner would receive a CD of Italian Festival songs. Too bad I can't win that. I never win anything.

They gave the question, and wonders upon wonders, I called out the right answer and won. I felt like I was walking through oatmeal as I walked past numerous sets of curious eyes on my way to the stage. I still couldn't believe my good fortune until the MC handed me the CD, still tightly wrapped in cellophane.

"Hey, that was almost too easy for you," a man sitting by our table joked. "Maybe they should've had you sing for it."

"Oh hell no!," John blurted.

Jerk, I thought as everyone around us burst out laughing.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with carnival rides for the kids, and grape stomping, which we watched, and more wonderful music. Finally, as the sun began to bid farewell for the day, we loaded up and came home. We hated to leave, but after the long trip, it was good to be back home.

Something to warm you up

2006-10-16T10:00:00.000-05:00

The cold is beginning to nip at your nose and "Old Man Winter" looms just around the corner. Here's a recipe to warm your tummy.

Minestrone Soup

6 1/2 c. marinara sauce
2 c. beef broth
1 c. red wine
1 med. onion, chopped
1/4 c. celery leaves, chopped
1 c. chopped celery
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
1 medium zucchini, sliced
1 1/2 c. chopped cabbage
1 (14-16 oz.) can kidney or great northern beans (drained)
Pepper

Combine the sauce and broth and heat until it reaches a low boil. Add veggies, cover the pot, and simmer for 25 minutes or until all veggies are tender. Add the beans and simmer for 1-2 hours. Serve over pasta and top with Parmesan cheese if desired.

Wonderful with garlic bread.

I had a wonderful weekend, and will try to post about tomorrow. How was your weekend?

Eye exams can be dangerous for my mental health

2006-10-13T09:06:00.000-05:00

My boys. . .my heart

Here's a picture of the culprits. . .er. . .I mean my boys. The little one looks like me, the big one looks like his Dad.

Most people can go to the eye doctor without incident, not me. Maybe it’s the soft fluorescent lighting, or the soul-soothing music; whatever it is, the moment I step into the office and catch a whiff of the vanilla-scented air, my mind becomes a bowl of Jell-O.

“Oh, that’s an interesting last name, a new front desk attendant chirped as I signed in. “Are you Roman?”

I was only listening with half my mind, the other half was intent on watching Robert, and making sure he didn’t indulge himself by breaking a pair of designer glasses on a rack. “Huh? Oh no, I’m not roaming. I’ve lived here for almost fifteen years,” I replied absently as I grabbed Robert’s inquisitive hands.

There was silence after my statement, then the receptionist burst into giggles. “That’s a good one,” she chuckled.

“Umm. . .thanks. Did I say something funny?” I asked, giving her a blank look.

“You, you weren’t trying to be funny?” she stuttered, turning as red as a tomato.

“No. You asked me if I was roaming, and I told you I’d been living here for fifteen years.”

The receptionist burst into laughter. “No sweetie; I saw your last name and asked if you were Roman.”

It was my turn to blush. “Oh,” I laughed uncomfortably. “Well, the last name is Italian, but its origin is more Sicilian.” Why’d she ask me that anyway? No one has ever been that specific.

During the rest of our conversation, the reception revealed she had just returned from her honeymoon trip to Rome; she thought I looked Roman.

After the receptionist regaled me with her honeymoon adventures, I sunk into one of the comfy chairs and Robert played happily with an office toy. In a few minutes, a handsome young eye tech game to the door and called my name. “Is it okay if we take the toy into the exam room?” I asked, glancing anxiously at my son playing on the floor. “Cause if we don’t, there’s going to be a flood of tears.”

“I don’t see why not,” the tech replied.

I MEANT to say, “Come on baby,” to Robert; instead, I looked at the tech and said “Thanks baby.” The young man gave me a strange look as he ushered me into the room.
Before I leave here, they’re going to think I’m a blathering idiot.

In a short time, Dr. “H” breezed into the room. “It wonderful to see you again,” he said, patting my on the shoulder.

Yeah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew what I thought the last time I was here. Thankfully, the exam was completed without incident. I hope that by the time I return next year, they’ll have forgotten everything that happened this visit. Hopefully. . .but I doubt it.

It pays to GOOGLE yourself

2006-10-10T17:21:00.000-05:00

If you remember, a few years ago, people were illegally downloading and distributing popular music. Many of the musicians sued and won against the violators; I, like many others, thought the "pirating" was wrong, but didn't think it was any big deal. Funny how my attitutude changed shortly thereafter.

One lazy afternoon, about this same time last year, I was happily sitting at my computer, sipping on a glass sweet, and surfing the web. On a whim, I ran a search on myself using GOOGLE. I almost choked on my tea because of what I saw; my name was linked to an undesirable website. No way, there's no damn way I could be on this website. Yeah right, like there's just tons of people running around with my name.

Morbid curosity got the better of me, and I clicked on the link. As it turns out, someone had taken an earlier story of mine from an ezine I submitted to, and posted the story without my permission. I couldn't email that webmaster fast enough. Bless him, he responded immediately, apologizing profusly for what the person posting the story had done, and removed the post.

Two months later, ran another search, same guy stole another one of my stories and posted it on the same forum. Again I emailed the webmaster, again he apologized, removed the post, and sent me a copy of the email he sent to the member, threatening to terminate his membership.

Here's where it just gets to funny for words (I'm being sarcastic). The creep who infringed on my copyright, emailed me and said I should be honored he liked my story and I should stop picking on him. He violated me, and I'm picking on him?

A few weeks ago, I ran a search on myself. There, on another undesirable (when I say undesirable I mean very undesirable) website was the same story taken a year ago, posted by the same guy. Once again, I donned the "armor of self-justice," and contacted the webmaster of that site, politely asking him to remove my story from his. Weeks past, and he ignored my numerous requests; finally, I contact the US copyright office and the Texas Attorney General.

I sent one last email to the webmaster, telling him of my actions. This morning I got a very explosive email from him. Basically, --I'm cleaning up the language--he said he didn't give a rat's behind, and didn't see what the big deal is; that even though my story was under copyright protection, it wasn't violated because he made no money. He grudgingly agreed to take it down though.

He couldn't be more wrong.

According to the Copyright Office, from the very first second you put words on paper, your work is copyrighted. Reguardless if you pay a fee or not, it belongs solely to you, and no one may use it without your permissio; it is protected. However, you cannot sue an individual unless the work is registered with the Copyright Office.

I honestly didn't want any money, it was for the moral principal. Over reacting? Maybe; but I know now exactly how those musicians felt; violated.

Halloween Ideas

2006-10-06T07:40:00.000-05:00

Thanks to everyone for your warm wishes. My back is tons better and once again I'm searching for adventure.

Autumn has arrived for most of you, but here. . .well. . .we're as dry as a forgotten raisin in a backpack. We need rain, badly. Anyway. . .Halloween is lurking around the corner. Have you decided what you're going to do? Here are a few suggestions for an enjoyable and memorable Halloween..

Costumes

"What can I be for Halloween?" Ah yes, the "million dollar question"; unfortunately, there's not a "million dollar" answer to go with it. Scores of expensive costumes line the racks in department stores, but they all look the same, they have no "voice" of their own. Here are a few original costume ideas I hope you find useful.

Puppies for sale (toddler)(quick and easy)
1 cheap DALMATIAN or any other puppy costume (Yeah, I know I'm being a hypocrite, but you can usually find these very cheaply either at a thrift store or a dollar store)

1 cardboard box (big enough for the child to sit comfortably in, and the sides low enough so the child can be seen )

I children's wagon

Assorted stuffed toy puppies

Double stick tape

On the sides of the box, write the words PUPPIES FOR SALE, then place the box in the wagon. Put the child in the box, then using the tape affix the puppies to the inside of the box so that the heads and the front paws of the puppies are dangling just over the rim.

Basketball goal
This took me about 5 minutes to put together, and it won Seth "most original" at the city costume contest.

I large circular clothes basket

pair of white warm ups

1 pair of suspenders

1 or 2 nerf basketballs, depending on the size of the child or the basket. Also you can vary the size of the balls

face paint

Dress the child in white warm ups.

Paint the child's face with black face paint. Using any other color, put an H on one cheek, the score beneath it, a V on the other cheek, and a score beneath it.

Carefully, cut the bottom out of the clothes basket, making sure there are no sharp edges. Slip the basket over the child, and secure with the suspenders. Put the balls between the rim of the basket, and the child's body.

*This costume is awkward if riding in a car.

Morning Person (adult)
This was my costume one year and I loved it.

robe
coffee cup
newspaper
fuzzy slippers
PJ's

Just put all the above clothes on, mess up your hair, and go have fun!

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After the kids are trick-or-treated out, we huddle together on the couch and watch our favorite classic horror movies and pig out on snacks. Here are a few recipe links we use.

Kitty Litter cake

Brain Surgery Salad

Putrid Punch

Ants on a log
Peanut butter
8 celery stalks (leaves removed)
raisins

Cut each stalk into two pieces and fill with peanut butter. Top with raisins

Bloody hands
Frozen bread dough (thawed)
spaghetti sauce

Form the dough into the shape of a hand, and bake according to package directions. Cool slightly and drizzle with spaghetti sauce. For added creepiness you could stick a plastic knife into the bread once the bread is baked.

Rabbit's Treasure (carrot sticks)

Tuna Spook Sandwiches

Have a "howling" good time!

Take Two Hemorrhoids and Call me in the Morning

2006-10-03T08:18:00.000-05:00

Sunday, the Fall Cleaning bug bit me, and in a moment of weakness, I decided to clean Seth's room.

"Need any help, babe?" John asked, never taking his eyes off the football game on television.

If I say yes, he'll just keep peeping around the corner into the living room at the game; he won't be focused on what we're doing, I thought. "No that's fine. I got it covered." Armed with an arsenal of cleaning supplies, I journeyed into Seth's bedroom and prepared to attack my first enemy, the bed. There are stories of brave peanut butter sandwiches and school papers journeying into the void underneath the bed, never seen again.

I dropped to my knees, and as cautious as a cat, lifted the royal-blue colored dust ruffle and stared at the hodge podge of cars, blocks, and other toys strewn recklessly about. Looks like a toy factory exploded under here.
The only way to really get rid of all the junk under here is to move the bed. Yeah right; famous last words of a fool. As I lifted the heavy oak frame, an excruciating pain, almost as bad as labor pains, shot through my lower back, taking my breath away.

As gently as I could, given the circumstances, I lowered the bed and hobbled to the couch in the living room. "Are you in pain?" John asked innocently.

"No, I just walk this way naturally, of course I'm in pain!" I spent the rest of the day propped up by pillows on the couch while my sweet hubby took care of me.

That was two days ago, and this morning I was still so sore I could hardly move. "Hey Mom," Seth asked, looking in the fridge, "could you find the butter in the fridge for me?"

Grumbling, I sat my coffee cup down on the kitchen counter and knelt, my knees popping like a bowl of Rice Krispies, in front of the fridge. "Oh crap, my back hurts," I moaned.

"Why don't you get a doctor to give you a couple of hemorrhoids to take so you'll feel better?" Seth asked.

Surely he didn't say what I think he said. "What? "Repeat that again."

"Hemorrhoids; you know, what the body builders use." Seth repeated impatiently.

"No baby, that's steroids, not hemorrhoids!" I sat on the floor and laughed till tears poured out of my eyes and my sides ached. As Seth helped me up, I noticed my back was feeling better. I guess the old saying is right, "laughter is the best medicine."

The Madness Continues

2006-09-29T20:34:00.000-05:00

After the hair salon incident on Tuesday, that same day I journeyed back into town. A glutton for punishment, I brought along Robert. "I'm going to get another balloon?" he asked hopefully as we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot.

"They don't give balloons away here." Thank goodness for that too. Just the mere thought of a balloon anywhere around me made me as jumpy as a cricket in a hot skillet.

Walking into the lobby, we soon found Wal-Mart had something much worse; automated shopping carts. These carts were geared toward the children, and were actually play cars with the shopping built in on the outside. The child sat inside the vehicle while the car entertained them with blinking lights, stories and songs. The only drawback is that it requires a dollar deposit. A dollar to use a shopping cart? No way. I thought huffily.

Robert had only to bat his big blue eyes at me and say "Please Mommy," to make my resolve melt like butter.

It is only a dollar, I argued with myself, and besides, just a dollar for your sanity? It's worth it. I paid the money into the machine as Robert happily climbed into a car decorated in Barney motif.

I was in heaven as I browsed luxiously through the store. There was no whining, no "Mommy I want out." Instead, Robert sat smiling like a Cheshire cat in his car. I encountered a snag in the trip when I checked out. There, in big letters, was a sign stating the cars would shut off once we left the check-out area. Just great, get ready for the water works, I thought grimly as I put the groceries on the conveyer belt. I asked a cashier for an empty regular cart, and true to form, Robert threw a fit to end all fits. He was the only thing on my mind as I wrestled him into the seat portion of the plain cart.

I was halfway across the parking lot, with Robert howling like a wounded coyote pup, when I realized I didn't have my change. It's only three dollars, but still!

Robert held onto the sides of the cart for dear life as I whipped around and raced back to the store with speed a NASCAR driver would be envious of. I barreled in through the doors like a raging maniac, pushing my cart toward the surprised elderly door greeter. "I left my change at the register. Can I leave my kid and cart with you?" I asked breathlessly before darting away.

"U-um yeah, that will be fine." the greeter stuttered. I wove through shoppers, who were checking out, with the agility of a running back. I made it to my register just as a young mom was pulling her groceries out of the cart.

"Excuse me, this is mine," I explained hastily, grabbing the money out of the change slot. My heart still racing, I stumbled back toward the door greeter who was guarding my groceries and Robert like a hawk. "That was some running," he joked,"Seriously hon, I'm glad you got your change before someone else did."

I thanked him, took Robert and started to the truck. Completely spent, I gasped like a fish out of water. "That was fun, Mommy. Do it again," Robert cheered, clapping his graham cracker encrusted hands. Yeah right, that will happen again REAL soon, I thought tiredly. Right after Barney the Dinosaur enters politics.

All Because of a Balloon

2006-09-27T09:10:00.000-05:00

I thought Tuesday was going to be a normal day; instead, it was filled with surprises. At the supermarket, one of the assistant managers gave Robert a helium-filled balloon weighed down by a sucker on the end of a string.

Happily, my four year-old clutched the string to his balloon as I put him and the non-perishable groceries in the car. As I shut the door, I never noticed the balloon wasn't inside the car; not until we were zooming down the interstate, and the sunshine yellow colored orb passed me with a thwat before sailing toward the heavens.

"I'm sorry baby," I apologized, glancing in the rearview mirror at Robert's shocked expression. He didn't say a word as we pulled into the parking lot of Fantastic Sam's. I helped him out of the car seat, and as we walked toward the hair salon, I wondered why he was bringing the grimy string, now absent a balloon. I soon found out.

I was signing the waiting list when Robert, his body rigid with indignation, pointed his finger at me at yelled, "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer."

I felt as if the room was spinning out of control, and I grabbed the counter for support. Time seemed to freeze as everyone stared at me with a deer-in-the-headlight look. "Why do you say that honey?" my hairdresser, Vonnie asked, eyeing me warily.

"Do you see this?" Robert demanded, holding up the grimy string. "There used to a balloon on here, but Mommy killed it."

Everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh as they realized what Robert meant; everyone relaxed, but me. "Relax sweetheart, we all know what he meant," Vonnie chuckled as she washed my hair. Yeah, it's easy for you to relax, you're not me, I thought as my over-active imagination spun out of control.

The door is open. What is someone was passing by and only heard the "Take my mommy to jail. She's a killer." part and called the police. What if there was a murder, and now I'm a suspect? I imagined the FBI hiding in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and yelling "Swarm! Swarm!" knocking me to the ground as I walked out of the store with my purchases, cuffing me, shoving me in the car and driving away as Robert, still sitting in the basket, waved a tearful good-bye. How will John introduce me after I finished my prison term? Would he say "my wife the convict," instead of "my wife the writer"?

"You know," Vonnie said as she dried my hair and led my to a chair, "all of us here have kids. No one took him seriously."

"You sure?"

"Positive." she smiled.

I sighed and relaxed, as Vonnie, a Picasso with scissors, finished my hair. After I paid, I led a still brooding Robert out into the parking lot. "Hey mister," he called to a man walking past. "My mommy is a--"

Faster than a hummingbird can fly, I jerked open the truck door, belted Robert into his seat, and drove away, hopefully avoiding being on America's Most Wanted for a little while longer.

Ricotta cheesecake recipe and more

2006-09-24T17:16:00.000-05:00

Hope everyone is having a great weekend. Here's the recipe I promised and a couple of other things.

Ricotta Cheesecake

Crust

2 c. graham cracker crumbs

1/4 c. sugar

1/3 c. melted butter

Filling

1 lb. ricotta cheese, room temp.
2 (8 oz.) pkgs. cream cheese, room temp.
2 c. sour cream
1 1/2 c. sugar
4 eggs
2 1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. vanilla
3 tbsp. cornstarch
3 tbsp. flour
1/4 c. butter, softened

Directions for crust
Combine the crust ingredients. Mix well and press evenly (1/4 to 1/2 inch thick) over bottom of a 9 inch springform pan. Smooth the extra mixture up the sides of pan

Directions for filling
Blend cream cheese, sour cream and ricotta together. Mix in sugar and eggs.
Mix in remaining ingredients and beat until smooth. Into a generously buttered 9 inch springform pan pour batter. Put in oven at 325 degrees. Bake 1 hour. DO NOT open oven door. Turn off oven, leave cake in for 2 more hours. Do not open oven door. Cool in pan. You can use fruit pie filling as the topping, and I find the cherry works the best.

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I found this meme over at GoofyJ's, and I couldn't pass it up.

What is the first music you remember hearing?

I remember listening to and watching my mother perform gospel music with her group in different places. At the time, I never understood why some people were crying as she sang, or why they all congratulated her at the end of every performance

Did you come from a musical family?

Oh yeah! My mother was a country music/ gospel singer who, a couple of times performed with Johnny Gimble. She was offered a chance to sing in Nashville on the "Grand Ol' Opery," but she was deeply in love with my father. She had to make a choice, family or a fast-paced musical career in the spotlight. Of course she chose family. I couldn't comprehend why she would make such a sacrifice until I met my hubby.

In a sense, I was a musical failure to some; they thought I would be as vocally talented as my mother, and was disappointed when I wasn't.

Instead, instruments were my "cup of tea." In high school, I played the clarinet in marching and concert band, and tenor sax in jazz band.

.Do you remember a lullaby from your childhood? If so, what is it?

I can't remember all the words, or the name of the song, but the chorus went:
I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck and a hug aound the neck.
Hug around the neck and a barrel in a heap.
Barrel in a heap and I'm talking in my sleep about you

What song(s) changed your life?

Oh wow, there's a bunch. Here's 3 off the top of my head.
1. I believe by Fantasia Barino
2. Live Like You Were Dying
3. Let Them be Little

If you could have dinner with three dead musicians which three would you choose and why?

Eh, I like to live life in the present, so, being the rebel I am--after all I use tomato soap--I'll list the ones living.

1. Kenny G--His music puts me in such a mellow state of mind, and I'd love to know how he created his instrument.

2. Fantasia--I like her music, and she seems to be a very "grounded" person. I'd love to hear what all she went through before she "made it."

3. Bon Jovi--I listened to him during my wild child days, and he's a great humanitarian.

You are stranded on a deserted island. You are allowed the complete musical works of one band and its members. Which band or musician would you choose?

Kenny G.

Can music truly soothe the savage beast? If so, what music soothes your beast?

I love all kinds of music, but jazz takes the edge off if I'm ticked. If I'm extremely mad--which is rare--I listen to something like "Eye of the Tiger" as I do karate kicks on my son's punching bag.

Speaking of soothing sounds, here's a link that will take the edge off.

She Chose Me (Completed)

2006-09-21T09:08:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'm back. The trip and putting everything away took longer than I expected. Here's the complete story. : )

I sat like a blob of forgotten oatmeal by the window in my bedroom, watching dust particles dancing merrily in the rays of the late afternoon sun, and wondering, for the thousandth time, why life was so unfair to eleven year olds. It didn’t matter I had loving parents, a solid roof over my head, plenty to eat, and my own horse, which was more some of my classmates had; the fact was, I wanted a dog. There were dogs at my house, but these were work dogs, used for working with cattle. I wanted a dog that was solely mine; a willing body that fetched the ball when I threw it instead of walking by in cold indifference, a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look on their canine faces.

The whine of a diesel truck in the drive interrupted my pity party, and I bounded like a deer through the foyer. “Mama, Daddy’s home!” I yelled as I ran outside, slamming the heavy oak door behind me. . I just have to beat those stupid dogs to the truck this time, I thought as I ran down the drive to the barn where the truck sat silent. In my opinion, even though it was far from true, the dogs were competition for my dad’s attention, and I wasn’t about to let them get to Daddy first. My legs churned like pistons, and my lungs ached as I drew in huge breaths of the nippy October air. Nevertheless, alas, when I arrived, puffing like a steam engine, there sat Daddy’s beloved white German Shepherd, Snowball, in the back of the truck. The other dogs frolicked around Daddy as he spoke gently and rubbed them behind their ears. Hey, what’s going on here? I wondered. There, shoving his huge body against Daddy’s legs was Snowball. I looked at the truck again; still seated in the back was a white German Shepherd. My heart soared as if it had wings, then crashed to the pit of my stomach. No use in getting too excited, I thought glumly, just another work dog. “So, what do you think about your new dog?” Daddy asked, untangling himself from the mass of wriggling canine bodies and walking toward me. “He’s okay I guess. He’s—“ I stopped in mid-sentence as my daddy’s words sunk in to my brain. My joy was boundless as I threw myself against my daddy and engulfed him in a bear hug. “He’s truly mine? I have my own dog?” Oh please don’t let this be a dream, I prayed.

I pushed away from Dad and turned toward the truck. “Hey boy, you’re mine!” I yelled.

The dog barked nervously, then backed into a corner of the truck bed, whining and shaking like a leaf.

“Hey, take it easy,” Daddy said, placing a calloused hand on my shoulder. “First of all, it’s a ‘she’, not a ‘he’. Secondly, this poor pup has had a hard life. It’s going to take her a while to trust people again.”

Slowly, I lowered the tailgate and sat on the edge. A lump the size of a golf ball formed in my throat as I got my first clear view of my new friend. Her sides resembled a washboard, and a pair of bat-like ears, too large for her emaciated body, were laid flat against her head. “Hey baby, I’m not gonna hurt you,” I mumbled.

“Let her come to you,” Daddy said softly, “it all has to be her decision. She’s had too many things forced on her.”

“Where did you get her? How much did she cost?”

“Nothing. I was checking on one of my crews working on the road when I saw a young man beating this dog with a broomstick. I gave him an option; either he could give me the dog, or I’d call the sheriff’s office and file a report against him for animal cruelty.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dog inching closer to me. Soon I felt the warmness of her body against my hip, and her wet nose gently nudging my hand. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I looked down at her and saw the hurt and uncertainty showing in her coffee-brown eyes. She cringed as I lifted my hand to pet her, but sighed deeply and rested her head heavily on my knee as I scratched her behind the ears. “It’s okay baby; no one will ever harm you again.”

“Looks like she’s made her decision, “ Daddy said warmly, a grin on his darkly tanned, weather-worn face “What are you going to call her?”

“Snowflake.” I said.

From that moment on, we were inseparable. For two glorious years, she was companion through all my adventures. Every morning she danced by my side with the grace of a butterfly as I waited for the school bus; every afternoon she was there, standing by the mailbox, her body quivering with anticipation as the bus brought me home.

One bone-chilling October afternoon, Snowflake was absent from her place at the mailbox. “Hey, where’s the pooch?” the bus driver asked as the bus doors opened with a swoosh.

“I-I don’t know,” I replied distractedly as I walked down the steps. I called her name, but there was no white blur racing toward me, no dog happily licking my hand. Instead, my mother appeared at the front door. This can’t be good. My heart raced like a car stuck in neutral, and my legs felt as if they were made of lead as I walked to the front porch.

“Mama, where’s my dog?”

“Honey come inside, it’s too cold out here,” she said, taking me by the hand.

I didn’t like how she avoided eye contact, didn’t like how she avoided the question. “WHERE IS MY DOG?” I insisted.

Mama put her arm around my shoulders. “Honey, Snowflake was in the road today, and she was hit by a car. She’s—“

I jerked away from Mama as if she were poison. “NO!” I screamed, “I don’t want to hear this!”

“She’s not suffering anymore. You—“

“You’re lying to me! How could you say such a cruel thing to your child!” I sobbed.

“I took her to the vet; there was nothing he could do,” Mama insisted as a river of tears coursed down her face.”

“I lied to her,” I screeched. “I promised her no one would harm her, now she’s dead.”

“My dear sweet child,” Mama sobbed, embracing me in a bear hug, “you didn’t lie to her. There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”

In the years that followed, there was a revolving door of dogs in my life, but I kept them at arm’s length; I was fond of them, but never allowed them to win over my heart. In my mind, there was no dog that could compare to my Snowflake, and I was unwilling to give any of them a chance. That was fine with my husband, and for years, I went "dogless".

Last October, my son burst into the house after school. “Mama, come quickly. There’s a dog in the bushes.”

Oh great, another mutt to chase off. Walking outside, I saw a dog lying under the bushes, regarding my coolly with a pair of ice-blue eyes.

“I’ve never seen a dog with eyes that color. What kind is it?” Seth babbled.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “C’mere fella,” I called to the pooch. . I gasped in disbelief as the dog yawned, and stretched luxuriously before strutting toward me. “ It’s a Malamute!” I proclaimed, noticing the curled tail and the coat pattern. "A dog like that belongs to someone.”

After a few calls, I found his name was “Blue,” and he belonged to my neighbor down the road. Happy to be reunited with his lost pooch, my neighbor took Blue back home. For a week, the dog came to my house, and my neighbor too him back home. Finally, after the seventh visit, the neighbor grumpily announced he was giving me the dog. “After all, it’s obvious he wants to stay here,” he said as Blue nudged my hand with his nose.

I was elated, Blue had “grown” on me, and had done something no dog since Snowflake had accomplished, he found his way into my heart. I knew Snowflake wouldn’t mind; after all, she sent him to choose me.

2006-09-19T20:46:00.000-05:00

Just finished mowing my yard--one acre with a pushmower--and exhausted can't begin to describe how I feel right now. I'll post again in the AM. Here's a fun meme I found over on Irrugular Housewife.

Nicknames:~
Sweet-sweet (only my dad called me that)
Gabby
Santario
Capone (long story)
Deb

Mother’s Name:~
Father’s Name:~

Favorite Drink:~
Only one? I have several. It's a tie between sweet tea, coffee, Coke, and vino

Tattoos:~
Yes. Well, okay it was a temp, and I put it on my ankle to horrify my mother. It worked too; she was livid. I hate to admit I wasn't a teen when I did this; it was a year ago.

Body Piercings:~
I have 4; my ears are double pierced.

How much do you love you job 0-10:~
A perfect 10

Birthplace:~ Texas

Favorite Vacation Spot:~
It's a tie between Cancun, Rockport, and Colorado

Stolen any traffic signs:~
Oh yeah, just yesterday I stole the on ramp and exits signs to the interstate. It was horriblem people didn't know if they were coming or going. NOT! Why the heck would I do that?

2 door or 4 door?~
4 door

Salad Dressing:~
Honey Mustard or Balsamic Vinegarette

Favorite Pie:~
Ricotta Cheesecake

Favorite Movie:~
Nanny McPhee
…
Favorite Holiday:~ I like Christmas and Thanksgiving

Favorite Food:~
Tie again: fajitas, homemade pasta and homemade sauce

Favorite Day Of The Week:~
Saturday

Favorite Soap:~
Tomato

Toothpaste:~
No thank you. I just ate. Oh, okay. I use Colgate.

What do you do to relax:~
Play with the kids and my dog

Where do you see your self in 10 years:~
Hopefully I'll be a best selling author.

What do you do when bored:~
pick my nose. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. I'm never really bored. Life has too much to offer.

I want to know about you now!

Bits and Pieces

2006-09-12T20:29:00.000-05:00

As you have probably noticed, there’s a jukebox in the sidebar of this blog. If you haven’t already, please select the Soothing Sounds station and listen to Alan’s Jackson’s beautiful tribute to 9/11.

We buried my uncle a short while ago, and ever since then, I’ve felt flatter than a pancake with no baking powder in it, until today.

Here are a few things that happened.

The other day, I sat at the computer, and tried, for what seemed like the hundredth time to get past a mountain-sized writer’s block. Part of my problem is I was completely unmotivated, the other part was, I kept staring out the window and wishing I were frolicking outdoors with my dog. As I watched, he sashayed across the yard and smelled what looked to be a rock the size of a Bundt pan.. To my amazement, the rock had a head. A tortoise! I hadn’t seen one in years, not up close anyway. In my haste to get outside, I slipped on my newly waxed floor and fell on my backside, making the pictures vibrate on the walls.

With the stealth, not the grace, of a cat, I walked up to it. I was so amused when it stuck out its Yoda-like head and blinked its little eyes as it stared coolly at me
The dog and I were so amused. We sat and watched it; which makes me think perhaps the dog and I need to get out more. We were just way too amused by that. LOL

-----------------------------------
A few months ago, we got rid of our cable. We were gone so much, we were paying for no one to watch it. For my birthday, hubby had it re-installed. I was so excited. When the cable guy, a George Clooney look-alike, came, I was outside, in the process of trying to run down a wild toddler . As he approached the porch, unknown to me, Robert slipped inside, leaving me to stand alone, totally worn out.

I greeted cable guy by saying, "I'll give you a baby for a cable box."

He gave me an odd look, and replied, "I don't think your husband would like that."

Guy doesn’t joke too well, I thought. “Come on in anyway, “ I said jovially.
A few months ago, we got rid of our cable to curb unnecessary expenses. For my birthday, hubby had it re-installed. I was so excited. When the cable guy came, I was chasing Joseph around outside. As he approached the porch, unknown to me, the toddler slipped inside, leaving me to stand alone.

I greeted cable guy by saying, "I'll give you a baby for a cable box."

He gave me an odd look, and replied, "I don't think your husband would like that."

It didn't occur to me what he meant until a few days later. The guy thought I was trying to seduce him for free cable! ROTFL

. As luck would have it, the outdoor receiver was damaged, and some of the channels couldn’t be received.

“I called the problem in, and repairs should be made within a week," the cable guy said, scurrying out the house.

I don’t know what the cable guy told the repair people, but the next DAY there were TWO very friendly repairmen in my front yard. Perhaps the cable guy shared the story with his two repair friends. I can imagine it now: Sex for Cable on the next Maury Povich.

Golden Autumn Memories

2006-09-08T07:45:00.000-05:00

As a child, the first signs of Autumn has always filled me with a giddiness that was unexplainable. Here's more moments from my past. .

All the way home from school, I had looked out the window at the scenery as the bus jolted and bounced for miles along bumpy country roads. The trees were beginning to don their Autumn colors, and I longed to be outside, twirling with leaves that danced in the afternoon breeze with the grace of ballet dancers before falling to earth. Beside me, my cousin, also my best friend, chattered like a squirrel about a new boy in her geometry class. My gosh, doesn't she ever shut up? I wondered. Rather than hurt her feelings by completely ignoring her, I mumbled responses at the appropriate times.

I could hardly wait for the bus doors to open before I hopped down the steps and bounded, like a doe, to my house. Barely taking time to tell my mom "hello," I stripped off my school clothes, and slipped into faded jeans and boots that were as familiar as the back of my hand.

Forcing myself to walk, I made my way to the barn, letting out an Ellie Mae Clampett type whistle. A shrill whinny came from within the dark recesses of the barn, and a few seconds later, my palomino mare, Dewdrop, appeared at her stall door, tossing her head excitedly.

She was truly a one-person horse; she allowed no one else on her back but me. Oh sure, a few brave souls had tried to ride her, but within a couple of minutes, she unceremoniously deposited them on the ground, leaving them to skulk away like scalded cats.

"Hi baby, wanna go for an adventure?" I asked as reached for the latch on her door. I laughed as she nickered and bumped her forehead affectionately on my chest. A tinge of wildness colored her coffee-brown eyes as I placed the hackamore on her head; she pranced like a parade horse as I led her into the pasture. then stood pawing the ground before I vaulted onto her broad back. As if released from a slingshot, we sped off, our souls joined as one as I leaned forward and grasped handfuls of cotton-white mane as the hardened muscles of the horse surged beneath me.

The wind whistled in my ears, and tears flowed from my wind-whipped eyes as we thundered across the earth. Gradually, I pulled back on the reins, asking instead of demanding the horse slow down. Snorting in disgust, the faithful mare slowed to a canter, then to a trot, and finally to a fast walk. The afternoon was silent except for the occasional cry of the red-tail hawk, declaring his territory as he circled high overhead.

Golden round bales of hay, a contrast to the brilliant blueness of the sky, sat silently in pastures, filling the air with their fresh, slightly parched, smell. We walked among the bales, and I allowed Dewdrop to snatch a few mouthfuls of the sweet hay.

We rode into the woods, the horse's hooves muffled by the carpet last year's pine needles and leaves which lay on the ground. The sun shone lazily through the tree limbs, splaying patches of afternoon sunlight across my mount and I. Finally, we reached our destination, a grove of wild pear trees. Slipping off Dewdrop, I picked a couple of the biggest pears I could find off the tree, then offered one to my impatient equine friend. Both of us closed our eyes as we bit into the pear, enjoying the sweet succulence.

That, my friends, is why I enjoyed, and still do enjoy, Autumn. What's your favorite season? What fond memories does it evoke?

Young at heart

2006-09-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

Around this time of year, I become as restless as a newly penned mustang. Time is creeping up behind me as stealthy as a panther; every morning I gaze in the mirror looking for gray hairs, or "laugh lines," (something I don't find very humorous.)

My hubby, who I lovingly refer to as my best friend, acts as my worst enemy during this time. "Yep, tomorrow you'll be past middle age and headed down the slippery slope toward bland runny food and a wheelchair," he gloated as I checked my reflection in the bedroom mirror.

"Aren't you the charmer?" I asked, making a grotesque face at him. "Besides smarty, I'm thirty-five, and that's no where near middle age."

"Middle age is 35, tomorrow you'll be 36; you're over-the-hill. Might as well look at yourself now," he continued, "Because in a few years everything will start sagging."

"You're a ray of sunshine," I quipped, heading out the door with the boys. I slipped into the driver's seat of the inferno-red Nissan Sentra--we rented it to go to a funeral--but not before catching a glimpse of my reflection in the rear view mirror. Great, in a few years I'll look just like one of those apple-head dolls, I thought, looking at the near invisible lines in the corners of my eyes.

As I pulled onto the highway, the tiny car shot forward like a dart, almost giving me whiplash. Ooo, this might be too much car for this old granny to handle. I owned a Ford Probe in my younger days, and the thought of a sedan doing me in was a bitter pill to swallow. In fact, I was driving a red Nissan Sentra the night of my near-fatal accident. I regrouped and enjoyed the sheer power the tiny car had to offer.

We pulled into the parking lot of Wal-Mart, and I got out of the low-slung car at a snail's pace, every vertebra in my back, a back abused by years of bucking and falling horses, screamed in protest as I straightened up.

I was in full pity-party mode, and wondered aloud if Wal-Mart would give me a senior's scooter as we tromped across a parking lot as vast as the Sahara. With age comes wisdom, but on this day it bypassed me and went to my oldest. "Come on Mom, snap out of it," Seth ordered

d, "You're not old, you look 25. Besides, you always tell me to enjoy every minute of every day"

My heart soared as if it had wings. Bless him,he's actually been listening, and I am still young, I rejoiced. I felt giddy with life. In the wine aisle, I found my favorite brand of red wine I cook with, and feeling silly, danced and sang my way down the aisle toward my cart and red-faced oldest son. "What's wrong with you? It's not like anyone else is here."

Seth rolled his head and jerked it toward a column of boxes nearby. Curious, I walked over and saw a man, a "Red Foreman" look-a-like, stocking beer in a near-by cooler. He turned and looked me up and down, a knowing look in his teal-blue eyes. "Uh. . .I was happy I found my cooking wine," I explained.

"That's good; judging by your singing, I thought you were cooked," he joked. My face as red as a Coca-Cola box, I and the boys zoomed off to another department.

You would have thought that episode would have dimmed my bulb, but it added more water into my fountain of youth. The phrase "Carpe Diem" (seize the day) replayed in my mind as I made NASCAR racing sounds while I pushed a giggling Robert in the cart. Our fun ended when a lady, who resembled a warden from a women's prison movie, parked her cart in my way.

"Vroom, vroom." I sputtered as I waited for her to move.

"EXCUSE me. Do you HAVE A DAMN PROBLEM," she roared, leaning so close I could smell the foul stench of digested onions on her breath. Her eye's glittered like a copperhead snake's, and her fists were as large as grapefruits. She had six inches of height on me, I decided this was not a woman to be reckoned with.

Instead, I smiled politely and said, "I'm sorry I bothered you; but you see, I felt I had to amuse my children." I saw her "hackles" go down as she sniffed importantly, smoothed her dress and walked away. Now I felt the call of adventure, the call of recklessness. A flicker of an idea entered my head, and I acted. I headed over to the jewelry department and purchased. . .toe rings! Not exactly acting my age, huh?

But age is what you make it, and for me, I will always be "young at heart."

BTW, I researched it, and middle age is 40.

Every once in a while. . .

2006-09-01T07:59:00.000-05:00

The other day, I opened my pantry door, and except for a few bags of pasta and some cans of tomato paste, the shelves were as bare as "Old Mother Hubbard's". "Can't put it off any longer," I sighed.

"Put what off?" Seth asked, absorbed in the latest issue of Boy's Life.

"Going to the store."

Robert dropped the toy he was playing with, and both boys gave me a deer-in-the-headlight look. "T-That's okay," Seth stammered. "I'll stay at home. I'm old enough, remember?"

"Fine then, I'll take Robert."

Robert gave his brother a pleading get-me-out-of-this look, and Seth hugged his brother protectively. "I'll take care of him. He's too young to be tort--"

"Tortured?" I finished, raising my eyebrow quizzically.

Seth avoided making eye contact by picking imaginary lint off his brother's shirt. "Well, maybe tortured isn't exactly the right word; but you have to admit weird things happen to us everytime we go," he pointed out. "I mean, the kid asks you if we have insurance everytime we leave."

"Don't remind me," I growled, remembering incidents were displays fell on us, and other times when elderly people on scooters ran us over. "But you I want you both to go. You can be my protection, like bodyguards," I added quickly, seeing the horrified looks on their faces. "Nothing will happen."

"Better not," Seth grumbled as I headed them off to the truck. The trip to the store was uneventful, in fact, boring. No deer bounded like rubber balls across the road and tried to tap-dance on our hood, no buzzrds tried to plaster themselves to our windshield.

"So far so good,' I chirped as we entered the store. It was the middle of the week, and the monsterous store was as silent as a graveyard. I was like a child in a candy store as I found wonderful deal after deal. Little did I know what was waiting for me in the meat department.

It was the department I dreaded the most. It depressed me to see pork chops, sliced thinner than paper, selling for over $6.00. I had, for a while, like so many other local consumers, switched over to fish and chicken. The whily meat dept. manager, observing the change, raised the prices on both products. It was no hard to find a chick under $4. (Yes, I know it's the theory of supply and demand, but still.)

For some reason, I was drawn like a magnet to the pre-packaged hamburger patties. Look at the top package,
my inner voice whispered. I gasped at what I saw. There, in machine-printed black and white was the price of $.48! "No way, there's no way this is the right price. What does this say?" I asked Seth.

"It says $.48."

Still not convinced, I asked a near-by elderly lady. "It says forty-eight cents, dear," she smiled. Squinting, she looked closer at the bar code. "Oh, I see. The machine misread the weight. It only weight it as ONE OUNCE."

I was soooo tempted to take the meat and run, but being the goody-goody I am, I showed a meat manager.
"Hmm. Our mistake is your profit," he said, patting my back. I couldn't believe it.

Better yet, the meat was part of a "full meal deal," meaning the meat came with freebies. I got: cheese, sodas, buns, chips, mustard and relish for free! All for forty-eight cents!

Once in a while, everything goes my way.

Pleadings and Ramblings

2006-08-30T17:25:00.000-05:00

Before I begin, thank you all for your sweet and comforting words yesterday. I am honored to have such wonderful friends.

It is one of the most deadliest killers in the world, and it cares not what your race, religion, or gender is. It strikes like a "thief in the night," completely ravaging the defenseless victim, and leaving a sea of despair in its wake. The menace is cancer, and every year it claims hundreds of thousands of lives world-wide..

Many of my friends have had this hated disease, and this year it claimed my aunt and my sister-in-law's lives. In an effort to assist in the continuation of the "cutting edge" cancer research, Much More Than a Mom--her father has cancer--has "created a line of merchandise and built an online store to raise money for cancer [research]."

Click here to go her online store.

Please take a minute and visit her store. She has a wonderful line of merchandise, and all proceeds will go to cancer research.

Also, please pass along this info to friends and family through email, word-of-mouth, or posting it on your blog. Let's all join together in stopping this killer.

On another note~~~~~

While visiting MUCH MORE THAN A MOM'S blog, I borrowed this meme from her. I haven't done one in a while, so here goes.

1. The book nearest me:
Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man by Fannie Flagg (It's hilarious)

2. Stretch your left arm, what do you touch?
A glass of chilled white wine. (Yeah, I know, "eww", but I'm out of red. I as cooking with it yesterday anyway. Food, not myself, I wasn't cooked on wine.)

3. Last thing watched on television?
Barney (Now you know why I'm drinking the wine)

4. Without looking, what time is it?
6 PM

5. What is the actual time?
6:13 PM (Okay, ya got me. I cheated and peeked)

6. With the exception of the computer what can you hear?
My toddler talking, TV in the next room, and the soothing strains of jazz

7. When did you last step outside?
Three hours ago before Judge Judy was on.

8. Before this meme, what did you look at?
A children's story I was working on.

9. What are you wearing?
Gray workout shorts and a women's blue tee. (It's mine, I didn't steal it from another woman)

10. Did you dream last night?
Yep. I dreamed I was chasing a chicken through my mother's house.

11. When did you last laugh?
An hour ago when I was chasing my toddler around the house and roaring like a lioness.

12. What is on the walls in the room you’re in?
wedding pictures, family pictures, a Norman Rockwell print, and a signed picture of Rocky Marciano. (the last one is John's)

13. Seen anything weird lately?
yeah, my reflection in the mirror every morning

14. What do you think of this quiz?
Somewhat interesting

15. What is the last film you saw?
Rose Red on DVD

16. Tell us something we don’t know.
I once jumped forty feet off the face of a cliff.

17. If you could change one thing about the world, what would you do?
Teach tolerance

18. Do you like to dance?
yep

19. George Bush?

20. Imagine your first child is a girl
Why would I want to do that?

21. Imagine your first child is a boy.
Umm. He is

22. Would you consider living abroad?
Yes, I could live in Italia (Italy) or Spain for a short time.

23. What would God say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Let me double-check this and make sure there's no mistake.

24. List some bloggers to carry on this meme.
Anyone who wants to.

A ghost of the past

2006-08-29T07:06:00.000-05:00

As we all know, one year ago today, Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans like a straight-razor through cheap fabric, leaving a trail of incomperable destruction and despair in its wake. I remember staring at the TV in horror and thinking, No way, there's been a mistake. No way is that the "Big EZ."

Just a week prior to that, I had sipped margaritas and laughed the night away at my cousin's house near the New Orlean's levies; I had walked the street of the French Quarter and sipped coffee at the legendary Dumond, the joyous strains of jazz resonating from every corner. Now, the streets were as silent as a cemetary, and my cousin's house was destroyed.

Anxiously, I watched TV, hoping to see the familiar faces of family members. I wished with all my heart to see Uncle F's housekeeper, "E" who just the week before had smoothed my hair back from my face, kissed my ckeek, and said "Everything will be okay, child," as I sat in her kitchen and vented about the slowness of a publisher's response. But I saw no one I knew in the sea of upturned faces, faces filled with horror and unimaginable grief.

We worried the most about Uncle F, a seventy-six year-old priest who was beginning to show his age. As the days past, we learned "E" and the family members had escaped; Uncle F, on the other hand, and faced his car into the storm and ventured to a hospital to assist the staff and administer last rights to the dying. We learned he was in one of hopitals that was nearly impossible to evacuate. A week later he was rescued, along with the other occupants of the hospital.

We thank God for everyone rescued and mourn those who weren't. New Orleans, like so many other parts of the South, will "rise again,"; but will it be the same carefree city of yester year? Sadly, no.

I hope it soon finds the one thing it's lacking, the one thing money can't be used for, peace.

Oh the sweet, smokey flavor

2006-08-26T11:05:00.000-05:00

The land here is as dry as Melba toast, with no promise of rain in sight. The only thing that's thriving are the mesquite trees and the cactus. There's a plus to this though; it's now the time of year when the mesquite trees, shed their long finger-length seed pods, or beans, and this year there's a bumper crop.

According to the old timers, if a horse or cow eats too many of the sugary-sweet bean, they go "plumb loco" for a short time. Which makes sense, because if the bean has a large natural sugar content, the poor beasts are more than likely suffering from what we refer to as a "sugar high". As many of you living in the Southwest already know, the mesquite tree is a very valuable commodity. A few years ago, barbequing buffs tried using the wood of the mesquite in their pits, and loved the sweet flavor it gave the meat.

I personally found, that if you add a few dried mesquite beans to the fire before the meat fully cooks, the sweet smokey flavor is intensified.

The beans can be ground into meal, used in recipes, and has a high nutritional content; the Southwestern Native Americans discovered that centuries ago.

Here's a pretty good mesquite bean jelly recipe.

I gathered some beans yesterday; and so, after a lunch of migas and nopalitos, I'll throw the beans on the fire and smoke my chicken.

What's your favorite exotic food? Have a great weekend!

Growing pains

2006-08-23T17:15:00.000-05:00

Here's an awesome link I received in an email.

Thanks to all of you for sharing your awesome stories!

School started this Tuesday, and for me it's a bittersweet time; my oldest "baby" started junior high this year. Seems like only yesterday the air was perfumed with the smell of baby lotion, now is weighs heavy with the smell of Old Spice, the odor of a young man. Toy trucks lay in a corner of the closet, forgotten like yesterday's news, and NASCAR posters have dethroned the cute puppy pictures that once proudly ruled the bedroom walls.

Reality jumped up and bit me in the rear the day before school started when Seth, Robert, and I met John in town for lunch. "Excuse me madam, but you gave me the wrong menu," Seth said politely, handing the blood-red colored menu back to the gum-smacking, bored looking, waitress. "I need the kid's menu."

"No one over the age of twelve can order off the kid's menu," the waitress said, handing back the menu.

Seth's face lit up at the idea of all the new food options, but my heart plummeted to my shoes; the menu was hard core evidence my child was no longer a "baby".

After the last crumb was devoured, Seth reached into his jean pocket and pulled out his blue nylon wallet, with Italia (Italy) emblazoned across the front, and clearing his throat importantly said, "I'll pay my part." He blanched when he saw his "part" was $6.50, but wordlessly took the money out of his wallet, and laid the wrinkled bills on the table. Already he was learning the cost of growing up.

There was a little extra bounce to his step as he left the restaurant; he paused at the door to give the young buxom brunette hostess a flirty wink Oh boy, it's starting already, I thought, rolling my eyes. To my surprise and irritation, the girl smiled shyly, and batting her eyelashes, said "Hope to see you soon."

Cool your engines honey, he's just barely a teen, I wanted to say. Instead, put my hand on Seth's shoulder and steered him out of the restaurant. In the parking lot, I instinctively reached for his hand. "I don't need my mommy to hold my hand," he hissed, jerking away and walking to the car.

He doesn't need me anymore, I sniffed, slinking into the driver's seat. Oh get over it, you knew this day would come, my inner voice scolded.

But not this soon, I argued.

That night, I watched from the living room as Seth thumped around in his bedroom, packing and repacking his school supplies for what seemed like 100 times. "Hey Mom, come here a minute would you?"

"What?" I asked from the doorway.

Seth ran and jumped onto his bed, the mattress bucking like a horse from the impact. "Tuck me in and sing to me, okay?"

"Aren't you too old for that?"

"Never. . .I'll never be too old to have you tuck me in. You can even tuck me in on my wedding night."

Ooh boy. I bet your bride will love that, I snickered to myself.

"Take me to school tommorrow?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not sure where I'm going and--"

"And what?" I coaxed.

"I'm scared and I want you with me. Happy now?" he grumbled.

Happy? I was overjoyed; my half-grown son still needed me after all.

The face of evil

2006-08-22T07:09:00.000-05:00

After last week’s post, I’m sure you can tell what affect the paranormal sometimes has on me. Things that “go bump” in the night send me scampering under the covers, quivering like a bowl of Jell-o.

Unfortunately, I’m a fan of horror movies, the scarier the better. When I was little (9), one Halloween night, I sat frozen in Daddy’s lap as I watched the undead attack a house in the cult classic, Night of the Living Dead.

Late that night, I felt it was my mission to protect myself and my parents from the ghouls lurking in the dark just outside the front door. Quiet as a mouse, I slipped out of bed, and grabbing a baton on the floor, crept into the inky blackness of the hallway. I made my way to the front door, and was reaching for the knob when it swung open. There, in the doorway, was the silhouette of a person, or what was pretending to be a person.

Screeching like a banshee, I took a step forward, and swinging with all the strength I had in my young arms, struck the beast with the baton. It let out a strangled cry, then collapsed like a broken puppet to the floor.

“What on earth?” Mama demanded, breezing past me toward the beast.

“Mama, don’t!” I cried. “It’s the face of evil!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “It’s your father,” she said, turning on the hall light.
I felt like I’d been on a roller coaster too long as I watched my daddy, flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water, clutching his wounded knee. The next morning he limped to the breakfast table and sternly announced my “horror movie watching” had ended for a while.

Now it's your turn. ;o) What was your funniest or scariest moment as a child?

Fall is a'comin, and the devil might be after me

2006-08-17T15:27:00.000-05:00

Today, as the wind shifted, it carried with it the promise of the arrival of Autumn. As I stood there and allowed the wind to caress me with its invisible fingers, my mind drifted to a Fall long ago.

When I was in kindergarten, I went to the Fall festival with my parents and two grandmothers. The entire school was ablaze with decorations crafted by the chubby hands of my schoolmates, and contributions from Mother Nature--in the form of autumn leaves--hung from the ceiling; even my family was swept away by the party-like atmosphere. Hot mulled cidar simmered in giant caldron-like pots, dealt out in paper cups by teachers dressed as witches, and candy apples were passed around like currancy; some costumed patrons sported bits of the candied treat in their hair and on their clothes, but for that one night, no one cared.

Each classroom held a different activity, and I eagerly ran from one room to another, clutching the few precious quarters Daddy gave me in my grimy little hands. My own classroom had a rummage sale, and rows of donated goods-ranging from slightly used clothes to fishing poles--lined the tiny desks and tables.

I fell in love with an Indian maiden, who was clad in leather as soft as chicken down, and beads more colorful than the rainbow. "Can I have this?" I asked Mama, holding the precious doll to my cheek.

"No," she sighed, "you don't play with dolls very often, and after you're bored with it, you'll just pull the head off like you do all the others."

I mustered a single tear, and willed it to stay poised in the corner of my eye, sparkling like a diamond. My granny--my father's mother--gently took the doll from me and turned it over in her work-hardened hands. "Do you really want this?"

I swallowed the marble-sized lump in my throat and nodded, wiping my eyes with my hand. A warm smile lighted her tanned, full moon-shaped face. "Then my love, you shall have it."

"Oh thank you Granny!" I flashed Mama a victorious smile, while she, in return, gave me one of her patented wait-till-I-get-you-home looks. I ignored her, and with the spirit of a wild foal, raced off to the next room with the doll, my new best friend; I didn't know how quickly the friendship would end. Even back then I had the attention span of a gnat, and I laid my precious doll down, not remembering it again until it till it was too late.

Daddy and I went from room-to-room, looking, but it was all in vain; someone else had walked off with my dolly. Heart broken, I wept real tears. "I knew this would happen," Mama hissed. "She's too irresponsible."

I know now why Mama was so upset; the doll cost two dollars, a lot back then to some. My grandfather supplimented his ranch with a crop of farm-raised tomatoes. Each bushel of tomatoes took almost an hour to pick, and sold for around $2. I had thrown both my granny's time and money away when I lost the doll.

Back to the story. . .

Granny knealt down and embraced me in a bear hug. "She couldn't help it, she's still a baby ," Granny told her. She took a white hankie, embroidered with roses, out of her pocket , and with a touch as light as an angel's kiss, wiped away my tears. "Now, what can we do to make you feel better?"

All night, I heard kids talking about the spook house. "I wanna go to the spoof house," I lisped excitedly.

Daddy shook his head vigorously "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not?" Granny demanded.

"Debbie has never been, and you know she's a little high-strung--"

"Pish posh," Granny interrupted. "I'll take her." She grabbed me by the hand, and we headed outdoors in fog as thick as pea soup to the rambling Colonial style house, doubling as the spook house. The evening air chilled our bones and painted our noses a bright red as we stood in the back of the line, awaiting entrance into the house.

Finally, as timidly as mice, we all crept across the red brick porch, and went inside, the heavy wooden door creaking in protest as we entered. We jumped as the door slammed shut. A chap dressed all in red, with eyebrows as fuzzy as caterpillers, grinned at us; a pair of goat-like horns adorned his head, and he held tightly to a pitchfork. I remember feeling extremely uneasy as he tried to shake my hand.

'Who's that?" I asked Granny.

"It's the devil," she said, laying a protective hand on my shoulder.

"THE DEVIL? LIKE IN THE BIBLE?" I screeched.

"Yes baby. He'll leave you alone. Let's go on."

In the next room was a man, dressed in a tux, his face as white as plaster, laying in what I thought was a black funny shaped bed with a lid. Standing on my tip-toes, I leaned over into the "bed" and screeched, "Hey mister, better wake up! The devil is gonna get you!"

Never losing character, the man sat up, and smiled, displaying a mouthful of sharp teeth. "Vank you," he hissed.

"My name is Debbie and I think you need to see the dentist."

"Vank you again," he chuckled, shaking my hand. "I am Count Dracula."

"Nice to meet ya," I called as Granny dragged me away. Near the end of the spook house was a long tunnel, contructed of industrial strength, extra large, packing boxes taped together. Dropping to our hands and knees, Granny and I began crawling through; we were halfway done when a male voice called, "Run, the devil is after you!" Everything from that point on is a blur, but I remember my tiny heart racing like a jet plane as I scrambled like a crab over the backs of everyone in front of us. I emerged as the leader at the end of the box, and my feet had wings as a I raced back to the school, leaving my granny behind. I didn't stop running until I found my parents and my other grandmother.

'The devil has Granny!" I said, sobbing hysterically as I threw myself into Daddy's arms. A few minutes later, Granny walked in laughing, and wiping tears from her eyes. "She heard the devil was after us and off she went," Granny gasped. "The guy playing the devil had to help me to my feet."

That occurred more years ago than I care to remember, and haunted houses still give me the shakes; I rarely go in, you see, the devil might be there again, waiting for me.

"Gentlemen. . .start your engines". . . if you can

2006-08-15T10:01:00.000-05:00

I've done it! For the past several weeks, I've campaigned to rifd ourselves of the giant white albatross, the GMC Jimmy. It was the last staw, in my book, when the blasted thing refused to start up at the post office. As I trudged down the street, a very grouchy toddler in tow, I looked back over my shoulder and for a brief instant thought the darned thing smiled and winked at me (no, not really).I started my JIMMY BE GONE campaign that night

"The truck is on its last legs, we need a new set of wheels, or at least a better used one." The Jimmy's exterior is in GREAT shape, but its engine is going to pot.

"I don't want to be saddled with a car payment," John countered. "It just needs a little tweaking here and there."

Yeah right; a few Saturdays later, the truck tweaked John. He and the boys had embarked on a guy's day out to town. I was surprised when, an hour later, they returned, each wearing a different level of disgust on their face.

"What happened?" I asked.

"The truck started overheating. We're going no where." John snapped.

"I saw in the paper where the Dodge dealship was having a sale. If we hurry--'

"Not interested," John barked, as he sat pouting on the living room couch. Rental cars are hard on the pocket book, so last Saturday, John conceded and we visited a dealship. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, a dealer approached us before we were even parked. A well-dressed chap, the dealer--let's call him Tom--shook everyone's hand--the guys that is--but turned away when he came to me.

"Not a way to sell a car, buddy," I mumbled as we purused the parking lot. Like cattle, we were herded to a 2005 minivan with only 2000 miles. "How about a test drive?" Tom beamed a John.

"Oh awesome, " I chirped, looking inside the spacious vehicle. "How do I fold the second row seat down so my boys and I can sit in the back?"

Tom looked deflated. "Oh, are you all going?"

No, we're going to chase you down the road like a pack of dogs, I wanted to reply. Instead, I put on my brightest smile and said, "Of course, if that's all right with you." Wordlessly he nodded.

"How do I get the seat folded down?" I repeated. Tom stared mutely at me, not offering any help. Oh to heck with it, we'll get back there the best way we can. I plopped Robert in between in second and third row of seats. I thought that he, like a cat, would land on his feet, but he proved me wrong; he was wedged inbetween the seats and resembed a fold up napkin as he gave me a what-the-heck-did-I-do-to-deserve-this look. I tugged, but I couldn't get him out without hurting him.

"Umm, excuse me. Could you please tell me how to move the seats up so I can get my child out?" I asked Tom. Again I was greeted by a blank stare. Disgusted, I turned to John, who was staring at our son, still doing his impersonation of a napkin. "Could you get him out?" John tried, but Joseph was stuck too well.

"Oh for goodness sakes, let me try," Seth said, walking around the van. After a minute, he handed me a very relieved toddler. Jonathan chalked his sucess up as "teen power". After the ride ended, and we were getting out of the van, another salesman zipped by in a car and almost took out my whole family. We saw this as a sign our car wasnot to be found there, and left.

Black Sunday

2006-08-08T21:31:00.000-05:00

Late Sunday afternoon, I felt the urge to be creative in the kitchen. John was running errands, and to show my appreciation, I planned to make banana pudding --from scratch--and chicken enchiladas. The tortillas were from scratch too.

The whole time I was in the kitchen, Robert constantly demanded my attention. He rotated from trying to be a life-sized necklace dangling off my neck, to a flying squirrel impressionist as he leaped off chairs. My hands full of tortilla dough, I asked Seth to help out by playing with him. Seth--typical teen, made a smart remark, then went back to watching television.

Minutes past, and all was quiet. . .too quiet.

"Would you please check on your brother?" I asked Seth. "I'm still busy with tortillas."

He mumbled something about "cruelty to children," as he peeled himself from the TV and wandered off. . A couple of seconds later, I heard Seth say "Oh crap. . .oh crap. . .oh crap." He walked into the kitchen carrying my wireless mouse which was dripping water.

"Where the heck did you find the mouse?" I demanded. "Why is it dripping water?"

"He threw it in the toilet," Jonathan shrugged. This was definately an Advil popping, give-me-strength moment.

Then. . .as I was still fuming over the mouse, Robert got a bag of lentil peas, ripped a corner of the bag, and strewed them from here to kingdom come, then, he took off his diaper and peed in the middle of them.

Well, I swept up the peas, then moped the floor with bleach water; I dropped the bottle of bleach and it spilled all over my leg. A few hours later, John came home, looked me in the face, and said, "What did you do today? Anything exciting happen?"

I could only stare at him blankly, then collapse in semi-hysterical laughter. If he only knew.

The mouse is working, and now I can see the humor in the situation. What they say is true, "what don't kill ya, only makes ya stronger."

Side note: Once again, I'm playing globetrotter as I wearily pack my bags and get ready to depart on a new adventure. This time I'm off to West Texas for a two day conference. Have a great one!

2006-08-07T18:42:00.000-05:00

Our story continues. . .

After zipping around the house like a crazed hummingbird, I was definately ready for a vacation. I collapsed into a useless lump in the passenger seat of the minivan as John herded the boys into their seats. The ride in the minivan was pure bliss; there was no whining remarks of "I'm too hot/cold." from the peanut gallery in the back seat. Each boy has their own vent on the ceiling.

The excitement in the vehicle mounted when, two hours later, gentle rolling plains gave way to marshland. Giant white cranes rose in graceful assent on both sides of the road as if welcoming us back "home." We arrived in Rockport after seven, and our first stop was. . .you guessed it. . .The Big Fisherman; again, we weren' t disappointed. They served me a portion of fish that even the hungriest lumberjack would have a hard time finishing.

We stayed at the Sandollar Resort, in one of the large suites, which was about the size of three hotel rooms put together. There are really no words to describe the view from my balcony. Every morning I watched the sun rise over the ocean, as I sat on the balcony and sipped my coffee; and every morning I felt moved to tears by the shear beauty of it.

Here's a picture I took early one morning.

I was quite spoiled on this trip. Every morning, before we started our explorations of the day, my wondurful hubby whisked us off to Starbucks, to "start the day off right," he said. The Rockport Starbucks had a spacious patio facing the ocean, complete with over-stuffed chairs, and retro music (1980's. I felt extremely old)piped outdoors.

We never miss an opportunity to educate our children, and on the first full day in Rockport, we stopped by the Texas Maritime Museum. John and Seth viewed the exhibits at their leisure. I, on the other hand, saw the exhibits as a blur as I chased "Energizer Bunny" double, Robert, around the museum.

Wednesday, John gave in to the pleadings of the boys, and we made the trip to the beach on Mustang Island . My youth revisted me as Seth and I splashed in the waves, and I schooled him in the art of body surfing. I'm not that great, but we had a wonderful time until I felt something squirming up one of my shorts' legs.

My heart caught in my throat as my mind flashed back to all the Jaws movies. I envisioned myself walking back to the beach chomped in half, a split personality. I don't know where I found the guts, but reaching down, I gave the leg of my shorts a shake, and was astonished when a fish--the length of my wrist to my elbow swam away.

Dang, that could have been supper, I fumed. Like a pouting schoolgirl, I stormed back to the beach and told John the story. "Sorry to tell you babe," he said cooly, "but all the fish in the ocean have teeth."

Great. My butt was almost fish bait. Glad to know it's good for something.

There aren't any places to change on the beach, except behind the sand dunes, which were 100 yards or more from the beach-goers.. The dune I tackled seemed as endless as the Sahara desert. Gasping like a fish out of water, I reached the top, and half-ran, half-walked down the other side into a deep depression. Dunes rose up on all sides of me, and I payed I had the strength to escape my sandy prison. I also prayed the park police wouldn't come over one of the dunes and see me changing. Wouldn't that have been cute?

Before going out to dinner, we saw the Big Tree at Goose Island State Park. I was in awe as I stared at the giant who had withstood over 1000 years of hurricanes. Cursed with a sense of adventure, I strayed off the beaten path and wandered toward the dense woods. I heard the rasping of dead leaves as an unknown creature raced toward me. I grew up in the country, and animals don't alarm me; but when they run right across my foot, well, that a "horse of a different color." I screamed like a banshee and danced on one foot as a squirrel --I swear it was the size of a horse, really-- galloped across my foot. A few months ago, my friend Perpetualchocoholic posted about learning an orphaned baby squirrel needed to be "peed"; that darned squirrel almost peed me.

"Hey Mom, you looked like a giant crane dancing around." Smart alek. He would have run off like his pants were on fire.

"Hey, the squirrel is pretty smart. He knows a big nut when he sees it," John quipped. The next day we loaded up and headed home. All too soon our time of magic and wonder ended.

And they're off. . .

2006-08-04T13:54:00.000-05:00

Little sidenote here: I feel like we're all family too.

It’s my philosophy every day is a new adventure, that life gives us just enough excitement to leave us “sitting on the edge of our seat” wondering what will happen next. This past Monday was no exception. It started like the middle part of a horror movie; there was not a drop of coffee in the house, causing John and I to shuffle around like mindless zombies, and the children to run away in terror.

To make matters worse, our Jimmy, in a premeditated plan of rebellion, broke down in the driveway. It was the fourth time in three months the blasted thing had conked out on us, and I was thinking seriously of “going Western” on it by taking my trusty Smith & Wesson revolver and putting it “out of its misery”.

After making a few calls to local car rental places, it was Enterprise, emerging like a knight on a white horse, to sweep John away back to their office to sign the papers. Time crept by like a hundred year-old man until a vehicle turned in the drive and zoomed toward us, leaving a thick, choking plume of dust in its wake. The boys and I swarmed out the front door, and watched in shock as John stepped out of a gunmetal gray Ford Freewind minivan.

Looking like the Cheshire cat, John explained Enterprise had made a mistake in their reservations; they were unable to give us the standard size car we reserved; instead, they gave us a mini-van for the same cost. Score!

Then, a tender look on his deeply tanned face, he took a Styrofoam cup out of the cup holder and handed it to me. “I had it specially blended for you,” he said, handing me the cup. “It’s peppermint mocha java; I hope you like it.”

Like it? It could have been muddy water in the cup, and it still would have tasted sweet and smooth to me. The fact my hubby loved me enough to go to the trouble of bringing me the coffee, made me almost bawl like a baby. He’s like that though; he knows little things mean the most to me. When my uncle died suddenly, he wiped away my tears and held me while I wept. Later that day, he disappeared and returned an hour later, holding a bouquet of roses. “I thought you might like these,” he said. My wonderful, sweet hubby.

Anyway, I got off track. . .back to the post.

The kids hopped like bunnies into the van, and feeling I was “on top of the world,” I drove the van into town to do the grocery shopping. I was in an extremely good mood, and in an even better one when NOTHING HAPPENED at the store. Can you believe it!

Not even the arduous task of unloading the groceries from the van when we got home was enough to dampen our spirits. “Well, I planned a road trip to Rockport,” John grunted as he heaved the bag of dog food into the food bin.

“Really, when are we leaving?” I asked.

“Just as soon as we unload the groceries, eat lunch, and pack.”

I stared dumbly in shock at my hubby, and recovered just in time to keep the carton of eggs from hitting the ground. “Today? We’re going today?” I croaked hoarsely. I ran my hand through my hair and glanced frantically around the living room; it looked like a disaster area. Bags of groceries sat on the floor, and an overflowing basket of laundry sat on the couch, waiting to be folded and put away. “Let’s get busy then,” I commanded.

The house was a beehive of activity as I directed family like a traffic cop, and ran around like a disgruntled goose. Don’t ask m how I did it, but in an hour, dishes were in the dishwasher, children and pets were fed (the kids were thankful I didn’t mistakenly give them kibble) clothes were packed, and we were on the road for yet another adventure!

Tune in tomorrow when: Deb screams like a banshee in the woods.

Seth's intervening

2006-07-30T19:39:00.000-05:00

Update: Just got back from the store and hubby has surprised me with a two-day vacation to the coast. See ya'll when I get back.

In my family, even something as ordinary as a trip to the eye doctor can be an adventure. Thursday was Jonanthan and my annual eye exam; needless to say, we needed it. That morning, I watched in disgust as my last contact lens flipped of my finger, fell to the floor, and headed for parts for unknown. More than likely, they're having a rendevous with all the socks that are MIA

Seth appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, holding a mangled ball of metal and plastic in his hand.

"What's that?" I demanded.

"My glasses."

"Uh huh. And why aren't they on your face?'

"They fell off as I was riding my bike and I ran over them." Seth replied, acting as if this was a normal occurance "By the way, why are you on the floor on yout hands and knees?"

Always as irritable as a wet setting hen when I lose a contact, I glared at Seth. "I'm paying homage to the dust bunny king under the counter." I snapped sarcastically. " What do you think? I lost a contact lens."

Seth frowned, and squinting like Mr. Magoo, dropped to his knees and began searching too. "Maybe if you leaned further over the sink--"

I was not in the mood to be lectured in Contact Care 101 by my teenager, and it sometimes irritated me when he "mother-hened" me. "Don't act like my father," I returned coolly, glancing at my watch. Oh great, an hour until the eye appointment, and we're all only half-dressed. With efficiency my ex-military officer father would have been proud of, I made sure everyone was dressed, then herded them off to the truck. .
I hate to be late, and was happy to learn we got to the eye doctor's with thirty minutes to spare.

The wait was painful; Robert zoomed around like the Energizer Bunny, and Seth moaned constantly he was "growing old with boredom." Finlly, before my sanity was totally lost, we were called into the exam room. I gort in the chair first, and the doctor, an older Bon Jovi look-alike, entered the room. He began to put my eyeballs through the paces by reading the charts. Satisfied with the results, he scooted nearer until we were knee to knee a he examined each eye. "Don't look down," he instructed. I was shocked when I felt a hand rubbing my knee.

This guy is coming on to me! I had heard of some incidents on the news in which this occurred, and doubted the validity of the accusations. But this was real, it was happening to me! He's not even shy about it. He's rubbing my knee in front of my boys. Just as I was about to give the doc a blow they would feel in the next country, Seth yelled out, "Robert, stop rubbing Mommie's knee." The baby was rubbing my leg! For once, Seth's intervening paid off.

Revised

2006-07-26T20:57:00.000-05:00

This is a revised version of a story I wrote. Please tell me what you think.

Excess Baggage
By Debbie Roppolo

“Look you spineless little worm, I don’t care if it is Friday, I want those reports on my desk first thing Monday morning!” Cheryl McAdams screeched into the phone. Idiot, she thought, twisting the receiver cord around her fingers. She looked at the spirals knotted around her hand like a tangled ball of yarn, and wished with all her heart the cord was knotted around her assistant’s, Dan Pepper’s, meaty neck.

She closed her eyes and indulged herself by imagining the cord digging deeper and deeper into Pepper’s neck as he clawed frantically at the vise-like grip. His breathing becoming labored and raspy before collapsing on the floor like a broken puppet. Oh god I hate him, she thought, listening to Pepper babble another excuse. He was her third assistant in two months; all the others couldn’t withstand Cheryl’s tyranny, and quit. Pepper had been in good standing with Cheryl until a few afternoons ago when she had heard him talking in the break room as she breezed past.

“Oh yeah, McAdams is a witch,” Pepper told a group of men seated at the table with him.

Oh I am, am I, Cheryl thought. She stopped and listened just outside the door.

“But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a woman run me off!” Pepper laughed. Cheryl had fought to contain the anger bubbling up from the depths of her soul. You haven’t seen anything yet, mister, she fumed.

After the incident, Cheryl doubled Pepper’s workload, and made him run personal errands for her, making completion of assignments almost impossible. It warmed her heart to see Pepper scampering around like a disoriented rat, a “deer in the headlight” look on his face.

Now, as he offered yet another reason for not having the reports on time, Cheryl sensed a weakening in his demeanor, gone was his self-assured tone. I almost have him, she thought gleefully. Now for the “kill”.

“Oh sure you could have the reports done by Tuesday,” she said. “Then after you hand them in, go home and explain to your mousy little pregnant wife why you don’t have a job.” Cheryl smirked at the dispirited tone in Pepper’s voice.

“I thought you’d see it my way,” she said, hanging up the phone. Ah yes, another spirit crushed, she thought gleefully. She sank into her padded leather chair; poured brandy from a crystal decanter into a shot glass, and downed the fiery drink in one gulp. Cheryl picked up a voice-activated recorder from her desk. “Note to self. Fire Pepper on Monday.” She twirled around and stared out the window of her high-rise luxury office.

Becoming an executive in Greenbrier and Associates had been a hard fought battle for her. 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.

A well-dressed older gentleman sauntered into her office. “Kind of hard on the secretary weren’t you?”

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

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

“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? Maybe a relative to look after her rug rats?”

Mr. Greenbrier shook his head disgustedly. “No Cheryl, she’s not like you. She adores her children.” Groaning with the effort, he rose from the chair and left the office.

“I adore my children too!” Cheryl shouted after Mr. Greenbrier’s retreating form. I can’t believe he implied I don’t care about my children. She punched the intercom button angrily with her finger.

“Amedia, get me the Templeton file.” An older woman entered the office and, avoiding eye contact, timidly 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 once sparkling with happiness and mischief stared back at her, as dull and lifeless as a corpse’s. She automatically raised her hand to her cheek and caressed the heavily lined skin. When did I get so old? She was only thirty-three, nowhere near middle age. Cheryl shrugged to herself and jammed the car into drive. Oh well, can’t worry about it now.

The interstate resembled a parking lot as inch by inch, the cars slowly moved along. 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 her game is tonight, Cheryl thought.

Cheryl dropped to her knees so she was eye-level with her daughter. “Baby, Mama doesn’t think that . . .”

Hannah’s smile faded. “That’s okay Mommy. Daddy will take me. He always takes me!” Hannah burst into tears and raced into the house. A couple of minutes later she emerged, this time followed by Cheryl’s husband, John. Cheryl hated the accusing glares 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. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she angrily brushed them away with her sleeve.

They have no concept of the sacrifices I make for them. I work my fingers to the bone to help pay for our luxurious lifestyle; 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 dragged 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 dresser. On trembling legs, she walked across the room and picked it up. It was a photo of Cheryl and John just after Hannah 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 threw herself across the bed where she cried herself to sleep. As she slept, she dreamed.

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 snapped at the front desk attendant.

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

Cheryl gasped in horror. Several large grotesque suitcases sat on a gilded luggage rack. As if she were being pushed, Cheryl walked over and inspected the luggage closely. She ran her hands over them; luggage was rough to the touch, and had a greasy, slimy feel. T-These can’t possibly be mine!

“Are you sure these are mine?”

The attendant smiled broader. “Yes madam. I heard you drag these around with you everyday. You must get very tired. Yes, they’re definitely yours. 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, HATRED, IMPATIENCE, INGRATITUDE. There were three smaller pieces of luggage at the very top. Her hands trembling, Cheryl took down the two pieces. They were smaller then a change purse, and made of satin. On them were written the words LOVE, SELF RESPECT, TIME FOR FAMILY.

“These large pieces. I-I don’t want them. How do I get rid of them?”

“Only you know the answer to that,” the porter replied politely.

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. First, I need to take care of unfinished business. 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 on the other end.

“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. I wanted to talk to you about giving Pepper a raise; he definitely deserves it. About the meeting, you’re going to have to get someone else to make that meeting. I have prior obligations and I. . .well, I have some large baggage getting in my way I need to get rid of.

Making a choice.

2006-07-24T15:48:00.000-05:00

With eyes still droopy from sleep, I squinted near-sightedly at the clock in my bedroom as I sipped my coffee. Eight o'clock. Now is the time to strike, I thought, sitting the still steaming cup on the desk by the computer. Quieter than a ferret, I slunk down the hall and peered cautiously around the corner of the living room.

There, in front of the "boob tube" sat my two unsuspecting victims, Seth and Robert, engrossed in Mr. Rogers. Ah yes. . .Mr. Rogers. . .little do children know he worked for us. With fox-like cunning, he held their attention to the television, while we, the parents, were able to indulge in the forbidden fruits such as an uninterupted bath, or the occasional unshared chocolate bar. Oh whoa is the parent whose child rails against the distraction of PBS or Discovery Kids.

As silent as death, I scurried down the hallway to the bathroom. I put a Kenny G CD in the player, lit the two candles on the rim of the tub, and closed my eyes and breathed in the heavenly scent as it wafted around the bathroom. I prepared a hot steamy bath with apple-scented bath salts, slipped off my PJ's and into the soothing waters. I needed this after the past weekend and the boys antics. The boys. . .I sighed and sank deeper in the water, reflecting on the events that had transpired.

They had both been wound up tighter than tops when we arrived back home from town on Friday. Always the bundle of energy, Robert ran to the small forest-green colored love seat, climbed onto the arm, and before I could blink, swung off the couch like Tarzan, using the miniblind cord. While I reprimanded Robert, Seth, otherwise known as the-walking-stomach-who-looks-and-talks-like-a-boy, sifted through the grocery bags until he found the cereal bars that came free with my coffee purchase.

"Let's go brother," he yelled to Robert. "There's a cereal bar here with your name on it. A whirlwind, in the form of my toddler, zipped past me and joined his brother in their room with the coveted box of bars. A few minutes later, the evidence was left in the trash can, without even the whisper of a crumb for me to nibble on. Grr. (BTW There were only 5 to a box)

After having lulled me into a false sense of security by being good on Saturday, my toddler hit on Sunday with an attack Ceasar would have been envious of. My hubby was going to be away, leaving me alone with the boys. I thought I would have all afternoon to write, was I wrong.

That afternoon, Robert discovered how to get in the pantry. After slaving over a manuscript for an hour, I tottered into the kitchen for a drink, my poison that day: Coke Zero. As I reached for the door of the pantry, I happened to look down and see a trail of white powder-like substance; with tiny footprints in the middle of it. This can't be good.

I followed the trail to the living room; there, in the middle of my Oriental carpet was a mound of flour with hazel eyes. The flour and I stared long and hard at each other until the mound clapped its hands together and cheered, "Yay Robert!"

I had two choices; either I could scold and cry, or I could laugh and treasure the moment forever in my heart. After all, they're only little once, and after these walls cease to ring with childish laughter, I will have the memory of that wonderful moment, and the house won't seem quite as empty.

Adventures

2006-07-23T17:21:00.000-05:00

I should have known better to plan a trip into town. Every time I venture outside the secure confines of my home, Fate strikes swiftly, squishing me like an ant under its giant thumb. My boys have been victims on more than one occasion, and it's like a scene from Animal Planet as I herd them, unwillingly into the Jimmy. I never realized how serious it was until I once heard my toddler ask my oldest if he had insurance as we left the drive and headed toward town. To date, we've:

1. Had a turkey stolen out of the Dodge Ram we used to have.

2. Broken down in the Ram in the center of a very busy street.

3. Been hit in the store by elderly people on scooters.

4. Had a store display fall on us. (Luckily it was toilet paper)

We reached Target unscathed, and scurried like cockroaches across the parking lot to the safety of the store. For once, nothing traumatic happened, and we merrily walked back to the truck celebrating our inexpensive booty of school supplies.

Yes! One more stop and then we'll be home; finally, a normal trip. I was "counting my chickens before they hatched." I should have known, given our "track record" something was bound to happen, and something did.

I stopped at the local grocery for decongestant. Finding they were out, the boys and I left the store and decided to ckeck at Wal-Mart. I got in the truck, and my door wouldn't close. "That's strange," I told Seth. Bewildered, I got out of the truck and examined the door. What I saw made my blood pressure skyrocket; there, in the middle of the driver's door was a cantaloupe-sized dent. There was no note, no apology, on my windshield. There are few things that make me truly angry: someone intentionally hurting my family and friends, and someone damaging my property and not admitting it. Seething with barely contained rage, I got the boys out of the truck and marched back into the store, where I asked the manager to allow me to see the video of the parking lot.

"We don't have that, madam," he replied cooly. "It's not necessary." I stared at the manager blankly, and gaped at him like a fish out of water.

They have cameras all over the store to catch shoplifters, but let something occur in the parking lot, and they don't care. Lovely, I could have the crap beaten out of me, or raped out there, and they wouldn't see it as their problem, I thought sourly. Walking like I had a corn cob shoved up my hindparts, I stormed over to the customer service desk and used their phone.

Let them try and stop me from using the phone, and I'll give someone such as wedgie, I fumed. I told John what happened, and we agreed to meet in the parking lot in half an hour. The kids were begging for snacks, so I shopped while I waited. As I shopped, I calmed down, and entertained my oldest, whose face was drooping worse than a Bassett Hound's, with sarcastic humor.

I told him I wanted to jump in the cherry bin, and pelt passersby with the luscious fruit while screaming, "Who hit my truck?! Somebody better confess or else everyone will be picking pits out of their hair."

We finally got through with our shopping, and met John in the parking lot. He fixed the door--the lock was off--and we journeyed home without incident. As the days pass, I see the humor in it. Every day is literally an adventure for me. . .wanna come along?

Odds and ends

2006-07-21T08:46:00.000-05:00

The weekend is upon me, and I have so much to get done I don't know where to begin. Here's a couple of fun things. I'll try and post more later.

I always thought I was a little "catty."

You Are: 40% Dog, 60% Cat

You and cats have a lot in common.

You're both smart and in charge - with a good amount of attitude.

However, you do have a very playful side that occasionally comes out!

Are You More Cat or Dog?

I didn't cheat on this one. I swear!

You Are An ENFP

The Inspirer

You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.
You are also unconventional, irreverant, and unimpressed by authority and rules.
Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.
You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're qutie the storyteller!

You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist.

What's Your Personality Type?

Running off at the mouth

2006-07-19T16:17:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, I'm pretty quiet at social gatherings. I have a good reason to be; I have diarrhea of the mouth. Like many of my afflictions, it started in high school.

My freshman year, I was in the pep squad. I had loads of school spirit, and school games were the one place I could scream my head off and not get in trouble, with the exception of a home basketball game played before Thanksgiving break. Wouldn't you know, that on this particular night, my dad took me to the game and insisted on staying to watch the game.

It was a miserable game; the opposing team worked together like a well-oiled machine, making our players look like "donkey basketball" participants. Frustration running high, we began a cheer:

Stawberry shortcake, banana split

We think your team smells like shift

to the left, shift to the right. Stand

up, sit down. Fight, fight, fight!

Notice the word was supposed to be shift. You guessed it. . .me, in all the excitement yelled out sh*t. It was horrible, our team called a timeout just as I yelled out. As if it had wings and a mind of its own, the horrid word reached the ears of the referee and my dad. The ref, thinking it was intentional almost penalized our team. Not only was I bawled out by the squad leader, I got an earful from Daddy all the way home.

I still don't know when to keep my mouth shut; irritate me enough, and I'm a little smart mouth. Several months ago, I was at a swanky political dinner with John. A well-dressed woman, who looked like she needed a laxative in the worst way, looked me up and down, then asked,"Tell me, what do YOU do for a living?"

I smiled politely and replied, "I'm a writer."

"Oh," she sneered. "I classify writers and actors in the same catagory, as bums. Tell me dear, are you going to be a bum all your life?"

I counted to ten, and plastering a smile on my face that would make the most hardened criminal cringe, replied, "I might change my profession, you can never yell. But I think you're a witch. Tell me, are you going to be a witch all your life? Judging from your personality, probably so." Yes, it was immature, but it made me feel good , and the woman left me alone the rest of the night. Sometimes being mouthy comes in handy.

Blue

2006-07-17T17:15:00.000-05:00

Saturday I was buzzing like a bee, and here's the reason why:

If you're a coffee lover, like I am, this a treat. "La Bibita Di Solo Caffe" means that the soda drink contains only straight coffee, and of course sugar and carbonation. My sweet hubby picked this up at the Italian food store in town; after what happened earlier that morning, he knew I needed it.

My poor Husky, Blue, had a heck of a week, and it wasn't getting any better for him. On Monday, I looked out my front door and saw my elderly neighbor running his hands over my dog's muscular body. Like a race horse out of a starting gate, I flung the door open and stepped out on the porch. Startled, my neighbor jerked his head up and glanced briefly at me before turning his attention back to the dog.

"Uh. . .Debbie. . .I hate to tell you this," he said in voice choked with emotion, "but I accidentally ran over Blue with the tractor. I'm sorry."

I staggered backwards and leaned against the house for support. I felt like I'd gone ten rounds with a prizefighter. I'd lost a dog when I was a teen to a similar fate, and since then had never let myself get close to another dog, not until Blue. You idiot! I chastised myself You let yourself get attached to another dog, and look what happened. I took a moment before replying, blinking furiously to keep back the tears that burned like fire behind my eyelids and threatened to fall at any minute.

"It's not your fault," I said shakily. On rubbery legs, I walked over to my dog, my canine "baby", took his large head in my hands and stared deep into the ice-blue eyes. They were clear and unclouded, completely free of pain. A tiny flame of hope ignited in me, and burned stronger when Blue sat and offered to shake hands. Relieved my neighbor left and asked me to keep him posted. That was MONDAY, and the pooch was fine until Thursday.

Late Thursday afternoon, my cowgirl skills payed off when the dog hobbled up on three legs. He had a cactus thorn in his front paw, and it took Seth and myself to take a dog, the size of a miniture horse, off his feet and remove the thorn. Blue sang his misery to the world as Seth held him down and I worked to remove the thorn. After it was removed, our prisoner took off, without so much as a tailwag. Hmph. That's gratitude.

Now. . .finally to Saturday.

I walked out on the porch with my coffee and was greeted by my dog, or who I thought was my dog. Blue's face was twice it's size, his eyes swollen shut. Ever the curious canine, he had stuck his nosy snout into a ground-level wasp's nest and been zapped by an indignant occupant. A quick call to our vet resulted in Blue taking two Benedryl tablets a day for a week.

I guess Murphy's Law applies to dogs too.

Answers

2006-07-14T11:52:00.000-05:00

Thanks so much for all your questions and comments, you all are wonderful.

GoofyJ asked: " . . .what genre do you like to write in (understanding you probably have a few) and as you state you are published, can I ask what you've published? Or is that classified information?

Since I'm so much of a kid at heart, children's writing is my main genre. I base a lot of my characters on antics I pulled when I was a kid (scary) and my children's. They think they've had some adventures, but have they ever taken a horse in the house? Noooooooo. . .I don't think so.

Anyway. . .back to the topic. I love writing humor. I'm an "eternal optomist" and always try and see the brighter side of things. I view life this way. . .either you can cry over the fact your toddler has just climbed onto the table and bathed himself with the brownie pie you slaved over all morning; or you can laugh over how ridiculous he looks. They're only little once.

I've dabbled some in the horror genre, I love reading it, but writing about vampires are a real "pain in the neck" for me. I also have a few inspirational stories "out there" too.

Here's what I have published so far:

2003-- A Battle of Wills published by Grace Abraham Publishing in the collection of Anthologies entitled Laughing and Learning: Adventures in Parenting
05/2005--"The Hero" published in the Write2theheart.com newsletter.
07/2005--"The 'To-Do' List" published in the Write2theheart.com newsletter.
08/2005-- Some Snowballs Dont Melt" to be published in the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover s Soul (estimated release 10/ 05).
08/2005--"Cinnamon Rolls!" published by Mommies' Magazine
01/2006--"Things that go Bump in the Night" published by Holiday Crafts 4 Kids
02/2006--"Honey, Where's the Instruction Booklet on this Kid?" accepted for the March 2006 issue of Sasee magazine

I forgot to mention, I also do freelance sports writing. (As you read this, beads of sweat pop out onto your brow, and your blood runs as cold as glacier water through your veins. "Awww!!!!!!!! Noooooo!!!!!!!! Grab the children and lock the doors." you yell, your heart pounding like a base drum, "she's also a reporter." LOL.)

Dave wrote: OK, if this is too personal, I'll understand though. What kind of renumeration did you receive for that story you had published in the chicken soup series? And do you still get payments, or was it a one-time lump sum?

No, it's not too personal at all. Chicken Soup paid me a one-time payment of $250. The rights to the story are still mine, and I can submit it elsewhere as long as I include the Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul publishing credit. I'm also considered a member of the Chicken Soup family, and receive perks. I really encourage you to submit to Chicken Soup. In the reguards to anthologies, the $250 is thought to be high pay; plus the corporation goes above and beyond to help you with whatever you need.

Thanks again!

Getting in Trouble

2006-07-13T07:16:00.000-05:00

I love writing, almost as much as my coffee, but it sometimes gets me in trouble. Like every writer, I sometimes experience "mental constipation," otherwise known as "writer's block". No matter how I struggle to get past the mental obstacle, nothing moves for me; then, sometimes it moves at the most inoppertune times.

On one occasion, during the middle of the night, I tossed and turned as my hubby lay beside me, sleeping like a baby. One day, I was so close to the end of a story I could smell it, then fate reared its ugly head and I was slapped with a horrible case of writer's block. To be so close yet so far away to completion was doubly frustrating. Then, in the middle of night, the ending to the story hit me like a ton of bricks.

"That's it!" I screeched, jumping out of the bed and racing down the hall to my office. I swiched the monitor and began typing frantically as if I were possessed.

"Is that what you were screeching about?" I turned and saw a disgruntled John leaning in the doorway, yawning and running his hand through his hair. "I thought the house was on fire. Almost killed myself getting out of the bed. Half-jokingly--as jovial as one can be after being jerked awake--John offered me the option of coming back to bed or I could get the computer out of a tree the next morning; I took the first choice.

Something I sometimes do when I write a fictional story, is "talk out" the conversation between my characters. It sounds strange, but it enables me to hear how it will sound in the text.

First tme I did it, John eyed my warily, and spent the rest of the afternoon asking me how I felt. I have to admit, if I saw him walking around outside talking to himself and gesturing with his hands, I'd think he was nuttier than a fruit cake. I filled him in eventually, after he pampered me most of the day. Wicked, huh?

I've learned not to talk out my conversations around strangers. Again, I was stuck in a story; I thought the conversation was too stilted and had no idea how to fix it.

Then, there in the frozen food aisle in Wal-Mart, I suddenly knew what I wanted the characters to say. I never thought to check to see if anyone was sharing the aisle with me, and happily began spouting off the conversation.. I turned and saw an elderly lady staring at me strangely. Before I got a chance to explain, she gave me a deer-in-the-headlight look, whipped her cart around, and took off faster than a NASCAR driver leaving the pit row.

She must have told management, because a minute later, I heard the announcement over the speaker, "Security, scan aisle 1." It was the same aisle I was on, and I was the only one on it. I guess they though I was going to rip open a bag of Ora Ida french fries, pour them on the floor, roll in them while sing Crazy by Patsy Cline.

Maybe I should keep my conversations to myself.

----------------------------------------------------------

I'm borrowing this idea from Ms. Vicki. Sometimes you just want to know more about a person; something they have yet to divulge. If there's a questionn you want to ask, go ahead. I'll post the answer in the next entry.

Extremely lucky and other ramblings

2006-07-11T07:58:00.001-05:00

I can't believe how lucky I am. I dodged a bullet. . .er. . .appearantly several bullets. Let me begin by saying I do not live in a high crime area, I live in the country.

According to my local news last night, two young men went on a shooting rampage in my town. They shoot at anyone and anything they saw; a sixty-eight year old woman was shot in the head.

Here's what makes my blood run cold. . . The night it happened, around 9 PM, the boys and I were outside. I heard the sound of car tires squealing, people shouting, and what I thought was fireworks popping, coming from the highway. Someone's celebrating the 4th late, I thought. At the time, I had no clue what it really was.

Any other night, I would have walked the entire length of my drive, which runs to the highway; that night, because the boys were outside, I stayed closer to the house. If I had been close to the highway that night. . .well. . .I would have bought the farm. Things definately happen for a reason.

On another note. . .

If you're looking for a great family movie, I strongly suggest Nanny McPhee. A cross between Lemony Snickett and Mary Poppins, the film teaches painless lessons on morality. I truly loved it.

Yet another random thought. . .

I see why snakes rub themselves silly over rough objects when they shed their skin; they're itching.
Like I said on an earlier post, I rarely burn, but since I did, and so badly--eight hours in the sun--I'm peeling and it's driving me bonkers. I'm perfecting my impression of a cow as I rub my back against anything I can find; my hubby too until he complained. Oh well, it prompted him to give me a good scratch. At that moment, if I would have been a dog, my leg would have thumped a hole in the floor.

Have a great one!

Rockport

2006-07-07T14:50:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned yesterday, we just returned from the coast, which is a 2.5 hour trip for us.

We had been planning a trip to the Texas coast for a month, and with the passing of each day, excitement built and overflowed like soda spewing out of a bottle. The night before we left, bags were packed and repacked, and the house was cleaned till it shone like a newly minted penny.

The Dopplar radar website predicted rain on the coast, but we weren't too concerned; as many people know, Texas weather is unpredictable and can change in a few minutes. Just to be safe, we checked Dopplar before heading out, and to our disappointment, the ran chances had increased. John wasn't ready to throw in the towel yet. "I'll call the hotel, maybe the website stats aren't current."

"Oh sure, ya'll come on," the front desk clerk chirped happily. "We're predicted to have rain, but the sun is shining and there's not a cloud in the sky."

I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off, grabbing last minute essentials (yep, grabbed the sunscreen)and barking orders to my children like a Whippet on steroids. Finally, we were off, the only thing missing from the overstuffed truck was "Grannie Clampett" perched on the roof, and the twangy sound of banjos resonating in out ears. (In other words we packed everything but the kitchen sink.)

The road to the coast seemed endless, and thankfully the kids slept most of the way. Gentle rolling hills were replaced by marshes and sea grass the closer we got to the beach; however, white clouds and sunshine were also replaced by clouds darker than a rustler's heart. Despite the threatening clouds, I let my giddiness overcome me, rolled down my window, and hung my head out like a dog, sucking in the sweet, salty air. I can't explain it, but the sea and the hills are alluring to me; they offer comfort like an old familiar friend. Anyway, back to what I was saying.. .

As we pulled into the small ocean side town of Rockport--where we were staying--, the heavens let loose their heavy load, and we were hit with blinding rain, and near hurricane force winds. "Ya'll come on, the sun is shining," John sneered, mimicking the desk clerk. "Hmph. Bet it was raining then," he grumbled. Rockport is like a second home to us, so luckily we knew our way around and soon came to our hotel.

Moments later, drenched like rats, we made it into the hotel room. "It could be worse, we could have not made it at all," I said, always the optomist. As the wind howled outside and the rain slammed against the window, the four of us were content to watch old movies and snack on popcorn I had brought along.

Before too long, the rain stopped as abruptly as it started, and the sun peeped from behind the clouds. We took a walk on the Rockport Beach, which has been classified as a Blue Wave Beach by the federal government, which means it's one of the cleanest beachs in the United States.

We had supper at the Big Fisherman. A former airplane hanger, this local eatery is legendary for their scrumptous seafood, friendly service, and VERY reasonable prices. How reasonable? I had the fish special, which consisted of a large cup of chicken noodle soup, SEVEN large fresh fish portions, a half cup of coleslaw, a HUGE baked potato with all the trimmings, and tea; the cost was $5.95, and I couldn't finish what was on my plate.

Our tummies bloated from the wonderful meal, we waddled to the truck and went to the local Starbucks. Of course, in classic Debbie style, something had to happen.

I don't know if it was the mouth-watering fragrance off freshly ground coffee, or he got his second wind, but the minute we walked into Starbucks, Robert went crazy. Like a load from a sawed-off shotgun, Robert raced around the coffee shop, yelling happily. Before I could stop him, he raced behind the counter. I was stopped by an indignant staff member who said, "Madam, you can't simply help yourself to the coffee back her; you have to pay first."

I gave the model-thin counter person a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look, and counted to ten before replying.
"I have no intentions of stealing coffee, but I do want to grab the child trying to work your drive-thru window." I replied cooly. I grabbed Robert, apologized for the trouble, ordered a banana-coconut frappachino, and joined John and Seth on the balcony to watch the sun set.

Our hotel room faced the water, and the next morning Seth and I walked out on a pier that stretched a half mile into the ocean. As the tangy ocean breeze gently caressed my cheeks, I became immersed in my thoughts as I stared out at the choppy, pea-green ocean. The ocean whispered tales of explorers sailing on her waves hundreds of years ago; the very same waters I was staring out into now. I felt myself getting emotional as I thought of the brave souls, sailing on the ocean for months. Then suddenly, the lookout in the crows' nest spots land, precious land! "Land ho!" he cries, scrambling down from his perch. "Land ho!"

The cry reverberates throughout the ship as the remaining crew members celebrate. At last their journey is over.

My journey ended that day too. Even as I stood on the pier, storm clouds were moving swiftly toward Rockport. We learned the tiny city had received 11 inches of rain in two days, and were going to get more.

We packed and headed back home, along with other vacationers. My heart grew heavy as I turned and watched Rockport grow smaller as we drove further away. I plan to return at the end of the month, and I know the town will still be there, waiting to share more of its secrets.

Sometimes you feel like a nut

2006-07-06T19:17:00.000-05:00

I hope everyone has had a great week and a wonderful 4th of July.

Well, I did it again. I gritted my teeth, turned off the monitor and took a little more R&R with my family; believe me, I needed it. With trying to meet deadlines, submit manuscripts, and tend to my family, I've jumpier than a maggot on a hot coal.

On Monday, I ventured out of my stale office to go to the pool with John and the boys. I assumed it was safe; I'd gone a whole week without an accident. I'm usually very organized, but when it comes to getting two children dressed, gathering things for a spur-of-the moment picnic, something it bound to get left behind, and it was, my sunscreen.

Finally, our truck was packed fuller than the Beverly Hillbillies, and we were off to the city pool. "Did you get everything?" John asked, his eyes never leaving the road. I checked the mental checklist I had stored in the dark, cobweb infested recesses of my mind.

"Uh. . ." I began, shifting like a scolded child, in my seat. "I forgot the spatula for the meat patties, and my sunscreen; but I did remember the boy's sunscreen," I added quickly.

John glanced at me briefly, rolling his eyes in exasperation before returnng his gaze to the road. Hmph. I don't know why he's so irritated; at least I didn't forget the children, I thought huffily.

"I guess we'd better stop at the store and get what we forgot," John grumbled.

"I didn't mean to--"

"I know you didn't mean to forgot, but it's a stop I didn't plan to make, time wasted, " he explained kindly.

Everything went fine until we arrived at the store. The boys and I, pushing the cart, strolled casually behind John as we walked up and down the endless grocery aisles. Inevitably, John saw someone he knew, and that's when everything fell to pieces. Like a mule stopping in it's tracks, John stopped abruptly causing a chain reaction.

Robert plowed into the back of his daddy, dropping his sippy cup. "My sippy!" he screeched, bending over to get it. His outburst caught John off-guard, and John stepped backward, almost stepping on the delicate toddler hand.

Watching toddler and hubby, and not looking where I was going, I ran over the back of Seth's sandeled heel with the shopping cart. Seth howled like a tortured wolf, and every person in the aisle. With a tense smile plastered on his face, Joh scooped Robert up and deposited him in the cart. "Do you always have this kind of drama at the store?"

"No. Just since you're here." I repled sweetly.

Before we left the store, hubby asked if I needed to buy sunscreen. "No. I never burn, just tan." Yeah right. We stayed out in the sun for eight hours. The next morning I felt like a walking shelled Spanish peanut with eyeballs.

Just got back from the beach, so I'll share that adventure tomorrow.

Selective Listening

2006-07-02T14:01:00.000-05:00

My son oldest son has selective listening. It started when he was a toddler, and got progessively worse as he aged.

With selective listening, some words can't be used together. The words "clean" and "room" can be heard, but when used together in a sentence coupled with the word "your," he suddenly has an attack of SLS.

It also gives the "sufferer" almost super human hearing. Seth can hear the soft pft of a soda open or the crinkle of a candy wrapper all the way across the house. The foam on a freshly poured glass of cola has not yet disappeared before Seth is at my elbow wanting to share the sweet velvety goodness of the coveted drink.

Several years ago, John, I, and then four, Seth, were on our way to St. Louis, Missouri, and had a layover in Houston. As we walked casually though the airport, enjoying the mall-like atmosphere, we passed a terminal where a smiling attendant annunced, "Boarding now for Mexico. . ."

The three of us had been to Cancun earlier that summer and loved it; appearantly Seth was ready to go back. Quicker than a bug being chased by a bird, Seth jerked away from me, raced pass the attendant, through the long hall, up the ramp, and into the plane, with me in hot pursuit. I dodged passengers weilding heavy bags over their heads as I cornered my runaway at the rear of the plane. He braced his legs like a stubborn mule mule and yelled, "No! I'm not going with you! I want my Daddy!" I felt a vise-like grip on my arm and turned to face a male flight attendant.

"Is there a problem madam?" he asked, his voice dipping venom.

"I have an explanation--"

"You'd better talk fast before I call security."

Near tears, I told my pathetic story; luckily my son looks like me, and my story was so ridiculous it was totally believable. The not very amused male attendant escorted me and a bawling Seth off the plane. I shudder as I think what would happen to me if that same incident happened now.

The selective listening is contagious; it's passing on to my toddler and driving me nuts. My mother swears it's genetic, I had it too.

Through a Child's Eyes

2006-06-30T19:02:00.000-05:00

“Seth, get dressed so we can go to the store.” He flashed me a look that would freeze hell over, and I got the impression he would rather kiss a toad then to be seen anywhere with me. In his teenaged mind, I was “dumb as a stump” and “uncool”; a real embarressment for him.

“Why?” Seth drawled, never taking his eyes off the television. “I’m happy right here.” That child is going to drive me to the funny farm, I thought, gritting my teeth.

“Get dressed . . . now.”

“But my show is coming on in a few minutes. Why do I have to go with you anyway? I’m not a baby anymore.” I counted to ten before I responded. I felt, and I knew I looked, like a spooked cat on a caffeine high.

“Okay Seth . . . here’s the deal. You don’t have to go to the store with me. But,” I said, holding up my hand to stop his premature celebration. “You have to stay with your grandmother while I’m gone.”

“A babysitter? I don’t need Granny to watch me,” he yelped.

I gave him a look that would make a hardened criminal cringe. His defiance melted like a popsicle on hot concrete. “Okay, okay. I’ll get dressed and go to Granny’s house,” he mumbled as he skulked off to his room.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. This is definitely going to be an aspirin popping, soaking in a bubble bath day. A gentle tug on my sleeve interrupted my thoughts.

“I . . .I go? I go in the Dodge,” my toddler, Robert, asked.

“Of course you’re going. I couldn’t leave my big helper behind.”

A few minutes later, a sullen-looking Seth emerged from his bedroom. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine today,” I said putting my arm around him as we walked out the door.

“Don’t touch me! I don’t like people touching me.” Seth jerked away and walked into the garage, re-appearing a few minutes later pushing his bicycle.

“Are you going to ride your bike to Granny’s?” Jonathan ignored me as he straddled his bike and raised the kickstand. “You certainly have a pretty day for a bike ride,” I called to him.

“Whatever,” he yelled as he embarked on the mile-long trek to his grandmother’s house. Argh! That boy has the attitude of a badger, I thought, shaking my head sadly as Seth pedaled away.

Robert knocked on the door of the truck with his small fist. “Hello Dodge. I ready to go now.” I opened the door of the truck and smiled as Robert climbed in and got into the
car seat by himself. He was always eager to go places; each trip was a new adventure for him.

At the store, Robert sat in the shopping basket and occasionally yelled “Hey! I love you,” to other shoppers. Some people smiled and talked to him; others scurried away like frightened birds.

One woman, with a face like a bull terrier, sneered at his sweet remarks as she breezed past. “Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady?” my observant little wonder asked. I was hurt someone could be so cruel to a child.

“Oh her. She’s been sucking on a lemon.”

Contented with my answer, Robert played with the colorful cereal boxes in the cart , and chattered happily to other shoppers. Later, we encountered the unpleasant woman in the dairy section. As we approached, she gave us a look that could curdle the nearby milk. With a disdainful sniff, she turned back and studied a display of butter.

“Hey lady,” Robert called. Oh dear Lord, please don’t let her turn around and look at us. To my relief, she ignored us. Undaunted, Robert continued to call to her.

“Hey lady. Have you been eating lemons? My mommy says you have.” Horrified, I whipped my basket around and raced away like a scalded cat. I spent the rest of the time glancing nervously behind me and around every aisle. I just knew the unpleasant woman was hiding behind a display, waiting to pound me senseless. I could just imagine the newspaper headlines the next day: LOCAL WOMAN AND TODDLER DONE IN BY A CAN OF CREAM CORN.

Finally, our arduous task complete, my little charmer and I paid for our groceries and headed home. After everything was put away, and Robert was given a snack, I sank into my favorite chair. I sighed as it enveloped me in its soothing velvety embrace. I had just closed my eyes when a small hand touched my knee. I opened my eyes and found myself staring into the sky-blue eyes of Robert.

“Wanna go outside?”

“No baby. It’s too hot.” That was an understatement; it was like a sauna outdoors.

“I wanna go outside?” Robert asked, this time a little more insistent. I saw tears gathering in his eyes. The clouds outdoors were rain-laden, but the storm clouds gathering over Robert’s head were even more ominous. I eased myself out of the chair and started toward the door.

“Okay buddy, but just for a little while.”

Robert shrieked in delight and bolted out the door. The storm clouds were disappearing, the late afternoon sun shone gently upon us. I was oblivious to everything as I sat on the porch and pouted like a spoiled child. I am so tired. Doesn’t Robert realize that?

“Hey! Look at the bird.” Robert shouted, pointing at the afternoon sky. Above soared a red tailed hawk. Its cry echoed in the stillness as it circled overhead; for a brief moment, my soul took wings and I soared with him, dipping and swaying in the evening breeze, dancing the ageless dance of wisdom and majesty. I watched the hawk until I could see it no longer.

Robert hopped around excitedly. “Hey! What’s that?” He pointed at the setting sun framed by billowy clouds. The sun’s rays caused the outer edges of the clouds to glow like polished crystal. Hmm. There really are clouds with silver linings, I mused.

“Those are clouds, Robert. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Yeah, pretty.”

The wind picked up, and Robert turned and faced straight into it, smiling blissfully. I remembered the previous summer when a delighted Robert raced down the beach into the stiff ocean breeze. He ran with his arms thrown over his head in reckless abandon, chasing the curious seagulls congregated on the shore.
Robert truly enjoys everything life has to offer. When did I stop? I wondered. Soon a sweaty Seth came pedaling up the drive.

“What are you doing out here?” Jonathan asked, riding his bike towards the porch.

“Hi Seth. Did you see the wonderful sunset?”

“No,” he grumbled. “I was too busy picking my nose.” At that moment, Robert squealed in delight and dropped to his knees. Like an inchworm, he scooted across the porch, trailing behind a bug he had found.

I realized I should face life with the same delight and enthusiasm as Robert did. He saw every day as a new adventure, and wasn’t ashamed to show love and compassion. I was ashamed of all the times I had been too busy “picking my nose” to enjoy the little things in life, too busy to tell people how I felt about them. I grabbed Robert and squeezed him tight.

“Thank you, baby.” I said, choking back a sob.

“Welcome,” Robert grunted. He struggled out of my arms and went in search of his new bug friend.

“What are you thanking him for?” Seth grumbled.

“For teaching me how to enjoy the little things in life.” I watched as Robert again ran headlong into the wind. I would forever be grateful to him for showing me the world through a child’s eyes.

Open mouth, insert foot.

2006-06-28T13:25:00.000-05:00

In conversations, I sometimes use the wrong word in sentences. One crisp autumn day, when I was a freshman in high school, my drama teacher gave me wonderful news. During the last class of the day--which was English with my drama teacher--time passed as slowly as molasses on a cold day. I fidgeted in my seat, chewing fretfully on my pencil and trying to focus on the worksheet in front of me.

The dismissal bell buzzed like a horde of angry bees, and my classmates and I bolted toward the doors like a stampede of crazed cattle, me being the heifer in the lead.

The bus ride home was torture, and I unconsciously pushed against the back of the cracked and peeling seat in front of me, willing the bus to go faster. My best friend sat beside me and chattered happily, but she might as well have been talking to a brick wall; my mind was on getting home and sharing the incredible news with my parents. Soon, we reached my driveway, and I barely waited for the bus to stop before I charged down the aisle, off the bus, and down the shady tree-lined drive to my house. I swept into the front door with the force of a twister, threw down my books, and in a grand theatrical style, announced to my parents--who were in the living room--"Guess what?"

"What?" Daddy asked, taking a sip from his coffee cup and not bothering to look up from his paper.

"I'm a member of the lesbian society!"

Daddy's eyes bugged out like a bullfrog's and he blanched beneath his swarthy complextion as he choked and spewed coffee all over his newspaper.

"You're WHAT?" he spluttered.

I crindged in my Reeboks and took a step backward towards the door. Maybe this wasn't good news after all. I thought people liked actresses.

Mama laughed until tears came to her eyes. "No baby, you must mean THESPIAN SOCIETY."

"Yeah, that's it. What's the diff?" Mama took me aside and told me the difference. I blushed when I realized my mistake. Most people learn from their mistakes, but not me.

Years passed without incident until a few weeks before I married John. In the required interview before the ceremony, the priest asked me if I truly loved John. "Oh yes, I'm deeply in lust with him," I babbled happily. My response got me a discrete jab in the ribs from John, and a raised eyebrow from the priest. But wait. . .it gets better.

After my car accident several years ago, Mama stayed with us after I was released from the hospital. I don't like to take anything stronger than an tylenol, but because of my severe pain, I was forced to take a painkiller strong enough to knock a horse off it's feet. On afternoon was particularly trying for the family; I had a follow-up with the doctor, and John picked up his C-PAP for his sleep apnea. As soon as we got back home, I took a painkiller; I felt like someone was jabbing me with a hot poker all over my body. I turned on the TV, and collapsed on the couch while Mama sat in the rocking chair nearby.. The pill took affect immediately, and dimly I was aware of my mom groaning in the chair. Even in my condition I was alarmed.

"Are you okay?" I asked her groggily.

"Yes baby. Just having ANGINA pains."

"John, what are you doing?" I called.

"Just putting together my C-PAP, why?"

"Cause Mama is having VAGINA pains and might have to go to the ER. Mom," I slurred, feeling sleepier by the minute, "John is putting his PAP-SMEAR machine together. He'll take you to the ER if you need to go."

I was alarmed when I heard Mama laughing, not just a guffaw, but a side-splitter. "Oh baby, you've got that all wrong," she gasped. When she was composed, Mama told me what I said. "Need to watch the words you use, hon." she said.

As the years go by, I'm better about choosing my words and paying attention to what I say. It requires little effort on my part, but I prefer a keyboard and a monitor any day; at least I can press "delete" when I use the wrong word.

My burial

2006-06-27T18:42:00.000-05:00

Thunder crashed in the distance, and I glanced briefly at the sky before returning to my task. Dark clouds, drooping as low as a pregnant cow's belly, hung overhead, threating to release a torrent of rain at an time. Lightning flickered menacingly within the clouds, as if impatient to unleash it's fury on the sun-baked earth. The wind carressed my sweaty ckeek, carrying the message of rain to my nostrils.

Darn it, I'll have to hurry,I thought, struggling with the heavy shovel. I looked at the slendar box near my feet, and felt some of my resolve return. The contents of the box was hideous, and I intended to bury it deep within the dark musty confines of the earth, never to be troubled by it again. As my muscles and joints groaned in protest, I wished for the hundredth time I had been blessed with muscles like "Rosie the Rivoter."

"All. . .most. . .done." I grunted, tossing the last shoveful of dirt aside. Wiping my hands on my grundgy shorts, I knelt in the dirt, picked up the box and dropped it into the hole I had labored over. Nature couldn't wait until I was finished, and tiny raindrops fell swiftly, stinging my face like thousands of knitting needles. I sighed as I watched the pile of dirt beside hole begin to resemble a mound of oozing melted chocolate. This would definately make my task harder. "Oh well, no rest for the weary," I said, shoveling a small mound of damp earth into the hole; at that moment, my small hole seemed like a gaping abyss to me.

Rain saturated my hair and ran in rivlets down my face, stinging my eyes; still, I shoveled on like a woman possessed. I had to rid myself of the "albatoss" hanging around my neck for as long as I could remember. In a few minutes the hole was filled. "Done and done," I said happily, give the mound of earth a final pat with the shovel. I whirled around and came fact to face with John. "Wh-what are you doing here?" I asked, alarmed. I was so intent on my task I didn't hear the crunch of wheels in the drive when John arrived.

"Watching you. What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Burying something."

"That's obvious. Where are the kids?"

Judging from the oh-my-gosh-what-has-she-done look on his face, I knew I had better put John's mind at ease.

"They're in the house watching cartoons."

"Oh. Whatcha burying?"

"Me to know and you to find out," I said mischievously as we walked to the house. It drove John crazy the rest of the night.

"You're not doing some voodoo curse, are you?" he asked a few hours later as we were watching a movie. I went ahead and put him out of his misery; I knew he would wart me to death until I told him.

And now, my dear friends , I'll tell you.

The outside of the box is plain, devoid of any markings. Open the box and you find nothing. . .not in the physical sense at least. You see, I took everything that has haunted me and put it in the box, all my distrust, self-doubt, and grudges, and buuried them deep both in the physical and emotional sense.

What we need

2006-06-25T20:31:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Nankin's blog.

The world is a large pot of stew; each nationality, culture, race and religion being the key ingredient. There's two vital seasons miss though, respect and compassion.

I was taught at a very young age to show respect for my fellow human. "I don't care if it's a homeless person," Daddy said, "you still show them the respect you would give the president." Once I made the mistake of talking to someone on the ground while I sat on my horse. Daddy saw me and was irrtated. Waiting until the conversation was over, he walked over and lectured me. "Never talk to someone afoot while you're on horseback. Aways dismount and talk to them."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you're looking down on them. Where do you think 'get down off your high horse came from?" Daddy was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He was always the first to rise when a lady entered the room, and the old, cattle-stomped, Stetson was hastily whipped of his head when he talked to women. I never understood, until recently why the women grinned broadly when performed such simple acts.

A few months ago I was at a cattleman's show when John introduced me to a couple of Texas Rangers (lawmen) he knew. As like my dad, Stetsons where hastily whipped off in my presence, and the two men smiled broadly and looked me in the eye as they spoke softly to me. Happiness engulfed me like a blanket, and I frantically filed that moment away in my mind. You see, they had made me feel like a lady with their once simple act.

On the way home, I thought of how things had changed. When I was younger, motorists greated each other with a smile and a wave as they passed, even if they didn't know each other. Not know. A friend of mine, a few months ago, smiled and waved at a passing motorist. Astonished, she looked in her rearview mirror and saw the other motorist whip around and stat following her. Afraid for her lifr, she pulled into the well-lit parking lot of a gas station. The other motorist, a male, approached and banged angrily on her window.

"Who do you think you are b*tch? I don't know you! Don't you EVER wave at me again!" The idiot got in his car and drove off, leaving my distraught friend in the parking lot.

I've had my share of the finger, and doors slammed in my face by people walking into a building in front of me, but nothing like that.

Today, I was at the local gas station buying drinks. (Sodas). I had a brace on my right badly spained wrist, and my left hand was bandaged. BTW, I cut my hand today on a can of pineapple. Don't tell me you're surprised!

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man standing behind me. I bet he wants me to get out of the way. As I struggled with the bag, the man behind me said, "Here, let me help you with that." He smiled broadly as he helped me with the drinks. Maybe compassion is still around, maybe they're just slumbering; I hope they wake up, soon.

Shutting 'er Down

2006-06-22T11:13:00.000-05:00

I had a post almost completed when suddenly the monitor went black. My computer was eerily quiet. "No! This can't be happening!" I screeched. My heart racing like a car stuck in neutral, I pressed the 'on' button of the computer, hoping to hear the soothing whirl of the computer's fan as it started up; I heard nothing.

My stomach did flip-flops as I thought of all the story files on my crashed hard drive, months of work was now destroyed. Like a big baby, I cried.

"What's wrong Mama?" Seth asked. He had been poking around in my room as I typed.

"The computer is broken."

"No it isn't."

"It isn't? How do you know?"

"I unplugged it from behind your bed. I needed the outlet. What me to plug it back in?"

At that moment, I didn't know whether to hug him, or pinch him. "It would be advisable," I said wryly.

He nodded, plugged it in, and the computer came on. I depend on my computer, perhaps more than I should. I was horrified on my last week long trip to New Orleans (before Katrina) that I had to use a pen and paper to work on a story; even more horrifying was my handwriting, not even a doctor could have read it.

I never realized how dependant my children was upon electronics until yesterday. My toddler asked me to read a book, and I agreed. I expected for him to hand me a book, and was surprised when he tried to ram a CD-ROM of toddler stories into my mouth.

So today, I'm going to take the advice of Melissa, turn of the computer, and spend time with the kids the old fashioned way.

------------------------------------------------
Whew, so glad to know this. Glad I'm not a puppy or anything else.

You Are A Woman!

Congratulations, you've made it to adulthood.

You're emotionally mature, responsible, and unlikely to act out.

You accept that life is hard - and do your best to keep things upbeat.

This makes you the perfect girlfriend... or even wife!

Are You A Girl Or a Woman?

Whose law is it?

2006-06-19T14:23:00.000-05:00

The first Friday in June was the 2nd, but for me it might as well had been Friday the 13th. It started off early that morning as I sniffed the air like a hungry wolf. The aroma of last night's pasta sauce still lingered in the air, but it wasn't the smell I longed for; it wasn't the smell of fresh brewed coffee. "No, no, no. This can't be happening," I mumbled as I slipped on my fuzzy bear house shoes and trudged down the hall to the kitchen. Yawning I walked over to the counter where the coffee maker sat. The pot sat, obviously freshly washed, on the base of coffeemaker, a mug sat on the counter nearby, a note propped against it.

Hey honey, there wasn't enough coffee for two people, so I drank it
Hope you don't mind.

Love,
John

"Mind? Of course I mind." I growled. At that moment, I would have happily sold my first born for a steaming cup of java. The solemn chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall reminded me I only had an hour to get the kids dressed, get breakfast, and get Seth to 4H day camp.

Never enough time in the day, I'm always rushing somewhere. "Seth, get up!" I called, striding down the hall. I would have had more success trying to bring FRANKENSTEIN to life; there wasn't a peep from either one of my children.

I thought it would save time if I got ready first, and raced off to my bedroom. I have hardwood floors in my house, and when they're regulary waxed, they're as slick as ice and a hazard. I didn't see the small silver metal disc on the floor of my bedroom, stepped on it, flapping my arms like a giant heron as I went skidding across the room. Pictures on the wall shook on their hangers as I hit the floor with a thud and slammed into my dresser. I lay on my back and closed my eyes; every muscle in my body ached, and my head pounded as if the entire cast of River Dance were tap-dancing inside my head.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, and looked at my surroundings. A wedding picture hung askew near the doorway, and a couple of books had fallen off the dresser and lay on the floor near me. Every joint in my body screamed in protest as I sat up. My right wrist was swollen and hurt like a toothache.

"Mama, are you okay?" Seth asked, walking into the room.

Having no coffee and being in pain was taking it's toll on me. "No, I always look like I've been sucking on an onion. What do you think?" I snapped.

"Just asking."

"I'm sorry baby, it's my wrist. . .I sprained it." Ever the attentive helper, Seth helped me ice my wrist and put an old brace of mine on it when the swelling went down.

After I took him to 4H, the day got worse. The toddler dropped a piece of candy into my hair, which stuck, he spilled his bowl of spaghetti on my shorts, at which time I looked at the clock and saw it was past time to picked up Seth at camp.

I sighed and ran my fingers through my sticky hair. "No time to change. I never get out and no one I know ever sees me." Yeah right. I grabbed Robert and ran to the GMC, only to find the air conditioning had gone out.

"I'm hot, Mama," Robert whined as we set off.

"Okay baby. I'll roll down the windows and you'll get cooled off."

Time was the enemy as I turned onto a county road and accelerated. It won't hurt to speed a little on this road. No cops ever patrol it. Yeah right. As I topped the hill, I saw him at the bottom; a deputy on the side of the road, obviously working radar. As I drew nearer, he flicked his overhead lights on.

I was at the point of tears now. I HAD been speeding, but a ticket today was the icing on my rancid and molding emotional cake. I pulled over, and taking a deep breath, got the license and insurance ready.

I looked in the rearview mirror and felt my stomach flip-flop as I watched the deputy approach my car. I pressed my knuckles against my mouth, stifling an exasperated shriek.

The deputy approaching knew me well, I had worked with him years ago.

"Madam, I need to see your driver's li--." the deputy stopped in midsentance when he saw my face. " Holy crap, Deb! Is that you?" Mutely, I nodded my head, tears threatening to spill over at any time. "Long time no see girl."

I managed a watery smile, but remained silent.

"What have you been doing? Is this toddler your baby? No offense, but you look like crap."

The last comment was the one that burst my emotional dam. Between sobs, I told him about my horrible day.

I could tell he was trying not to laugh, but merriment danced in his emerald-colored eyes. "You've had a hell of a day," he said. Groaning, he straightened and turned to walk away. "See ya later," he called, getting into his patrol car.

I sat, baking and stunned in the oven-like GMC. The deputy pulled beside me and rolled down his window. "By the way girl, you were traveling 55 in a 40. Keep the speed down."

For once something has gone right, I thought.

When Murphy wrote his law, he had me in mind.

Parking

2006-06-14T20:34:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I thought of this, but when I did, I got the giggles and had to share.

This has got to be the most boring ride home I've ever been on, I thought, sulking against the cool window of the church van as we zipped down highway. For what seemed like the hundredth time, I pressed my nose against the window and squinted my eyes, trying to see some resemblance of scenery in the inky darkness. Not even a loose cow on the side of the road. That would cause some excitement. I heart pounded as I saw the scene unfold in my head.

"Look out! Cow!" someone in the van would scream. The yelling would upset the driver, who would loose control of the bus, we'd hit a light pole and--

Never mind, we don't need that much excitement, I shuddered.

"Psst. Hey Deb, are you asleep?"

I turned in my seat and stared at my friend Carmen. She and I were sophomores at the same high school, went to the same church, and now was returning home with the rest of the church youth group from the skating runk in a nearby town.

"Are you kidding?" I quipped. "I'm too bored to sleep."

"Yeah, me too. Tell me," she asked, scooting closer, "have you and Danny ever parked?"

Danny was my new boyfriend who conviently lived in the town we had just skated in. I indulged myself briefly as I closed my eyes and thought of his sapphire-colored eyes, dark hair, and chisled features.

"Are you kidding!" I yelped, "I'm not going to talk about parking in a church van. You gotta be cr--"

"I thought I told you kids to keep your voices down," the youth director barked from the front seat.

I made a face at youth director, but lowered my voice. "As I was saying, you gotta be crazy. It's none of your business anyway," I hissed.

"Don't get all rowdy," Carmen cooed. "I was just thinking with someone as hot as Danny, you'd--"

"Church functions are not the place to discuss this," I said firmly. I envisioned God hurtling a lightning bolt from the heavens and smiting me where I sat.

"What's the big deal about parking?" a voice behind me yawned. Carmen's sister, Gabriella, poked her head over the back of our seat. Gabby was two years younger than Carmen and I, but we both had mischievous souls and I loved her my own kid sister.

"Oh Gabby, what do you know about parking? You're just a child," Carmen said, waving her hand dismissively.

"I know a lot. I park all the time."

"Oh you do, do you dear sister? Then pray tell us with who."

"Dad."

"No you don't. How dare you spread lies like that!"

I stared in disbelief at the sisters. There was definately a dark side to their dad that no one knew about.

"Uh huh. We park all the time, everytime we're together. We go to Target and park, Wal-Mart and park, the chicken place and park, to church and park."

"Even at church?" I gasped.

"Yep. I park all the time with my mom too, even parked with Carmen before."

It hit Carmen and I at the same time about what Gabby meant. Despite the warnings of the youth director, Carmen and I both burst into gales of laughter.

"Oh, Gabby," Carmen gasped, "do you know what "parking" means?"

"Yeah. It's whenever you're driving, you stop the car and put it in park."

"No. The kind of "parking" we're talking about is when you make out with a guy."

"I definately don't do that," Gabby said indignantly. "I going back to sleep."

Carmen and I giggled the rest of the way home.

Oh the joys of youth. How I miss it sometimes.

When can I drive?

2006-06-13T10:12:00.000-05:00

"Hey Mama, guess what?" my oldest, Seth asked as he helped me in the kitchen last night.

"What?"

"Sunday is going to be special, know why?"

"Of course, it's Father's Day," I muttered as I stirred a boiling pot of pasta on the stove.

"Is that the only reason you can think of?" Seth screeched, setting a glass on the table with a loud thump.

"Only thing that comes to mind right now," I said turning away to conceal the grin on my face. I knew very well what Sunday was, it was his birthday. I have a mischievous soul, and was thoroughly enjoying his indignation.

"I was born on that day! You know, the 18th?" Seth shook his head and set the table. Ocacasionally I heard him mutter "loose screw" and "must be senile."

Thinking it best to "fess up" before he made reservations for me at the nearest old folk's home, I said wryly, "I know, I think I was there." I had the C-section scar to prove it. I really hate to think I had myself cut open for funnsies.

He turned and studied me critically, as if to judge my mental capabilities before returning to his task. "That was cruel." A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Aww, come on 'shorty'. I have to have some fun with you." Calling him "shorty" was the furtherest thing from the truth. I stand a hair under 5'7", and at 13, Seth is already eye-level with me.

Seth poked back playfully. "Who are you calling 'shorty', 'shorty'?" We played for a few minutes before turning back to our duties. A few minutes later, Seth walked over to the sink where I was draining the pasta, and cleared his throat.

"Something on your mind, or are you getting sick?"

"I was wondering. . ." Seth said thoughtfully as he traced a pattern on the counter with his finger.

"Wondering what?" I asked, bending over to get another pot out of the bottom cabinet. Not finding what I wanted, I dropped to my knees and stuck my head into the dark cavernous cabinet.

"If I can have a car," Seth blurted.

The shock of his words made me forget where I was, and I jerked my head up, hitting the roof of the cabinet with a resounding thwack. Colorful stars danced merrily in front of my eyes as I sat on the floor and cradled my aching head in my hands.

"Did you just say you wanted a car?"

Seth nodded his head excitedly. "Yeah. The way I see it, is I'll be sixteen in two more years. If you get me a car now, I'll have two years to practice driving it before driver's ed. Then I can breeze though driver's ed and get my license."

I shook my head vigorously. He can't even drive a golf cart without scaring me to death. How does he expect me to let him drive a car?

"Mama please, just hear me out. I can run errands for you after I get my license, I can take Robert to school everyday."

I felt like there was a rock quarry in my stomach when I thought of my both my children in the car together. More than likely, Seth will inhert my lead foot. I had visions of Robert clutching the dashboard in fright as his brother zipped in and out of traffic. I shook my head harder.

"Well when can I have a car?" Seth whined.

Not as long as there's breath left in my body, I wanted to say. I rose unsteadily to my feet and draping my arm around his neck said, "Not until you're much older."

"But I'm not a baby anymore."

Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. There, on his upper lip, was the faint promise of a mustache. My "baby" was growing up, whether I wanted him to or not. I was powerless to slow the hands of time, time that was taking away my child and leaving me with a young man.

_____________________________________
UPDATE:

Thanks to everyone for all the warm wishes and prayers for the unknown toddler. Sadly, he passed away yesterday at the hospital.

A REQUEST

2006-06-10T23:04:00.000-05:00

Today a toddler disappeared from his family at at one of our river parks and was found later floating in the river. My husband, who is an ex-paramedic/ fireman, and others performed CPR on him until EMS arrived. They took him to the hospial in Austin, but the outlook is bleak; he wasn’t conscious when they left with him.

The little boy was just a baby, just a year older than my youngest. I have no clue who this family is, but I know they are in a torment I cannot, nor do I hope to while I'm alive, fathom. I'm torn up emtionally for this family. I can't get it out of my mind perhaps this morning the family was laughing and joking as they prepared for their day of fun on the river, now they may never see their baby alive again.

So tonight, I'm asking everyone who reads this to please say a prayer for a sweet innocent child.

Weekend CrAzInEsS

2006-06-10T13:37:00.001-05:00

It's the weekend (I know, duh!) and even though I should be working my hindparts off, I saw a meme on Perpetualchocoholic's blog and on GoofyJ's blog I just couldn't resist. So hey, it's the weekend, I'll give you 2 for 1.

The one on Goofyj's:

1. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your father’s side, your favorite candy)

Rosemary Whopper

2. YOUR “FLY GIRL/GUY” NAME: (first initial of first name followed by “izzle”, first two or three letters of your last name followed by “dizzle”): Dizzle Rodizzle

3. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal):Blue Horse

4. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your name- last 3 letters of mother’s maiden name, first 3 letters of your [former] pet’s name repeated twice): Deb-Lam Dew Dew [ Sounds like "Deb Lamb doo-doo"]

5. SUPERHERO NAME: (“The”, your favorite color, the automobile you drive):The Blue GMC

And on Perpetual's:
1. Full name? Debbie Ana Roppolo. (Yeah, yeah, it's Debra, but if anyone calls me that I'll give them such a pinch! Long story I'm saving for another day)

2.Were you named after anyone? The priestess in the Bible

3. Do you wish on stars? Yes, but Oprah still hasn't come through for me

.4. When did you last cry? This morning when I found out there was no coffee in the house. Seriously, at my uncle's funeral.

5. Do you like your handwriting? That depends. . .does it like me? If it doesn't then I'm going to get a complex and refuse to speak to it anymore.

6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Don't really have a favorite lunch meat. I do love tomatoes, avacado and mozarella on whole wheat though.

7. How many kids? 2 On somedays it feels more like 200 though.

8. Names and ages of kids: 40, 13, and 3. Oops, I included my hubby on that.

9.If you were another person, would you be friends with you? I don't know. I always end up getting mysel in trouble

10. Do you have a journal? Let me think. . .ah yeah!

11. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Every chance I get. If I don't either I'm sick or dead.

12. Would you bungee jump? If that's what it took to get a book published and the editor is smokin' hot.

13. What is your favorite cereal? coffee and a side of coffee. I don't eat cereal. I usually have a bagel with. . . you guessed it. . .coffee.

14. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? No

.15. Do you think that you are strong? I have to copy Perpetual here. . .only through

16. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Moolinium Crunch (by Blue Bell)

17.Shoe Size? 9.

18. Red or Pink? Really don't care much for either, but red I guess.

19. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? My nose. It's like a magnet; it attracts toddler's heads, walls, doors, and flying objects

20. Who do you miss most? My dad

22. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? Who says I wearing any? I'm wearing shorts and they're red, and my feet are bare.

23. Last thing you ate? Why? Is it the last thing I'm going to eat? salad

24. What are you listening to right now? I'm Everything You'll Ever Need by Trinere

25. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? "True blue"

26. Favorite Smells? homemade sauce simmering on the stove, fresh baked bread, the earth after a spring rain

27. Last person you talked to on the phone? my mommy

28. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? eyes and a great smile

29. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Of course!

30. Favorite Drink? Alcoholic--wine Non-alcoholic--It's a tie between sweet tea, coffee, and coca-cola

31. Favorite Sport to Watch? Horse racing and football.

32. Hair Color? Dark brown

33. Eye Color? hazel. They change with my moods and what I'm wearing. Blue--depressed
blueish gray-happy Brown--extremely ticked off and all should run for the hills to escape me

34. Do you wear contacts? Yes, untinted.

35. Favorite Food? Fajitas

36. Scary Movies or Happy Endings? Scary Movies

37. Last Movie You Watched? Cheaper by the Dozen 2

38. Favorite Day of the Year? Christmas

39. Summer or winter? Neither, Fall

40. Who do you hate in life? no one

41. Favorite Dessert? cheesecake

44. What books are you reading? Mama Makes Up Her Mind

45. What's On Your Mouse Pad? I don't use one. My mouse is wireless

46. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? The Sopranos

.47.Rolling Stones or Beatles? Neither

48. What's the furthest you've been from home? Mexico. I walked across the border the second time I went, and I thought they were going to keep me there. Story for another day

49. Do you have a special talent? I don't know about 'special," but I've been told I can charm the spots off a leopard when I feel like it.

50.Favorite quote? "You can do anything you put your mind to." -my dad

51. Your hero: my oldest son

What's Your Sign?

2006-06-09T12:56:00.000-05:00

I saw this link on Ms. Vickie's blog. Scary. . . a lot of it applies to me.

I am a Virgo, and here's a few things they say about me:

The Virgin
August 23 to September 23

Traditional Virgo Traits

Modest and shy (Shy? I don't think I have a shy bone in my body.)
Meticulous and reliable
Practical and diligent
Intelligent and analytical (Hee-he. Got it wrong about me there too. I'm pretty much a goofball)

On the dark side....

Fussy and a worrier
Overcritical and harsh
Perfectionist and conservative

Here's a couple of more unteresting tidbits:

"They are careful with money and their interest in statistics makes them excellent bookkeepers and accountants." (They've never seen my checkbook )

"They also make good editors, physicists and analytical chemists. They may also find success as welfare workers, ministering to those less fortunate than themselves. They can be doctors, nurses, psychologists, teachers, confidential secretaries, technologists, inspectors, musicians, critics, public speakers and writers especially of reference works such as dictionaries and encyclopedias."

(As clumsy as I am, would you really want to see me coming toward you with a scapal in my hand ? I might slip during surgery and accidentally remove the wrong thing. And handling chemicals. . .definately not a good idea.)

If you're curious about your sign, you can find the link here.

Have a wonderful weekend!

A danger to animals

2006-06-07T21:29:00.000-05:00

There are three species in this area that threatens the animal population; wolves, cougars, and me. I have a strange influence on my animals, it seems my personality and downfalls rubs off on them. I first noticed in high school with my horse, Sparkling Dewdrops. Dewdrop was a flashy palomino filly given to me by my dad before his death. "Treat her well, and you'll have a friend for life, a friend who'd kill herself to please you." Daddy said.

I wasn't to thrilled with the horse at first. Daddy had just sold Lightning, a palomino stallion I had raised from a foal. In my surly teenaged opinion, there was no other horse on the face of the earth thst could replace the muscular stallion. "She's no Lightning."

"I know she's not, and I know you miss that stallion; but you know we can't keep every horse born on this place." Daddy sighed. "Just give this filly a chance. She might surprise you."

Yeah right, I thought, walking around the palomino and eyeing her critically. She was tall and perfectly porportioned with a muscular rear end. She does look fast, I conceded. I took her head in my hands and stared into her large coffee-colored brown eyes. Maybe it was the hint of mischief that shone in her eyes. Perhaps it was the untamable fighting spirit she possessed that was similar to mine. Whatever it was, we connected.

I was the only one who she tolerated on her back, all other riders were thrown skyward. She a rebellious streak comperable to mine; you couldn't force either one of us to do something we didn't want to do.

Another animal victim was a a sorral filly I bought at a horse auction. After a few months of nursing her back to health, I trained her to the saddle. I still wasn't aware what affect I had on animals. A horse is a herd animal, and looks to the leader for guidance; I was the head of the herd in this filly's eyes.

On afternoon we were working cattle at my mom's house. I walked through a metal gate and jumped when it clanged shut behind me. I though my uncle was walking through behind me, and he would catch the gate. "Holy crap, that scared me!" I told my uncle. My filly was tied to a fence outside the corral and witnessed the whole thing. A little later, I led her to toward the corral. She broke into a sweat and pulled away frantically as we neared that gate.

"It's okay baby," I crooned. "Nothing is gonna get ya." I had no clue she was terrified of the gate now. Still resisting slightly, she allowed me to lead her to the gate. As we walked through, the gate tapped her on the rump.
She squealed and collapsed on the ground. My uncle and a couple of other men rushed to us. Uncle Frankie knelt in the dirt and examined her thoughtfully.

"Did she have a heart attack?" I sobbed.

"No," Uncle Frankie said. "She's still breathing." A couple of minutes later, the filly groaned, shook her head, and struggled to her feet. I put her in her stall for the rest of the day. A couple of days later, again we were walking through a gate when the gate tapped her on the rump. In shock I watched as the filly groaned and collapsed on the ground in a dead faint. A horse can't see directly behind them, so anything touching them in the rear area is a surprise. I believe to this day the filly saw my reaction when the gate startled me. In her mind, she saw the gate as a threat, so when it tapped her, she thought she was a goner.

And now to the present. . .

A dog is a graceful creature, right? Not in my case. The other day I watched as my Husky zipped up the drive toward me, his paws barely touching the ground. He looked like poetry in motion until. . .he tripped over a rock and fell flat on his face. *Sigh* Looks like I've rubbed of onto another animal.

Going crazy. . .wanna come?

2006-06-06T20:00:00.000-05:00

For me, going crazy is a short trip. During the past couple of days, Blogger has made my blogroll it's main entree. If this keeps up, I'm seriously thinking about moving my blog to another server. Any suggestions?

I've been extremely busy lately. My "plate" is not only full, it's over-flowing. In addition to writing, I've decided to take the html classes I refered to in early an earlier post. Web page building has always facinated me; it's like a puzzle waiting to be solved. I breezed through the first four lessons thinking, Wow, this is a piece of cake.
Then they sent me the last lesson.The final lesson has struck me like a small tornado, leaving me dazed and confused. I typed in the wrong thing somewhere in the lesson, messed the entire webpage up, and now I can't find the error. Argh!

Lastly, I've recently entered another branch of the entertainment industry. Though I'm extremely excited, I can't help but feel apprehensive. The "waters" are shark infested, and too murky for me to see into the future. Still, life is about taking chances, so I hold my breath and dive in feet-first, hoping for the best.

Have no clue what's going on.

2006-06-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

Again Blogger has decided to eat my links to your blogs. I went to my blog and they're gone. I'll try and get everyone's links posted again as soon as I can. I'm so sorry for this.

The mission

2006-06-04T22:07:00.000-05:00

Friday I was on a mission, to find and purchase Triaminic Chest and Nasal Congestion. Sounds easy, right? That's what I thought as I herded my two half-wild children into the Jimmy and set off toward town. "We'll be gone for a few minutes," I promised my pouting children. Yeah right, I should have known better. A late Friday afternoon in the Fall maybe, but in Summer at the beginning of tourist season; traffic would be horrble. Maybe I should go to the pharmacy by the house, iI thought, but the spell Wal-Mart had woven over me was to strong. Nah, ______pharmacy is so small, they probbly wouldn't have what I'm looking for. So off we went to Wal-Mart.

Cars were bumper-to-bumper , and we moved at a snail's pace once we entered the city limits. "I'm hot, I'm hungry." Robert whined, kicking at the back of my seat. Frustrated, I looked at my watch. It normally took me 5 minutes to get from my house to Wal-Mart; today it was taking 15.

I groaned inwardly when we arrived at our destination. The parking was a sea of cars in every shape and size. This is definately going to take a lot longer than I thought. I parked at the side parking lot of the store, plunked Robert in a shopping cart, and raced towards the yawning doors of the store. "Whee! We're playing NASCAR!" Robert yelled as we zipped across the parking lot

I felt like a female version of Indiana Jones as we dodged other shopping carts and bodies on our quest to obtain the coveted Triaminic; finally, we were there. It sat on the shelf in all its glory waiting for some sucker . . .er. . .shopper to find. I grabbed it and happily headed off to the checkout, my quest, I thought complete.

Look at the label, my intution whispered. "Crap!" The Triaminic was for chest congestion; Robert needed nasal decongestant also. I ran back to the pharmacy and spoke with my friend, Kay, working there. 'We don't carry that anymore because of the dopers; they get high off of it, so Triaminic no longer makes it."

Robert erupted into a fit of coughing as we walked away. My baby suffers because some idiot is looking for a cheap thrill, I fumed as I walked out of the store. I tried the local Walgreens and HEB, same story. That only left the pharmacy near my house. I looked at my watch. The pharmacy was all the way across town, it closed at 6, and it was now 5:45, with the rush hour traffic in full swing.

I still don't know how I did it, perhaps like the song, Jesus [took] the Wheel.

I took side streets and arrived at the pharmacy with three minutes to spare. "Stay in the Jimmy," I told the boys as slammed the truck into park and leaped out. For what I hoped was the last time that day, raced across a scorching parking lot. With unbelievable agility (for me) I hurdled the waist high brick wall that divided the pharmacy from the parking lot, and ran inside the cool dark building. (About time these long legs of mine decided to work.) They had the generic form of the Triaminic I had been looking for. If only I had followed my intuition, I wouldn't have been ready to collapse when I got home.

Ramblings

2006-06-02T14:29:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I over-extend myself, mentally and physically, and don't realize it until it's too late. The kids have finally recovered from strep and ear infections, but I'm a mess.

While the toddler was sick, I got a total of twenty-four hours of sleep the whole week. During that time, I found out Barney and Bob the Builder videos could be an effective interrogation tool for the police. Just lock the suspect in a room with either one of the vidoes, play it over and over for several hours, and by golly he/she will talk; either that of go totally insane. I watched Barney so much in that one week I could say the character's lines right along with them. When I told John goodbye one morning, I almost sang "I love you, you love me. . ."

Robert also loves the crooners, singers like Rosemary Clooney; he especially likes a song she sings entitled Hey Mambo. We listened to that one song over and over.

I became a night owl that week, staying up all night with a fussy toddler and shuffling through the next day like a mindless zombie. The third morning of our plague, I stood in the laundry room, tiredly shoveling a load of linens into the dryer. I pressed the start button, and. . .nothing. I pressed it again. . .nothing. What in the hairy heck is going on? The door is closed, the lint trap in, why isn't it running? I wondered. And what was that quiet humming noise. Finally it hit me like a ton of bricks. There was nothing wrong with the dryer, I had already turned it on, that's why the button wouldn't work. Duh!

One night that week, I felt a sharp jab in my ribs as I slept peacefully in my bed. "Stop it." John hissed in my ear.

"Stop what?" There'd better be a darned good reason why he's poking me, as in the house is on fire.

"Singing."

"Singing?" I stifled a yawn. "I wasn't singing."

"Yes you were. You were singing some insane Barney song. You know what?" he snorted, "You sound better when you sing in your sleep."

Smart a** , I thought.

Ah well. It's a glorious day today, and I plan to relax and celebrate it to the fullest. I need the break.

Have a great weekend!

Have you ever drank chocolate soy milk? I tried it earlier this week, and it's actually pretty good. Word to the wise though. . .if you ever spill any on your clothing, treat immediately with a stain lifter for clothing and wash. I learned that the hard way. Some dummy (me) didn't put the lid on the carton correctly, and when I shook it, soy milk went every where; all over my hair, face, clothes. It looked like a chocolate factory exploded in the kitchen.Wouldn't you know I was wearing white. I threw the shirt in the washing machine immediately, not bothering to pretreat, and the shirt is ruined.

Looking for a great free way to learn basic and advanced html. Webtech University offers free online lessons. Here's the address in case your interested.

Funny, I never imagined myself as this. What are you?

You Were a Cat

You are an independent person who inspires others with your dreams.
A calm protector, you will fight when you need to.

What Animal Were You In a Past Life?

Grief

2006-05-29T20:39:00.000-05:00

I'm a runner; not in the physical sense, but the emotional one. It started with the death of my father. A few months before Daddy was killed, we received the news early one Sunday morning my cousin, Alfredo, had been killed. "Fredo" was loved by everyone, especially me. He treated me like a kid sister, and let me tag along where ever he went. I was an emotional wreck. I cried all the way to church, through Sunday School, and the beginning of noon services. I was alarmed when Daddy grabbed me by the arm, whispered 'Let's go," and led me out of the church. I cringed in embarressment as everyone turned and stared as we made our exit. Three year-olds were escorted out of church, not fifteen year-olds.

Daddy sat on a bench on the front porch, crossed his arms and eyed me sternly. "Mind telling me what this is all about?"

"All what?"

'The boo-hooing."

I jerked my chin in the air and haughtingly stared down my nose. "Isn't it obvious?" I snapped. "I'm mourning for my cousin."

"No you're not. You're being selfish."

I reeled backwards from the sting of my dad's words. I bowed my head and mumbled, "How can you say that? I miss him. I--"

"Do you hear yourself? You keep saying 'I'. You're feeling sorry for yourself because "Fredo" isn't here; Fredo is in a much better place though, and you should try and be happy for him." Daddy rose from the bench, walked over and lifted my chin with his forefinger. I swallowed the large toad-sized lump in my throat and forced myself to look at him. Love and understanding radiated from his sapphire-colored eyes.

"Do me a favor. When my turn comes to leave this old world, don't make a fuss over me. Promise me. You see, I'll never be too far away from you, just as far away as your heart."

I remember how the sun shone off his raven black hair, how there was more gray hairs than I remembered, and there were more wrinkles in his dark skin. He didn't look old to me though; he looked like a Roman prince. Impulsively, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. "Oh Daddy, you'll be around forever."

"I certainly hope so," he said, kissing me gently on top of the head. It wasn't to be; in a few precious months, Daddy was gone, leaving behind a scared little girl in a teenager's body.

I don't remember crying the night of the accident. Instead I was like a cat in a cage; the very air I breathed seemed to strangle me, and my best friend at the time, Kay, sensed that. "Come on," she said, taking me by the arm, "let's get the hell out of here." We walked to the corral and saddled two horses; a flashy paint for Kay, and my trusty palomino, Dewdrop. I swear the horse sensed something was wrong; she stood patiently as I swung into the saddle, so unlike her "fire and brimstone" personality.

We had ridden for several miles across my daddy's land when we reached a lone hill overlooking my house. "You know, you gotta cry sometime. Might as well do it here where no one but I can see." I stared down at the house, people scurrying about outside like a mound of disrupted fire ants.

"No, not now," I said stoically, turning my horse around. "Let's ride away even farther." That began my pattern of dodging reality and building an emotional wall around me. For a long time I didn't want anyone new in my life. I was scared of emotional attachments and the repercussions I would face if new friends or loved ones passed away.

I ran away from death; I thought if I didn't acknowledge it, then somehow it wouldn't be true, my loved one would still be alive. Looking back on it now, I see how wrong I was.

You can't make someone alive by wishing it. No matter how your heart breaks, it's not fair to wish them back into the day to day torment they faced while they were earthbound; they're happy now, and they're there in Heaven, waiting for you when your time comes, and what a joyous reunion that will be. Until then, they remain only as far away as your heart. For me, I hear my father's laughter in the voice of my children, see his love of life shining in their eyes.

It's okay to cry. It's a normal healthy way to release emotional tension. As you know, repressed emotions lead to physical problems such as ulcers, strokes, heart attacks. ect. You should face your grief head on and try and work past it, I learned that the hard way. Sonetimes life gives you a one-two punch, it's your decision if you rock back on your heels, recover and punch back, or you allow yourseld to get knocked out. Punch back.

What's your opinion?

Conspiracy

2006-05-29T16:15:00.000-05:00

There is a conspiracy against me, I know there is. My oldest and the toddler has joined forces to drive me insane. Today, as I walked down the hall with the laundry, I heard the unmistakable sounds of childish whispering and giggling coming from their room. I glanced in and saw them seated on Seth's bed, their heads together in what appeared to be a very entertaining conversation. "Now this is what I like to see. No bickering, just two brothers enjoying each other." Like puppets on a string, their heads snapped up, and they turned to face me; the oldest looking like a "cat that swallowed the canary," the toddler sporting a look of comic indignation.

"Nothing to see. Move along," Seth said flippantly. I should have known something was going on. Though my boys love each other, they frequently fight like cats and dogs. Their first strike was this afternoon. Robert initiated the attack by spilling an entire bottle of soda on the floor, then doing his version of River Dance in it.

"So tell me, Mommy. What would you do if Robert was triplets?" Judging from the sneer on his face, it soon became clear he had made it his quest to see how far he could push me.

Probably hide on the roof or run away from home, I thought. Instead I smiled and said, "Deal with it one day at a time." Seth was disappointed in my answer, and poutingly turned back to his movie.

As I scrubbed the soda off the china cabinet, I had a vision of me perched on the roof, a fireman in a cherry-picker trying to convince me "everything would be okay.' After I inched my way down, they would wisk me off in a white jacket for a few sessions of elctro-shock therapy. "Yes," the neighbors would tell the media, shaking their head. "We always knew that biscuit wasn't completely baked."

We had a quiet Memorial Day. John bar-b-qued a brisket, and I for once, managed not to fall, trip or otherwise injure myself. How was yours?

What you may or may not want to know

2006-05-25T19:43:00.000-05:00

I got this from Nicole's blog. Happy Memorial Day!

1. What’s in the glove box of your car? Everything but the kitchen sink, and sometimes I wouldn't be surprised to see that in there. Registration, owner’s manual, insurance, a toy car, and peppermints

2. Favorite classes in university/high school? High school: Band, Jazz Band, Drama, Athletics
University: Anthropology—Other cultures facinate me. Athletics—that was my primary focus

3. Shampoo brand? Pantene or Thermasilk

4. Favorite piece of furniture you own?my bed—it has a built-in bookcase and lamp

5. Idea of a really good first date? Dinner at a dimly lit restaurant, seated at a corner table in the back of the building. Seated face to face and staring soulfullyinto each others eyes while saying nothing. Slow-dancing barefooted on the beach followed by a stroll in the moonlight.

6. Favorite fruit? grapes

7. Pick a passage from a favorite book: Love You Forever by Robert Munsch

"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
as long as I'm living
my baby you'll be."

8. What would you eat for dinner if it were your last night on earth? W-What? (glancing around nervously) do you know something I don’t? Last meal, huh? Fajitas with all the sides, nopalitos, sweet tea (gallons) my own homemade pasta, rolls, and my homemade fig cookies

9. Free Will or Destiny? I believe everything happens for a reason, but we have control, to some extent, in where and when it happens.

10. What would you sing at karaoke? Rock House (Paula Abdul) Hey, I have my wild side!

11. Sweater or Sweatshirt? sweatshirt

12. Paris, NYC, Tokyo, or Rio de Janeiro? None of them. I’d rather find myself on a sparkling white beach in the Carribean sipping on a margarita

13. What do you wear to bed usually? Why? Are people peeping in my window?. Women’s sleeping shorts (satin-type material)and a long over-sized softball shirt

14. If you dyed your hair, what colour would you dye it? My own hair color. . .dark brown

15. If you went back to school, what would you study? English—as in writing. I’d get my Masters.

16. Gum or mints? Mints. I pop my gum when I’m nervous, and it annoys the crap out of my friends.

17. Recurring nightmares? I keep dreaming I’m surrounded by rattlesnakes.

18. Age & location of first kiss? Six years old under the shrubs by the school. I was a real pistol back then.

19. Describe your favourite pair of shoes: My Nikes

20. What movie/tv character do you feel like you relate to most? Ellie Mae Clampett

21. First CD purchase? George Strait—I liked country then

22. First concert? Garth Brooks—I like all music really, but I’ve lost interest in country

23. Do you like camping? Definitely! Any chance I can.

24. If you were doomed to be mauled to death by an animal, what animal would you prefer that to be? My husband. That doesn't count? Okay. . .a cougar.

25. Do you/would you own a gun? I used to wear one on my hip for my job. Still own one.

26. What religion would you like to know more about? any and all

27. Favourite food as a kid? My grandmother’s potato salad

Can you tell my real age?

2006-05-24T13:52:00.000-05:00

I want to wish an early HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Dave, who sparked a memory for this post.

I never worried about the signs of aging until recently when my hubby informed me I was getting gray hair in the front of my head and laugh lines at the corner of my eyes. Dark hair shows gray so well, and I’m beginning to look like either “Storm” from the X-Men, or Peppy Le Peu from the Bugs Bunny Show.

I did try to color my hair with coffee several moths ago, but other than that, I’ve never drenched my face with high-dollar moisturizers and masks. The facial masks would only scare the children and my face is naturally oily; sometimes it’s so oily, I swear if I wrung it out like a dishrag, I could get enough oil to fry tater tots.

I do take care of myself by drinking enough water, exercising, and going naked in public. By saying I go “naked”, I mean I don’t wear makeup, my face is naked but the rest of me is fully clothed. Bet I made you do a double take though, huh?

When I go without makeup, I look years younger than what I really am. A few years ago, when I was twenty-nine, I worked my way through college as a substitute teacher for my local school district. I was always overjoyed when I got a call to be a substitute coach. PE was in my field of expertise, and I felt alive when I stepped foot onto the gym floor. Let’s be honest too; I could wear shorts and Nikes all day, and no makeup, which was an added bonus for my free-spirited heart.

On one occasion, I was to substitute as a coach at the high school for half a day in the afternoon. I was ecstatic. I had the whole morning to run errands and the rest of the day would be spent doing what I loved.

I showed up a couple of hours early, and headed to my favorite sanctuary, the library. The dismissal bell ending the subject period had just rung when I walked through the massive steel doors of the high school, and the cool dimly lit hallways was a beehive of activity as students bustled from their lockers to their next class. I paused to look at the collogue of colorful photos adorning the pale white walls, and startled slightly when the tardy bell rang. The now silent halls were a startling contrast to the bedlam occurring just a couple of minutes earlier. The only people left was I and a tall, rather distinguished gentleman standing nearby. That must by either the principal or vice principal. I’ll introduce myself in a minute, I thought before turning my attention back to the wall.

“Get to class!” a deep baritone voice said behind me. Startled, I turned and came face to face with the distinguished gentleman.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked.

“Whom else would I be talking too?” he barked. “Now get to class.”

They don’t pay me enough to take this type of abuse, I thought hotly. I lifted my chin and took a don’t-mess-with-me stance. “No, I don’t think so.” I said, tapping at my Mickey Mouse watch. ”Mickey says I have a couple of hours yet.”

“I don’t care what Mickey says; I’M tell you either get to class or get detention.”

It all hit me like a ton of bricks. “Y-You, think I’m a student?” I asked, snickering.

The gentleman looked confused. “Aren’t you?”

I laughed harder. “No sir. I’m the substitute coach for PE this afternoon.”

He stared at me blankly before bursting out laughing himself. “That would explain you’re attire,” he gasped, pointing at my shorts and sweatshirt. He was the principal, and after we composed ourselves, I apologized for my attitude.

“No, my mistake,” he said. “You had every right to be insulted.”

Insulted? Never! In fact, he made my day.