Wanna come?

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

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 There in my private, unpublished email account’s inbox was spam, loads and loads of it.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

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

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

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. . .

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.

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?

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?

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

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

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. . .

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?

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

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. . .

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!