My boys have a thing about laser lights. For the last few years they have loved them. Lately they shine them on the TV, the walls, through windows, in the car, tease the dog, the cats and come as close to shining them in someone's eyes as they possibly can before I holler at them to stop. On Christmas Eve one of them snuck them in his jacket pocket and, on our way into the church, he lasered a house waaaayyy across the street. As he got close to the window, I told him to turn it off with this reasoning: (in my momma knows best voice)
"You have no way of knowing who lives in that house. For all you know, it could be a Navy Seal, and if he sees a laser on his wall, I bet he has already silently rolled to the floor, reached under his bed and pulled out his rifle and is even now looking through his scope to see who has targetted him, and he is targetting you back." (A few years ago I read a fabulous book called Lone Survivor - about Seals - a m a z ing!!)
Gotta love those times when the illustration hits the spot. Today was nothing like that. It was more like a very wierd dream - all day long. It all started last night or rather early this morning. 12:24 according to the police report. The police arrived at 12:36.
For us, it started at 2am. The doorbell rang, but we didn't hear that part. Dale and I woke to the dog barking at the front door wanting to go out. He has been doing that lately, so Dale stumbled to the door in his pjs, opened the door to let Rex out and got a good scare. . . Bethany from the office was standing there and talking a mile a minute. "Office. . . window. . . stolen. . . police. . . alarm." Those words came flying through the door before Dale, caught off guard, let go of the dog out, mumbled something about Rex wouldn't bite, and he had to go put on a shirt . . . and closed the door on the large policeman and little Bethany standing on our dark, cold front porch - with a ferocious sounding cuddly brown dog circling their feet.
Dale returned to the door, and I pulled myself out of my sleepy stupor to shuffle to the door as well. I had heard Bethany, but was surprised to see the large quiet and grinning policeman standing next to her on our dark front porch.
. . . Our phone wouldn't work, so the alarm company had drug Bethany out of bed from the other side of town to come and let the police into the office. As she pulled into the development, there were police cars blocking every entrance with blue lights swirling brilliantly. An officer approached her car and asked where she thought she was going, to which she cocked her head and said, "SERIOUSLY!?? - YOU called me!!" (as only Bethany can say), and he stepped aside.
Cops were everywhere, she said, and as she pulled into the parking lot; the one in charge handed her a special vest (so she wouldn't get shot?- this was surreal), got the key to the building and told her to get back in her car. They cleared the building, and Bethany was asked to go in and look around. As she walked across the parking lot, she saw something shiny at the corner of the building and was shocked realize it was a SWAT guy with a big black gun positioned at the corner of the building. (All we can figure is that since the perpetrator went in through the window, the alarm company didn't have record of him leaving the building, so the police were acting as if he was still on site.)
As she walked in the back door, she said her face felt a little tight. . . A lady cop looked at her a little oddly and said, "You really did just roll out of bed and come, didn't you." Bethany shot her a "duh" look, to which the lady cop replied, "You've got some green stuff on your face." Horrified, she ran to the bathroom to scrape the remains of the lovely mask she had put on her face before bed.
The lights came on in the office, and it was soon discovered that an intruder had smashed in a waiting room window, yanked a TV off the wall and went back out the same hole he had entered.
After a while, someone asked Bethany if she had called her boss. That's when they discovered our line was busy - had been since a boy had answered the phone and never hung it up. Our cell phones are programmed to turn off at 11pm. The officer in charge told Bethany she would have to ride in a squad car to go get her boss. And that is how Bethany in her pajamas (and a sweatshirt) and the big grinning policeman ended up on our front ringing our doorbell at a little before 2am. Inside we were lolling like babies sound asleep to the hum of a wonderful sleep machine and woken up not by the persistent door bell, but the dog, who we thought was just having middle of the night bladder issues. Instead, he was being a good guard dog. (Maybe we should let him sleep at the office at night.)
Dale said when he arrived at 2am, there were at least 6 policemen roaming the halls admiring my photography prints and saying things like, "We didn't even know this building was back here." Well, at least we are now on their radar. And they like my pictures. . . Though our new building is now "broken in" (quite literally) - I am relieved to know we have such dedicated men willing to come to our rescue if needs be. To whomever took our TV, I hope your team loses the Super Bowl! I think I'm gonna come up with a way to add to that horrible alarm that goes off, the sound of a shot gun being cranked back - CA TCH TCH CKKK!!!! I bet he'd leave a little bit more than finger prints getting back out that broken window!
And that was just the beginning of the day . . . to be continued.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Jeans made for 5 inch heels?!?! Anyone!?!?
I had to hem a pair of my jeans today, and I actually have 1 or 2 more that need hemming. This is a first for me. I'm tall. I have tried to tell myself it's because my height is in my body more than in my legs, but that doesn't make sense since for the last 20 years of being the height I am now, I haven't had to hem jeans before now. My petite mom figured it out quickly. She said they are being made to be worn with 5 inch heels!
Five inch heels look good on some people, but I have yet to meet someone who feels good in their five inch heels. Maybe they exist, but some of us don't want to be five inches taller than we are! At 5 foot 8 inches, I would be a healthy 6 foot 1 in shoes that would keep my jeans from dragging. And I would be looking down on most of the people in my world. I already do that. I wear 2 inch heels at the very most - and only if they are very comfortable.
I have recently found two pairs of shoes that are joining my jeans in the "wear everyday" repertoire. One is a pair of silver ballet flats the other a pair of red boots - also not much of a heel. When I wear my jeans that are meant to be worn with five inch heels, my jeans drag with every step. I feel like a teenage-wannabe when I really don't wannabe a teenager. So that led to me FINALLY hemming my jeans.
But before I could even get started, I had to go to the fabric store to buy some necessities that you need to hem jeans. Since I have never had to hem jeans and as I have broken several needles lately on other projects, I got a special needle for sewing denim. I also tried to find the right color to match that yellowish brown hue that is used to do all the top-stitching on denim. Let's just say, I'll have to hunt a little more for that shade. Mine is glowing just a bit from the fixed hem in one pair of jeans.
Now my question is, what does every other purchaser of jeans do with these extra long pants? Very few of my friends sew. Why, I ask, do such fads have to be so erksome to the everyday woman? How about the short t-shirts? Oh, dear, was I ever up a creek. As I said before, most of my height is in my torso, so finding a shirt long enough was near to impossible. I am so excited about these longer version that are out now, I'm storing up for when the fad goes the other way again. But back to jeans, what do carpool moms do with ridiculously long jeans if they don't sew? I guess we will soon find out. Maybe they will cut them off and let them be ratty, give in and find some heels to prance around in (I don't think so) or let them drag as I was doing for a few weeks or roll them up? Maybe we will bring back that crazy thing we did in the late eighties of pulling our jeans off to one side and then rolling them up twice. (I hope not.)
Well, if you are in need of new jeans, you may need to adjust your height according to whether or not you will be wearing those honkin' heels. For me, I might have been okay in the "short" style of my jean, but I don't recall seeing any. (Hunting for jeans that fit is another whole matter.) Or, if you have a sewing machine, go invest in a denim needle and some thick thread yellowish brown in nature. Who knows, maybe they will get us back to sewing yet. Project Runway has made me want to sew again, but then I couldn't find material I liked- even asked Carol Hannah Whitfield when she was in my hubby's office over Christmas getting her teeth whitened where she bought material when she lived here. . . she said come to New York! There is a whole block full of wonderful fabrics. Oh, well, maybe I could go visit. Until then, I think I'll be hemming my pants.
Five inch heels look good on some people, but I have yet to meet someone who feels good in their five inch heels. Maybe they exist, but some of us don't want to be five inches taller than we are! At 5 foot 8 inches, I would be a healthy 6 foot 1 in shoes that would keep my jeans from dragging. And I would be looking down on most of the people in my world. I already do that. I wear 2 inch heels at the very most - and only if they are very comfortable.
I have recently found two pairs of shoes that are joining my jeans in the "wear everyday" repertoire. One is a pair of silver ballet flats the other a pair of red boots - also not much of a heel. When I wear my jeans that are meant to be worn with five inch heels, my jeans drag with every step. I feel like a teenage-wannabe when I really don't wannabe a teenager. So that led to me FINALLY hemming my jeans.
But before I could even get started, I had to go to the fabric store to buy some necessities that you need to hem jeans. Since I have never had to hem jeans and as I have broken several needles lately on other projects, I got a special needle for sewing denim. I also tried to find the right color to match that yellowish brown hue that is used to do all the top-stitching on denim. Let's just say, I'll have to hunt a little more for that shade. Mine is glowing just a bit from the fixed hem in one pair of jeans.
Now my question is, what does every other purchaser of jeans do with these extra long pants? Very few of my friends sew. Why, I ask, do such fads have to be so erksome to the everyday woman? How about the short t-shirts? Oh, dear, was I ever up a creek. As I said before, most of my height is in my torso, so finding a shirt long enough was near to impossible. I am so excited about these longer version that are out now, I'm storing up for when the fad goes the other way again. But back to jeans, what do carpool moms do with ridiculously long jeans if they don't sew? I guess we will soon find out. Maybe they will cut them off and let them be ratty, give in and find some heels to prance around in (I don't think so) or let them drag as I was doing for a few weeks or roll them up? Maybe we will bring back that crazy thing we did in the late eighties of pulling our jeans off to one side and then rolling them up twice. (I hope not.)
Well, if you are in need of new jeans, you may need to adjust your height according to whether or not you will be wearing those honkin' heels. For me, I might have been okay in the "short" style of my jean, but I don't recall seeing any. (Hunting for jeans that fit is another whole matter.) Or, if you have a sewing machine, go invest in a denim needle and some thick thread yellowish brown in nature. Who knows, maybe they will get us back to sewing yet. Project Runway has made me want to sew again, but then I couldn't find material I liked- even asked Carol Hannah Whitfield when she was in my hubby's office over Christmas getting her teeth whitened where she bought material when she lived here. . . she said come to New York! There is a whole block full of wonderful fabrics. Oh, well, maybe I could go visit. Until then, I think I'll be hemming my pants.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Gross, Gross and Grosser
One of my kids was sick last night. The word "HURL" describes it well. "Hurl" from standing up, not from bending over the white porcelain potty. "Hurling" happened in the upstairs bathroom; thankfully he made it that far, and thankfully the second time it hit him, he made the mark. Lots of towels and rags to clean up. Daddy gagged and almost added to the mess. Mommy just rolled her eyes at him and tried not to laugh as our son was feeling so pitiful.
An hour later we tucked him in at the foot of our bed (on the floor), so we could help him if it happened again. Almost asleep we were all settled in when he got up and headed to the bathroom. Daddy said, "are you okay?" Son dutifully responded that he was fine and we relaxed for a few seconds until we heard the sound of "HURLING" again - - from a standing up position. It has a very distinct sound. . . . It sounds like someone has dumped a bucket of water (but it is definately NOT water) from about four feet up onto the tile floor (and up the walls and the baseboards and the door. . . ) In shock, we ran in - - not looking forward to a second clean-up - (notice, we weren't as concerned about the kid, but about the clean-up!) Nice parents we are.
Then the unthinkable happened, and I stood behind him and watched as it happened. He probably just didn't want to step in the mess he had already made (because that was what I was thinking - ooo, yuck) he would have had to step in it to make it to that beautiful white bowl of water that would have been so simple to flush and watch it all go away. . . but, alas, the second wave didn't make the mark this time. Lots of Yuck. He was white as a sheet. I think I was too seeing what I had to clean up . . . again.
But it could have been worse. Different son, several years ago. Sleeping on the top bunk. Got sick in the middle of the night, and not wanting to soil his bed, Hurled over the side of the bed - - onto his sleeping brother in the bed below - - onto the carpet - - onto the couch where we read stories - - and onto his other brother in his little bed on the other side of the room. That time too, Daddy gagged as we were scooping up the debris and we had to hide our laughter from the sick soul. I still chuckle thinking about that night and us with dust pans doing our best to scoop as much as we could out of the carpet before the deep cleaning began all while trying to turn off our olfactory senses.
Only other night or rather illness that slightly compares, was the "get sick in the middle of the night, sit up and HURL all over your bed" sickness that hit my kids and many others about 7 years ago. Yup, no lie, that's what was happening all around town. Hit two of my kids on different nights. Usually for other types of accidents, I would just pull out towels and let them go back to sleep, but not those nights. Those nights were "turn the top light on, strip the kid, strip the bed, clean the kid, clean the bed, tell the other kid in the room to go back to sleep, pray the washing machine is empty, pray they go back to sleep and don't get sick again!" nights.
No more hurling today, but I am ready. I've bought several cleaners, Lysol, gingerale, gatorade, and oh yeah, I was supposed to by canned pears. From my years of pregnancy I learned that only one food tastes decent going both ways - canned pears. Pizza is horrendous; don't eat pizza if you think you might be seeing that meal again soon. And if you do, don't say I didn't warn you. Canned pears, that's a much better choice.
Well, I'm hoping that at least two of my kids now know how to make it to that beautiful thing called a toilet in time so I am not scrubbing floors and walls and baseboards or chuckling at my hubby trying to keep his own dinner where it belongs. Good thing he wasn't a nurse, but then again, he makes his living by putting his hands in people's mouths all day. . . Hmmm, nope, I think being a nurse is worse. Too many memories popping up right now, but, I definately think being a nurse is worse.
An hour later we tucked him in at the foot of our bed (on the floor), so we could help him if it happened again. Almost asleep we were all settled in when he got up and headed to the bathroom. Daddy said, "are you okay?" Son dutifully responded that he was fine and we relaxed for a few seconds until we heard the sound of "HURLING" again - - from a standing up position. It has a very distinct sound. . . . It sounds like someone has dumped a bucket of water (but it is definately NOT water) from about four feet up onto the tile floor (and up the walls and the baseboards and the door. . . ) In shock, we ran in - - not looking forward to a second clean-up - (notice, we weren't as concerned about the kid, but about the clean-up!) Nice parents we are.
Then the unthinkable happened, and I stood behind him and watched as it happened. He probably just didn't want to step in the mess he had already made (because that was what I was thinking - ooo, yuck) he would have had to step in it to make it to that beautiful white bowl of water that would have been so simple to flush and watch it all go away. . . but, alas, the second wave didn't make the mark this time. Lots of Yuck. He was white as a sheet. I think I was too seeing what I had to clean up . . . again.
But it could have been worse. Different son, several years ago. Sleeping on the top bunk. Got sick in the middle of the night, and not wanting to soil his bed, Hurled over the side of the bed - - onto his sleeping brother in the bed below - - onto the carpet - - onto the couch where we read stories - - and onto his other brother in his little bed on the other side of the room. That time too, Daddy gagged as we were scooping up the debris and we had to hide our laughter from the sick soul. I still chuckle thinking about that night and us with dust pans doing our best to scoop as much as we could out of the carpet before the deep cleaning began all while trying to turn off our olfactory senses.
Only other night or rather illness that slightly compares, was the "get sick in the middle of the night, sit up and HURL all over your bed" sickness that hit my kids and many others about 7 years ago. Yup, no lie, that's what was happening all around town. Hit two of my kids on different nights. Usually for other types of accidents, I would just pull out towels and let them go back to sleep, but not those nights. Those nights were "turn the top light on, strip the kid, strip the bed, clean the kid, clean the bed, tell the other kid in the room to go back to sleep, pray the washing machine is empty, pray they go back to sleep and don't get sick again!" nights.
No more hurling today, but I am ready. I've bought several cleaners, Lysol, gingerale, gatorade, and oh yeah, I was supposed to by canned pears. From my years of pregnancy I learned that only one food tastes decent going both ways - canned pears. Pizza is horrendous; don't eat pizza if you think you might be seeing that meal again soon. And if you do, don't say I didn't warn you. Canned pears, that's a much better choice.
Well, I'm hoping that at least two of my kids now know how to make it to that beautiful thing called a toilet in time so I am not scrubbing floors and walls and baseboards or chuckling at my hubby trying to keep his own dinner where it belongs. Good thing he wasn't a nurse, but then again, he makes his living by putting his hands in people's mouths all day. . . Hmmm, nope, I think being a nurse is worse. Too many memories popping up right now, but, I definately think being a nurse is worse.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Graduation: May 1987
I keep seeing "1987" on T-shirts and blazed across cool ads and stuff. As if that was the best time!
Don't you just know it! 1987 was cool! Well, legwarmers were a little doofy, and the permed hair with the stick up bangs was kinda bad, and rat tails were horrible, and Members Only jackets???? Whatever.
Well, for me, 1987 was cool because I graduated from high school in 1987. What a day. What a night. Probably very few people from my high school remember this part of graduation, but it is scarred into my brain. It actually cost my about 4 1/2 years extra of upper level school.
First, I was dating the school rebel, Tommy. I happened to be the exact opposite (of sorts). Tommy and I really didn't fit together, and as I found out much after the fact, I was actually a pawn he was getting out of the way so his cousin could date a friend of his that had been interested in me. (nice, huh?) Oh, well, live and learn. He was still fun. He had a jeep. He lived on a neat little farm out in the country and he had a sweet brother that showed horses. I french-braided that horse's tail one night, and he (the horse) thanked me by relieving himself of some cooped up gas as I was about half-way through the braid and couldn't let go to find safe air.
Dress was always a big deal at our school. Guys wore a tie until 12:00 and then could wear polo shirts afterwards. Girls wore skirts to their knee and hose all the time. For graduation the girls wore white dresses and white graduation gowns over top. The boys were to wear black or blue dress pants under their blue graduation gowns. Tommy had brown pants - dark brown pants. He had worked hard to pull up his grades at the very end so he could even graduate, and as we were getting ready all fussing over hair and hats, the teachers informed him that he wouldn't be able to walk across the stage because he had on dark brown pants. WHO would notice? WHO would care? His mother sure would care that she had sacrificially paid for four years of school, and he didn't get to walk across the stage with his class because his pants were a shade off! I was mad. I was really mad. I was at the other end of the spectrum when it came to grades. Out of 100 graduates, I was 11th. I know that because the top 10 percent got to wear a nice yellow rope saying they were in the top ten per cent. I had goofed off in Home Ec and mad a C. Unbelievable.
Well, I decided to use my clout to make sure Tommy walked across that stage. I don't recall how many joined my cause, but I said I wasn't going to walk out on that stage if they didn't let Tommy walk. Unfortunately, whoever was in charge was still being a stickler. One of the guys ended up running to the gym to get his navy GYM pants for Tommy to wear. Ridiculous.
Well, that was just the beginning of the night. We had evening plans that started at the Skating Rink and then the plan was to all go over to my house to crowd into our basement and watch a slide show of pictures I had collected of our four years in high school. (I missed that part, but I made my own memories.) We had other plans that went throughout the night and then a final hurrah for breakfast the next morning.
I must have ridden to the skating rink with Tommy because I know how it all went down. Tommy had a pocket knife with him (no, he wasn't supposed to have it, but he was a country boy). He had a hole in the pocket of his jeans and didn't want to lose it, so he asked Todd to hold on to it for him. Todd slipped it into his pocket. I went to find my friends and next thing I knew, Tommy and his rowdy friends were wrestling on the floor. Boys. What happened next they must have told me as we were headed to the ER. Turns out they were all pouncing on Todd. Todd kiddingly decided to "even things out," as he put it, and pulled out the knife and clicked it open. Unbeknownst to him, Tommy was already in the air. The knife went into the palm of his hand. As fast as it happened, all those guys disappeared into the bathroom. (Craziness on the night of graduation could cost you your diploma - or worse.)
They came back out and three of us were headed to the ER with Tommy - Todd, Tim and Me. As they were taking him back to sew him up, Todd said, "Don't let Annette go, she'll pass out."
"No, I won't." I replied and headed on back. The doctor sewing him up and I got into a conversation about where we were headed after school. I mentioned Physical Therapy school which I was seriously considering. The doctor mentioned having Anatomy and Physiology with PT's and doing work on cadavers with them. Now, I hadn't quite come to terms with the cadaver thing. And the sounds in the room got a little distant. I watched as the doctor was nonchalantly whip-stitching together Tommy's hand and thought, "he is taking much less care with his hand than I do with my sewing!"
The next thing I knew, I was looking up into a bright light and lots of people in white were looking down at me. I passed out again. When I came to the second time, I was royally embarrassed. Of course, Todd fussed and fumed saying he knew I was gonna pass out! On the way home - or rather, back to my house, because, by now we had missed the whole skating party and the class was to be meeting at my house for the slide show - we were driving and to my great embarrassment, I had to beg them to stop the car so I could throw up! (This was to be the first of several embarrassing events that went very similarly.) Back at my house, I sipped sprite while the rest of my cohorts enjoyed the show and went somewhere else from there. I stayed at home missing just about all of the partying. I did feel better in time to meet them all for breakfast at Denny's. As I left my house that morning, I found one of Tommy's wrestling buddies, Michael, asleep on the swing in my front yard. Still don't know how that happened. Anyone want to fill me in on how all the graduating partying went that night in 1987? How many of you actually knew this part of what happened that night?
Most of my class went on to the same college, but God had other plans for me. I too was enrolled, but pulled out two weeks before school was to start. I instead hopped on a plane for Los Angeles, and that is another story. . .
Don't you just know it! 1987 was cool! Well, legwarmers were a little doofy, and the permed hair with the stick up bangs was kinda bad, and rat tails were horrible, and Members Only jackets???? Whatever.
Well, for me, 1987 was cool because I graduated from high school in 1987. What a day. What a night. Probably very few people from my high school remember this part of graduation, but it is scarred into my brain. It actually cost my about 4 1/2 years extra of upper level school.
First, I was dating the school rebel, Tommy. I happened to be the exact opposite (of sorts). Tommy and I really didn't fit together, and as I found out much after the fact, I was actually a pawn he was getting out of the way so his cousin could date a friend of his that had been interested in me. (nice, huh?) Oh, well, live and learn. He was still fun. He had a jeep. He lived on a neat little farm out in the country and he had a sweet brother that showed horses. I french-braided that horse's tail one night, and he (the horse) thanked me by relieving himself of some cooped up gas as I was about half-way through the braid and couldn't let go to find safe air.
Dress was always a big deal at our school. Guys wore a tie until 12:00 and then could wear polo shirts afterwards. Girls wore skirts to their knee and hose all the time. For graduation the girls wore white dresses and white graduation gowns over top. The boys were to wear black or blue dress pants under their blue graduation gowns. Tommy had brown pants - dark brown pants. He had worked hard to pull up his grades at the very end so he could even graduate, and as we were getting ready all fussing over hair and hats, the teachers informed him that he wouldn't be able to walk across the stage because he had on dark brown pants. WHO would notice? WHO would care? His mother sure would care that she had sacrificially paid for four years of school, and he didn't get to walk across the stage with his class because his pants were a shade off! I was mad. I was really mad. I was at the other end of the spectrum when it came to grades. Out of 100 graduates, I was 11th. I know that because the top 10 percent got to wear a nice yellow rope saying they were in the top ten per cent. I had goofed off in Home Ec and mad a C. Unbelievable.
Well, I decided to use my clout to make sure Tommy walked across that stage. I don't recall how many joined my cause, but I said I wasn't going to walk out on that stage if they didn't let Tommy walk. Unfortunately, whoever was in charge was still being a stickler. One of the guys ended up running to the gym to get his navy GYM pants for Tommy to wear. Ridiculous.
Well, that was just the beginning of the night. We had evening plans that started at the Skating Rink and then the plan was to all go over to my house to crowd into our basement and watch a slide show of pictures I had collected of our four years in high school. (I missed that part, but I made my own memories.) We had other plans that went throughout the night and then a final hurrah for breakfast the next morning.
I must have ridden to the skating rink with Tommy because I know how it all went down. Tommy had a pocket knife with him (no, he wasn't supposed to have it, but he was a country boy). He had a hole in the pocket of his jeans and didn't want to lose it, so he asked Todd to hold on to it for him. Todd slipped it into his pocket. I went to find my friends and next thing I knew, Tommy and his rowdy friends were wrestling on the floor. Boys. What happened next they must have told me as we were headed to the ER. Turns out they were all pouncing on Todd. Todd kiddingly decided to "even things out," as he put it, and pulled out the knife and clicked it open. Unbeknownst to him, Tommy was already in the air. The knife went into the palm of his hand. As fast as it happened, all those guys disappeared into the bathroom. (Craziness on the night of graduation could cost you your diploma - or worse.)
They came back out and three of us were headed to the ER with Tommy - Todd, Tim and Me. As they were taking him back to sew him up, Todd said, "Don't let Annette go, she'll pass out."
"No, I won't." I replied and headed on back. The doctor sewing him up and I got into a conversation about where we were headed after school. I mentioned Physical Therapy school which I was seriously considering. The doctor mentioned having Anatomy and Physiology with PT's and doing work on cadavers with them. Now, I hadn't quite come to terms with the cadaver thing. And the sounds in the room got a little distant. I watched as the doctor was nonchalantly whip-stitching together Tommy's hand and thought, "he is taking much less care with his hand than I do with my sewing!"
The next thing I knew, I was looking up into a bright light and lots of people in white were looking down at me. I passed out again. When I came to the second time, I was royally embarrassed. Of course, Todd fussed and fumed saying he knew I was gonna pass out! On the way home - or rather, back to my house, because, by now we had missed the whole skating party and the class was to be meeting at my house for the slide show - we were driving and to my great embarrassment, I had to beg them to stop the car so I could throw up! (This was to be the first of several embarrassing events that went very similarly.) Back at my house, I sipped sprite while the rest of my cohorts enjoyed the show and went somewhere else from there. I stayed at home missing just about all of the partying. I did feel better in time to meet them all for breakfast at Denny's. As I left my house that morning, I found one of Tommy's wrestling buddies, Michael, asleep on the swing in my front yard. Still don't know how that happened. Anyone want to fill me in on how all the graduating partying went that night in 1987? How many of you actually knew this part of what happened that night?
Most of my class went on to the same college, but God had other plans for me. I too was enrolled, but pulled out two weeks before school was to start. I instead hopped on a plane for Los Angeles, and that is another story. . .
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Warm up with these summer Memories.
Warm up with some memories.
Summer will be back here soon.
This one just sends me into fits of laughter every
time I look at it.
Dominican Republic.
This one makes me say, ahhh. The sand had pink
flecks in it. I brought a bag of it back and have it in a jar.
Praying for Haiti.
This one is several years old, but what a fun day.
Think warm thoughts. We will be sweating before we know it.
Summer will be back here soon.
This one just sends me into fits of laughter every
time I look at it.
Dominican Republic.
This one makes me say, ahhh. The sand had pink
flecks in it. I brought a bag of it back and have it in a jar.
Praying for Haiti.
This one is several years old, but what a fun day.
Think warm thoughts. We will be sweating before we know it.
New Years Day
My baby is losing his first tooth on the first day of 2010. He was so excited. He spent all day messing with that tooth and finally . . .
after much wiggling . . . 
tada! The first tooth is officially "lost." (Don't cry, Mommy, hold it back. This is a good day, remember. Oh, this is hard. I'm not crying. Just taking more pictures before he graduates from high school. . . OK, now I really am tearing up, my throat is tight. . . Now, go enjoy them today, before they really do graduate.)
I love you guys!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
What am I good At?
That phrase has been reverberating in my head, but everytime I "say" it to myself, Miss Markham comes to mind and looks at me as only Miss Markham could. "At?" I say to myself . . . "What are you good AT?" I can't believe that came out of your mouth/thoughts! Then I try to say it correctly and it sounds even more ridiculous: "What are you good at doing?" Okay, Miss English teacher . . . and then I go back to the original question. WHAT AM I really good at (doing)? My original degree was in English. I love to write, would love to write a book, but don't know what I would write about. I once used to journal - in college, before kids. I try to journal now, but can never find the book I last wrote in or a pen or the time, etc.
Maybe I will get back to the original topic later this week, but there are a few things I'd like to say about grammar. First, I went to a rigorous high school. Senior English/Grammar was notorious, dreaded, feared for four years. And it lived up to its reputation. My senior year of high school, I recall us diagraming each others sentences as we talked in conversations so we wouldn't flunk out of Senior Grammar. Little did I know that that was the last time I would be taught grammar - even as an English major.
Here is an example of how Senior Grammar creeps up in my every-day life:
"Drive Safe" I'm sure you've heard it a million times, but just curious, how many of you have a Miss Markham or a mom or yourself that corrects that phrase in your head every time you hear it? "Drive SafeLY" It's an adverb, people. It describes How to drive; adverbs have an -LY. Oh, well. You can have a safe trip. You can even have a safe drive, but when you drive, drive safeLY. Ah, Somethings are not worth the effort, but for now, I have said it.
Miss Markham, what a sweet dear lady. Funny story. It was a cold day. (I know that because I was wearing a turtleneck.) We were taking a test. A hard one; one I was very nervous about taking. Miss Markham always made me a little nervous because she was very wise, and I wasn't always sure I had the right answer. If you didn't have the right answer, she could quickly make you feel very stupid with her chuckle and a comment about obviously not having done the assignment or something.
Well, this day, I was intensely working on my test, thinking hard when she came up and stood next to my desk. It made me very nervous, and finally, I looked up. She was very tall. In a loud whisper - she wasn't a very quiet person - she asked, "I have always wondered, how do you get into those things?" I had no idea what she was talking about. Surely she wasn't asking how I got into my desk, but that did cross my mind. I looked at my test, and her question didn't seem to have anything to do with my test, so I looked at her again - clueless - like a deer in the headlights. Here I was again without an answer for the all-wise teacher.
She pointed at my neck and said, "Your shirt, how do you get into it? I see all you girls wearing them, but I can't figure out how you get into it." My shirt! My turtleneck! She was looking for a zipper or something!
I sighed with relief and pulled at the neck to show her and said, "It stretches; it just pulls over my head." Ah, the answer, the simple answer. I smiled with extreme relief that I hadn't come up blank and went back to the intense grammar exam. We didn't dare laugh, but I know there were many smiles around the room. Who knows, maybe she did it on purpose to lighten the atmosphere. The room had been ice cold with fear and trepidation as we were carefully putting our answers down, but she had warmed it up with a simple question that showed us our all wise British Literature teacher was real. She had never understood a turtleneck.
As you read this, please don't check my grammar. I like to write poetically or conversationally. I don't claim to be perfect. I am not writing for a grade today, but thank you, Miss Markham, for teaching me grammar.
Maybe I will get back to the original topic later this week, but there are a few things I'd like to say about grammar. First, I went to a rigorous high school. Senior English/Grammar was notorious, dreaded, feared for four years. And it lived up to its reputation. My senior year of high school, I recall us diagraming each others sentences as we talked in conversations so we wouldn't flunk out of Senior Grammar. Little did I know that that was the last time I would be taught grammar - even as an English major.
Here is an example of how Senior Grammar creeps up in my every-day life:
"Drive Safe" I'm sure you've heard it a million times, but just curious, how many of you have a Miss Markham or a mom or yourself that corrects that phrase in your head every time you hear it? "Drive SafeLY" It's an adverb, people. It describes How to drive; adverbs have an -LY. Oh, well. You can have a safe trip. You can even have a safe drive, but when you drive, drive safeLY. Ah, Somethings are not worth the effort, but for now, I have said it.
Miss Markham, what a sweet dear lady. Funny story. It was a cold day. (I know that because I was wearing a turtleneck.) We were taking a test. A hard one; one I was very nervous about taking. Miss Markham always made me a little nervous because she was very wise, and I wasn't always sure I had the right answer. If you didn't have the right answer, she could quickly make you feel very stupid with her chuckle and a comment about obviously not having done the assignment or something.
Well, this day, I was intensely working on my test, thinking hard when she came up and stood next to my desk. It made me very nervous, and finally, I looked up. She was very tall. In a loud whisper - she wasn't a very quiet person - she asked, "I have always wondered, how do you get into those things?" I had no idea what she was talking about. Surely she wasn't asking how I got into my desk, but that did cross my mind. I looked at my test, and her question didn't seem to have anything to do with my test, so I looked at her again - clueless - like a deer in the headlights. Here I was again without an answer for the all-wise teacher.
She pointed at my neck and said, "Your shirt, how do you get into it? I see all you girls wearing them, but I can't figure out how you get into it." My shirt! My turtleneck! She was looking for a zipper or something!
I sighed with relief and pulled at the neck to show her and said, "It stretches; it just pulls over my head." Ah, the answer, the simple answer. I smiled with extreme relief that I hadn't come up blank and went back to the intense grammar exam. We didn't dare laugh, but I know there were many smiles around the room. Who knows, maybe she did it on purpose to lighten the atmosphere. The room had been ice cold with fear and trepidation as we were carefully putting our answers down, but she had warmed it up with a simple question that showed us our all wise British Literature teacher was real. She had never understood a turtleneck.
As you read this, please don't check my grammar. I like to write poetically or conversationally. I don't claim to be perfect. I am not writing for a grade today, but thank you, Miss Markham, for teaching me grammar.
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