"Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen today." Mark Twain
My favorite quote used to be "It's along story and even longer when I tell it." by Winnie the Pooh. It just seemed to fit for me. Not because I talk alot (which I have ocassionally been known to do), but because I can...well, I sometimes...not always do I... okay. It's probably because I talk alot. But it's also because I have this inability to tell a short story. It's not the complete story unless it contains details.
Life is in the DETAILS. It's not enough to just know what someone said, you also need to know what their facial expressions were when they said it. What were the circumstances? What led up to their comments? Unfortunately I am married to a cop. Well, a retired cop, but once a cop always a cop. He delivers information on a need to know basis. He just doesn't understand why I need to know and why what I need to know is everything I can be my own filter, thank you. Actually, I'm a better incoming filter than i am an outgoing one. Sometimes my before-I-say-something-filter doesn't always work on a timely basis.
Oldest Daughter is another one of those non-detail people. Or maybe she's detail with everyone else, she just isn't with me. I can tell when I'm halfway through a story (one that I think is going well) and her eyes start rolling up into the back of her head and her hands start fluttering and looking for something to do to distract her from the remaaainnnnderrrrr of the story. Most times she's polite and keeps her twitching to herself, although it's hard to stay focused on what you're saying when someone is having a mini seizure right in front of you. Others times she breaks in and says, "Mother, will you get to the point. I've dinner to start in three hours." Which is fine.
Now Youngest Daughter is a fellow story teller. She, like her mother, loves the actual story and all the nuances of each and every detail. Sometimes you can enrich a story with the proper details and still leave it a semblance of itself. Face it, most people can't see the potential for a good story. Those are the ones who recite the words but not the embellishments, the words but not the voice inflections. We still want to hear the story, but be aware that when it's repeated, the rest will be added!
Which gets us to the reason behind my new favorite quote. It's a good one because it's not just any quote that can take down Pooh. But it's taken so long to get to the point that my pain pill has kicked in and this story will have to wait until another time....
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I've always known my daughter was a grownup...
I've just spent the past hour rereading Oldest Daughter's earlier blogs and have been blown away yet again. You see, she's a grownup, an adult, a self sufficient wife and mother and aunt and sister and niece and business owner. If I sound surprised about that, I'm really not. It's just that I sometimes loose focus on it.
I read about her sometime concerns about not being the best mother and shake my head because I think she's a damn good mother (Nearly Perfect Grandson says I shouldn't cuss because I sound dorkey doing it. Perhaps I just need to practice more...). I read the ocassional comment about hanging off the cliff and have to stop short. I get reminded that just because she acts completely in control and unwavering, that she, too, has doubts and fears.
We've not always had the best relationship (translate to: it's been buried six feet under several times, but always resurrected). Some of it's been my fault and some of it's been hers. I tend to think there have been other hands in there, too, but they've been minor roles. I think it's ironic that I don't have a relationship at all with my mother and I'm HER oldest. (But then have to remind myself that MY mother is completely nuts and my daughter's mother is only partially nuts).
I just know she got her good parenting skills, her common sense approach to raising her children, somewhere else than from me. I did the best I could with what I had, but most days it was woefully inadequate. When you grow up being a victim, it takes a multitude of "overs" before you can climb out of that victim pit in which you tend to stay buried. (Maybe because it's safe? Well we're not going there because it doesn't matter what the psychobabble crap is...you eventually climb out because you want out).
I've seen her smoothly pull off the most wonderful entertaining events, she's an excellent cook, has fantastic decorating style, a good, strong, stable and loving marriage, organized, hard-working. Now before I give the impression that she's a candidate for sainthood, I'll stop. The point I've been heading to is none of these things are what made me realize that she is an adult. It was something totally different for me.
About two years ago, I was at her house hanging out with 6-month-old Izzy Doodle when Amy came in the room and sat down with us. As she reached for her daughter, I saw her hands. My stomach flip flopped and I had to just sit and breath for a moment. I was looking at adult hands! Not the smooth, character-free hands of a child, teen or young adult, but the hands of a woman. Hands that had their own tales to tell. I knew (head knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up but when I saw her hands I knew (heart knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up.
And she had done it, for the most part, without me.
I read about her sometime concerns about not being the best mother and shake my head because I think she's a damn good mother (Nearly Perfect Grandson says I shouldn't cuss because I sound dorkey doing it. Perhaps I just need to practice more...). I read the ocassional comment about hanging off the cliff and have to stop short. I get reminded that just because she acts completely in control and unwavering, that she, too, has doubts and fears.
We've not always had the best relationship (translate to: it's been buried six feet under several times, but always resurrected). Some of it's been my fault and some of it's been hers. I tend to think there have been other hands in there, too, but they've been minor roles. I think it's ironic that I don't have a relationship at all with my mother and I'm HER oldest. (But then have to remind myself that MY mother is completely nuts and my daughter's mother is only partially nuts).
I just know she got her good parenting skills, her common sense approach to raising her children, somewhere else than from me. I did the best I could with what I had, but most days it was woefully inadequate. When you grow up being a victim, it takes a multitude of "overs" before you can climb out of that victim pit in which you tend to stay buried. (Maybe because it's safe? Well we're not going there because it doesn't matter what the psychobabble crap is...you eventually climb out because you want out).
I've seen her smoothly pull off the most wonderful entertaining events, she's an excellent cook, has fantastic decorating style, a good, strong, stable and loving marriage, organized, hard-working. Now before I give the impression that she's a candidate for sainthood, I'll stop. The point I've been heading to is none of these things are what made me realize that she is an adult. It was something totally different for me.
About two years ago, I was at her house hanging out with 6-month-old Izzy Doodle when Amy came in the room and sat down with us. As she reached for her daughter, I saw her hands. My stomach flip flopped and I had to just sit and breath for a moment. I was looking at adult hands! Not the smooth, character-free hands of a child, teen or young adult, but the hands of a woman. Hands that had their own tales to tell. I knew (head knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up but when I saw her hands I knew (heart knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up.
And she had done it, for the most part, without me.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Too clean to die now
The other night in the wee hours I found myself at my computer. I was typing a letter entitled "In the Event of my Death". Seriously. This whole matter of needing surgery, surgery being postponed because of an abnormal ekg, must be cleared by a cardiologist before having surgery, must have a stress test before being cleared by a cardiologist, possible heart attack and damage to the heart... finally knocked me down. Granted, it was the middle of the night and I was temporarily out of pain pills and not sleeping, otherwise I would have never allowed myself to be knocked down. But, really, at 2 a.m. who are you going to call to to ask they pull you out of the doldrums? I could call my best friend, Linda, but the fact that I keep my 2 a.m. ramblings to myself is probably one of the best reasons we're still friends after 20 years.
I began thinking about what kind of condition my loved ones would find in the office, the closet, my files if, in the event of my death, they were trying to find something...like the insurance papers, the electric bill, a new cartridge for the printer. I can promise you one thing: if they had to look through the piles and piles of stuff (junk), mail (junk), they would no longer consider themselves my loved ones....
So I decided I needed to clean all this stuff up BEFORE I went for my stress test. First the files. There was stuff from 20 years ago. What possible reason do i need to keep paid water bills from 20+ years and two states ago? If I missed a payment, they've probably forgiven me by now, and if not, who cares? They gonna drag me across county to chastise me for not making a $8 payment?
I had SSOOOOO many files, mail, and unknown stuff that it would have taken me six years to shred it all. So I did the next best thing. I built a bonfire in the fireplace. It took me three loads to get it all burned. And an hour to scoop out all the residual ashes.
Next I cleaned out the refrigerator. If I died during my stress test, I'm sure people would be bringing casseroles over and stuff would need my fridge. Now all that food can be put into a clean refrigerator and no one has be feel compelled to call in the health department!
The last thing I needed to do was lay out the plans for my funeral. Oh come on! That's not morbid! What would be morbid is the choice of music my husband would have made if left to his own devices. And they'd most likely have my coffin open and me laying there in all my dead awkwardness while people are filing past making comments about how wonderful/horrible I looked. No thanks. I left instructions that my coffin not even be in the service. Of course, if they did a particularly good job with the makeup and perhaps liposuction my hips and butt, I might consider letting them prop me up on a loveseat and give people a photo op. That would take care of the complaints I get for not ever wanting my picture taken while I was alive.
And no downer music. I'm not there! I'm already dancing in Heaven. The ending song has to be "Take the Shackles off my Feet" by MaryMary. Let everyone leave with their feet dancing!
So, by 3 a.m. I was ready to have a fatal heart attack during my stress test.
Except I didn't.
But with this clean office, refrigerator and files, it might just be rather pleasant living here a little longer, so this might be a good thing.
I began thinking about what kind of condition my loved ones would find in the office, the closet, my files if, in the event of my death, they were trying to find something...like the insurance papers, the electric bill, a new cartridge for the printer. I can promise you one thing: if they had to look through the piles and piles of stuff (junk), mail (junk), they would no longer consider themselves my loved ones....
So I decided I needed to clean all this stuff up BEFORE I went for my stress test. First the files. There was stuff from 20 years ago. What possible reason do i need to keep paid water bills from 20+ years and two states ago? If I missed a payment, they've probably forgiven me by now, and if not, who cares? They gonna drag me across county to chastise me for not making a $8 payment?
I had SSOOOOO many files, mail, and unknown stuff that it would have taken me six years to shred it all. So I did the next best thing. I built a bonfire in the fireplace. It took me three loads to get it all burned. And an hour to scoop out all the residual ashes.
Next I cleaned out the refrigerator. If I died during my stress test, I'm sure people would be bringing casseroles over and stuff would need my fridge. Now all that food can be put into a clean refrigerator and no one has be feel compelled to call in the health department!
The last thing I needed to do was lay out the plans for my funeral. Oh come on! That's not morbid! What would be morbid is the choice of music my husband would have made if left to his own devices. And they'd most likely have my coffin open and me laying there in all my dead awkwardness while people are filing past making comments about how wonderful/horrible I looked. No thanks. I left instructions that my coffin not even be in the service. Of course, if they did a particularly good job with the makeup and perhaps liposuction my hips and butt, I might consider letting them prop me up on a loveseat and give people a photo op. That would take care of the complaints I get for not ever wanting my picture taken while I was alive.
And no downer music. I'm not there! I'm already dancing in Heaven. The ending song has to be "Take the Shackles off my Feet" by MaryMary. Let everyone leave with their feet dancing!
So, by 3 a.m. I was ready to have a fatal heart attack during my stress test.
Except I didn't.
But with this clean office, refrigerator and files, it might just be rather pleasant living here a little longer, so this might be a good thing.
Coping Advice From a Toddler
You know those moments when you're frustrated, pushed to the end of your rope, just plain pissed off? Or even mildly irritated but still want to kick something or somebody but can't because all there are around are little kids or people WAAAYYY bigger than you? Well, I have a new hero in handling those moods. Who? If you're guessing Ghandi or Mother Theresa or Kissinger, you are sooooo far off the mark. It's my 14-month old granddaughter.
We call her the Machine because she just never stops. Usually in her own little world, she plows through life like the world and all in it has been put there for her consumption and hers alone. She's independent, strong-willed and resourceful. But those are none of the reasons she is my mood hero (heroine?). She is occasionally tormented (frustrated) by her older sister who can be a little less than willing to always share her toys, but being the younger sibling, there is a pecking order that has to be followed...most of the time.
The other day I was coming down the hall at my daughter's when I heard the sound of little footsteps running flat out through the living room. The sound was quickly followed by the "Machine" rounding the corner and heading down the hallway as fast as her chubby little legs would let her go. Her arms were straight back behind her as if she were flying (which she really was). Following her was the sound of her sister's screams. I stepped back and watched as she ran into their bedroom, rushed to the window, pulled back the drape and deposited her sister's binky on the window sill. She pulled the drape back into place, turned around and ran back out of the room. She had the biggest smile on her face as she flew back down the hall!
Now that's what I call coping.
How great would it be to handle ignorant/idiotic/dense/irritating/stupid people by simply hiding their binky? You wouldn't have to say a word (or many words) which would probably have to be taken back and/or followed with an apology. No need for any violent behavior for which amends would have to be made. No bombs, guns, or any other lethal weapons. Just hide the binky.
It's pure genious.
We call her the Machine because she just never stops. Usually in her own little world, she plows through life like the world and all in it has been put there for her consumption and hers alone. She's independent, strong-willed and resourceful. But those are none of the reasons she is my mood hero (heroine?). She is occasionally tormented (frustrated) by her older sister who can be a little less than willing to always share her toys, but being the younger sibling, there is a pecking order that has to be followed...most of the time.
The other day I was coming down the hall at my daughter's when I heard the sound of little footsteps running flat out through the living room. The sound was quickly followed by the "Machine" rounding the corner and heading down the hallway as fast as her chubby little legs would let her go. Her arms were straight back behind her as if she were flying (which she really was). Following her was the sound of her sister's screams. I stepped back and watched as she ran into their bedroom, rushed to the window, pulled back the drape and deposited her sister's binky on the window sill. She pulled the drape back into place, turned around and ran back out of the room. She had the biggest smile on her face as she flew back down the hall!
Now that's what I call coping.
How great would it be to handle ignorant/idiotic/dense/irritating/stupid people by simply hiding their binky? You wouldn't have to say a word (or many words) which would probably have to be taken back and/or followed with an apology. No need for any violent behavior for which amends would have to be made. No bombs, guns, or any other lethal weapons. Just hide the binky.
It's pure genious.
Friday, March 6, 2009
If I can't be a surgeon, I'll be an artist
Lately I have considered myself to be one of the luckiest persons alive. Why, you might ask? Because I am an artist. That may not be a big deal to you, but it is to me. There's been alot of years when I just wasn't sure what my "calling" is. I spent quite a few years as a substitute teacher and was actually very good at it. But it wasn't something I planned for, worked toward, dreamed of. I kinda fell into it and accidentally found I was good with middle school kids and I could teach a lesson, and even make most of them pay attention while I taught it.
I also did long term assignments which meant keeping track of about 120 kids and their grades, homework, discipline and parent/teacher conferences (Those were not my favorite. There's just not a tactful way to tell a parent that their little dumplin' is an idiot who would rather examine stuff he/she pulled out of his/her ear than do the classwork assignment and perhaps they ought not worry about adding to that college fund, turning it instead into a bail fund account.)
BUT...the art side of me has always hovered near the surface. About a year ago I joined an art organization, entered some shows and began taking some lessons to improve a technique or explore a style. As I talked about wanting to go back to school and get my art degree, I was told by several artists that I didn't need to get a degree unless I wanted to teach, that I had the talent and just needed to bring it out. Still, just because you decide you want to be a surgeon and can pull all the body parts out of the game Operation in record time, doesn't mean you can own your own scalpel (and use it). My criteria for being able to say, "I'm an artist" has hinged on being able to sell any of my paintings.
Well, I have! And I'm going to be hung in a new restaurant! And I have two commission for pieces!
So, guess what?!? I'm an artist! Still, that statement and $2 will get me a venti green ginger tea at Starbucks (with two Splendas, thank you). If I want to continue my venti green ginger tea (with two Splendas, thank you) habit, I need to continue to sell paintings, which means I need to produce paintings which means I probably don't have time to mop floors or take the trash out much less cook dinner.
If you need me, I'll be in my studio (back of the house, used to be a spare bedroom) Come on in, visit, hang out, just don't get in my light. We artists are fussy about that.
I also did long term assignments which meant keeping track of about 120 kids and their grades, homework, discipline and parent/teacher conferences (Those were not my favorite. There's just not a tactful way to tell a parent that their little dumplin' is an idiot who would rather examine stuff he/she pulled out of his/her ear than do the classwork assignment and perhaps they ought not worry about adding to that college fund, turning it instead into a bail fund account.)
BUT...the art side of me has always hovered near the surface. About a year ago I joined an art organization, entered some shows and began taking some lessons to improve a technique or explore a style. As I talked about wanting to go back to school and get my art degree, I was told by several artists that I didn't need to get a degree unless I wanted to teach, that I had the talent and just needed to bring it out. Still, just because you decide you want to be a surgeon and can pull all the body parts out of the game Operation in record time, doesn't mean you can own your own scalpel (and use it). My criteria for being able to say, "I'm an artist" has hinged on being able to sell any of my paintings.
Well, I have! And I'm going to be hung in a new restaurant! And I have two commission for pieces!
So, guess what?!? I'm an artist! Still, that statement and $2 will get me a venti green ginger tea at Starbucks (with two Splendas, thank you). If I want to continue my venti green ginger tea (with two Splendas, thank you) habit, I need to continue to sell paintings, which means I need to produce paintings which means I probably don't have time to mop floors or take the trash out much less cook dinner.
If you need me, I'll be in my studio (back of the house, used to be a spare bedroom) Come on in, visit, hang out, just don't get in my light. We artists are fussy about that.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Random Things About Me
Apparently people who do facebook are familiar with this. I don't do facebook and am not familiar, but saw my daughter do it on her blog. I guess you're supposed to have 25 but I'm not sure there are 25 things about me So... I'll keep adding to it until I get 25 or run out of me, which ever comes first.
1. I love to read. Have to have a book I'm into even if I don't have time to actually read it. And I keep a murder mystery going in the tape/cd player in my car.
2. I love, love, love my grandkids. They make the sun brighter, the grass greener, the air sweeter and all the rest of that hokey stuff, but...
3. I'm probably the least romantic person you could ever meet. I have trouble remembering birthdays, anniversaries, etc.
4. I require alone time. I really like taking my book into a restaurant and spending the meal by myself reading. And being the only one up late at night.
5. I used to cuss, then quit cussing, but have occasionally taken it up again. My grandson tells me I shouldn't because I really can't pull it off without sounding dorky.
6. I'm just now discovering that I am a good artist and have the potential to be a great one. and I'm loving the discovery.
7. If all three of my daughters like me at the same time, I consider it a great day and really don't wait for the next shoe to drop even though it always does.
8. I dearly love the chicken tortilla soup from Los Vaqueros. Not too hot but filled with flavor. I wonder if they would give me a free bowl if they knew about this free advertising....
13. When I am holding one of my sleeping grandchildren in my arms, peace prevails without any kind of chocolate. I can push everything aside and concentrate of that particular beautiful child and the wonder of what God can create out of our human messes and frailities.
1. I love to read. Have to have a book I'm into even if I don't have time to actually read it. And I keep a murder mystery going in the tape/cd player in my car.
2. I love, love, love my grandkids. They make the sun brighter, the grass greener, the air sweeter and all the rest of that hokey stuff, but...
3. I'm probably the least romantic person you could ever meet. I have trouble remembering birthdays, anniversaries, etc.
4. I require alone time. I really like taking my book into a restaurant and spending the meal by myself reading. And being the only one up late at night.
5. I used to cuss, then quit cussing, but have occasionally taken it up again. My grandson tells me I shouldn't because I really can't pull it off without sounding dorky.
6. I'm just now discovering that I am a good artist and have the potential to be a great one. and I'm loving the discovery.
7. If all three of my daughters like me at the same time, I consider it a great day and really don't wait for the next shoe to drop even though it always does.
8. I dearly love the chicken tortilla soup from Los Vaqueros. Not too hot but filled with flavor. I wonder if they would give me a free bowl if they knew about this free advertising....
9. I've also discovered I have no talents. They've been advertising tryouts here in Fort Worth for America's Got Talent and it briefly crossed my mind (certainly not in a serious way) that I should try out. I could do...and that's where my thoughts ended. I could do...what?
10. I've been told I'm a great friend even though most of the time I feel very much inadequete.
11. Whenever I get smug about having the willpower to eat healthy and start being holier-than-thou about it, someone sticks a molten chocolate volcano in the middle of the table and I'm one of the first ones to reach for a spoon.
12. I can be confident about any adversity, problem, health issue, etc. until 2 a.m. when the fears start to grow into overwhelming mountains and it sometimes takes a molten chocolate volcano (or 3 Hershey Kisses) to push them back down to manageable size.
13. When I am holding one of my sleeping grandchildren in my arms, peace prevails without any kind of chocolate. I can push everything aside and concentrate of that particular beautiful child and the wonder of what God can create out of our human messes and frailities.
More to come...I hope
Screaming in b-flat
So...I've been scheduled for this surgery...some pesky little operation to rebuild my foot...that will have me laid up for several weeks - "on your butt" my surgeon said. I took the news pleasantly. I having been scrambling around putting things in order for me to be out of commission for two weeks (i.e. making sure I have enough pastel paper and pastels to work on several projects and canvases and paints in good supply...oh yeah, and laundry done so Hubby has clean undies.
Then...I get...the...call. Abnormal ekg, blah, blah, blah...need release from primary care physician before we can, blah, blah, blah. Being a responsible person, I make the appointment with my pc. Yeah, yeah don't need to do the weight, temp and blood pressure thing. I'm just here for a doctor's note. You know, like to get out of gym class, only I want one that will let me INTO gym class. Breeze in, breeze out.
So...I've been scheduled to see this cardiologist. Apparently my pc doesn't just hand out random gym notes. I've gone to her for years. Always liked her alot. Never noticed this flaw in her character.
Surgery may be postponed which is a giant inconvenience all around. My friends have already hugged me and sent me on my way. Hubby has already planned to hang around the house to "take care of me." AND I've already arranged for Youngest Daughter to pack herself and newest grandbaby up and come protect me from Hubby's caretaking. The worst part is I was just going to make it recovery-wise to attend this workshop I've been waiting to attend for about a year. Abstract painting, which is a passion of mine. Two whole days. If they postpone the surgery, the only way I'll be at the workshop is if they hold it in my living room!
Driving home, all I wanted to do was scream. So I grabbed a Bon Jovi cd and screamed in b-flat. All the way home.
Then...I get...the...call. Abnormal ekg, blah, blah, blah...need release from primary care physician before we can, blah, blah, blah. Being a responsible person, I make the appointment with my pc. Yeah, yeah don't need to do the weight, temp and blood pressure thing. I'm just here for a doctor's note. You know, like to get out of gym class, only I want one that will let me INTO gym class. Breeze in, breeze out.
So...I've been scheduled to see this cardiologist. Apparently my pc doesn't just hand out random gym notes. I've gone to her for years. Always liked her alot. Never noticed this flaw in her character.
Surgery may be postponed which is a giant inconvenience all around. My friends have already hugged me and sent me on my way. Hubby has already planned to hang around the house to "take care of me." AND I've already arranged for Youngest Daughter to pack herself and newest grandbaby up and come protect me from Hubby's caretaking. The worst part is I was just going to make it recovery-wise to attend this workshop I've been waiting to attend for about a year. Abstract painting, which is a passion of mine. Two whole days. If they postpone the surgery, the only way I'll be at the workshop is if they hold it in my living room!
Driving home, all I wanted to do was scream. So I grabbed a Bon Jovi cd and screamed in b-flat. All the way home.
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