We'll Just Have To See If I'm Up To The Challenge

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For those three of you who regularly read these mad musings of mine, you know there are stretches of time when I seemingly sit in my rocking chair staring blankly into space whilst singing a tuneless "Nonny, nonny, nonny..." for days, yea, even weeks on end.

That is, when I'm not writing the world's longest sentences, for which I have become quite famous. (see example above)

It should come as quite a shock to you, as it did to me, that I signed up for NaBloPoMo. I mean really, I'm not one to commit to something that requires actual, you know, WORK on my part or anything, so this may be an exercise in extreme pain...both for the writer as well as the reader.

I just felt as though you should be warned.

One day I may write about global warming, and the next it may be about how far past my knees my child-feeding appendages have stretched. One day it may be some sort of light God has shined into my darkness that I need to share, while the next it could be a diatribe against people who pass gas in elevators.

You just won't know until you tune in.

And the scary part is, neither will I.

But I have made the commitment, and I shall sally forth, firm in my resolve to write at least SOMETHING every day, whether it's worth reading or not. Bear with me, gentle folk, and be kind.

Because, there but for the soundness of your own mind and the grace of God, go you!

Chicken Spaghetti, Or Any Form Thereof, You Are Dead To Me

I found this really great recipe a while back. It was on one of the blogs I read on a semi-regular basis, which is an offshoot of another blog.

If you haven't read Ree at Confessions of a Pioneer Woman you are certainly missing out. She's extremely down-to-earth and a darn good writer and photographer to boot.

Oh, and she cooks.

Her OTHER blog is The Pioneer Woman Cooks, and the recipes she has on there are just good food. Period.

And that's where I got the recipe for the Chicken Spaghetti.

I modified it a bit to suit what I had in the freezer and the cupboard at the time, whipped up my version of it, and we sat down to eat. Hubster, my psuedo-daughter from across the street and the rest of the fam, although dubious, devoured the whole thing after their first taste. Pseudo-daughter, who never eats more than a teaspoonful of anything, had seconds and thirds.

"Great!" I thought. "Something NEW! Finally, something NEW they'll actually EAT!!!"

I waited a couple of weeks, then decided to fix it for dinner again. This time I doubled the batch, hoping to have enough to take to work with me for lunch at least one day. The scene repeated itself, and the entire casserole was devoured within twenty minutes of us sitting down at the table.

But this time something was different.

For some reason, as I was making this scrumptious dish, it was all I could do to keep from tossing my cookies. I saved out a portion for my lunch before the thundering herd hit, but even though I took it to work I couldn't bring myself to eat it. It still sits in the fridge, growing whatever mold ancient and neglected casseroles grow. The very thought of it causes my innards to quease and quake.

So I determined not to make it for a while to see if my stomach would get over this weird malady I'd developed. I mean really, one doesn't just suddenly become allergic to chicken casserole, does one?

Fast forward to today.

My son and his wife were in town, bringing with them Cutie. Since they come in rarely, I committed the cardinal sin of skipping church just to spend more time with them. We met at my mother's home for lunch.

Anyone who CAN'T see what's going to happen, raise your hand right now.

Mom was trying out a new recipe. There before my eyes was the self-same dish that caused my intestines such distress.

A GREAT. BIG. DISH. OF. IT.

I'm sure God smiled.

Thankfully, she also had roast beef as an alternate dish, and I got away without partaking of any of the offending substance. However, when leftover time came and there was a whole half of a casserole dish of the stuff remaining, guess who got to take it home?

Yah, you betcha.

At least the kids and the Hubster will eat well.

Me? I think I'll stick to the peanut butter and crackers.

She would have been eighty-six years old this year.

This little girl, who was only two years and seven months old when she passed away, was born a full twelve years before my mother. As it ended up, she was one of six girls born to my grandfather and grandmother. Mom was the caboose. Aunt Lavon was in the middle of the pack. As a child I remember her portrait, the same one that graces her headstone, hanging on the wall of my grandparents living room. When I asked who it was I was told it was Lavon and that she died. Nothing else was said. Because even after forty years the pain was still there.

Not much is known about Lavon's short life. More is known about her death.

There was a fire.

Since the house was out in the country and fire departments were mostly in the city, there was no way to save her. There was no way for my grandparents to get her out of the house before it was too late. The older girls made it out safely, but not Lavon.

My grandfather found her body in the remains of the building the next day. I can only imagine the horrors of those days and the days to follow. How my grandparents managed to go on, either mentally or physically, after losing a child is beyond me.

But they did.

They knew they had mouths to feed. They knew they couldn't just give up. They knew death was a part of the cycle of life. And they knew that Lavon was in God's hands. They just never spoke of it.

Along with the portrait of Lavon that hung on the wall, I remember Grandma's hair. Grandma had long, gray hair that reached down to her waist. Every morning she would comb it out, part it in two, and braid it. Then she'd take the braids and wind them around her head in a sort of crown and pin them into place. It was her morning ritual.

I also remember the Bible that sat next to her chair. Every day after she had combed and braided her hair, Grandma would read the Bible. Grandma had very bad eyesight so she had to hold the Bible up close to her face in bright light to be able to read it, but read it she did. Even when I was little I remember that Bible being worn from all the use it got.

Today I have that Bible. Because it is so very worn, it sits on a shelf in a special place of honor. It reminds me of a very strong woman. A woman who trusted God. A woman who faced hardship, trials and circumstances that would fell most women today. A woman who had no antidepressants, mood elevators, air conditioning, computers, birth control pills or even indoor plumbing (until her fiftieth wedding anniversary). A woman who had to draw water from the well outside her house, wash and iron and sew, deal with the hormonal ravings of five girls, feed and clothe a family of seven during the Depression, and still manage to find the time to be a wife to her husband. And I never saw her cry. Not even when her husband died.

And I thought I had it rough.

The next time you hear me complaining, please remind me of this post. Remind me just how easy I have it, and just how very blessed I am. Remind me to thank God for all He has been so good to give me!

And then thank God for what YOU have. Remember, it could always be worse.

Ephesians 5:20

Always give thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

In Which I Have Painted Myself Into A Bloggy Corner And Must Now Tapdance Until The Paint Dries

So, to play a little catch-up here....

When last we saw Our Heroine, she was valiantly trying to say Something of Great Worth and Lasting Import, whilst being Terribly Open About Her Own Life.

And then she got a terrible, terrible case of Cold Feet.

And as the feet have not warmed much, she has decided to dance for a while until they do. However, please bear in mind that dancing is not listed among her greatest attributes.

Anyhoo.

~~~~~

The first little number I'd like to perform has to do with feet. Toes, to be exact.

The Girl and I had a little together time today. She received two gift certificates for pedicures for her birthday, and being the kind, sweet, loving daughter she can be at times is, she decided to let me use one of them and we went for a mother/daughter pedicure.

Now, believing I would not be able to afford such a luxury for a while, I had just trimmed my toenails down to the nubs the night before. This apparently offended the woman who did my pedicure greatly. She simply could not understand why I would do such a thing. And she continued to express her opinion on the subject the entire time I was there, berating me on not only the care of my lower digits, but my fingernails as well. Apparently I am sorely in need of a manicure, because my cuticles are in bad shape.

Unfortunately, I won't be getting said manicure or any other service at THAT location, thankyouverymuch. One can only take just so much mothering from someone one is paying to rub one's feet. Our pedicure specialist stepped over that very fine line and I had to call interference on the play.

It was either that or call it fourth down and punt her into the end zone.

I think I chose well.

~~~~~

Our second number is a hot one, folks. Really hot. TOO DOGGONE HOT as a matter of fact.

You may remember me mentioning a while back my little bouts with "personal summers." I knew nothing of the magnitude of what I spoke at that time. Those little spurts of flame were mere precursors to the blazing infernos I am now subjected to on an almost hourly basis. They aren't lasting the five to ten minutes the earlier ones did, either. These puppies could provide a small city with enough heat for an entire winter.

I have renamed them Singer's Saharas.

Because not only am I hot, but when I get hot I get grumpy and irritable and hard to deal with. Well, more than I usually am. My moods swing like a pendulum, I can weep at the drop of a hat, and emotions run rampant.

Gee, don't you wish you were here? Because my husband wishes you were, so he could trade places with you...WHEREVER you are. He's not picky....really....

~~~~~

And now for the finale....

This past week was Bosses' Day. I work with a GREAT bunch of people, and even though I'd forgotten all about it, they remembered. To celebrate, they had lunch catered in last Friday. We had a good, old-fashioned Kansas City Bar-B-Que feast of beef, ham, turkey, sausage, ribs and chicken. They got potato salad, green salad, baked beans, and homemade pumpkin cake for dessert.

Not only that, but I got a rose and a card from the group.

You gotta love 'em. Every single last one of their little pointed heads. Every one.

~~~~~

And with that we move on. Blessed to be the mess I am. Blessed to be blessed.

~~~~~

Philippians 4:12b-13

I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.

Sixteen Candles

No more braces.

No more little girl.

She's sixteen, she's got her license, and she's ready to roll.

Watch out world!

Happy Birthday, Big Girl.

We love you!

James Dean's Got Nuthin' On Me

All those centuries ago when they celebrated the Grand Arrival of Me, they had no idea what they'd gotten themselves into.

For that matter, neither did I.

Oh, I'm sure they had some idea when I refused to pull up my own panties after going to the bathroom, or poured my milk down the driveway as my father was washing the car because I didn't like it, or cut my sister's hair with paper doll scissors when she was a baby. I'm sure they knew something was up later on when I locked my sister in the bathroom and told her Mom had gone down the bathtub drain and would never be coming home again. They weren't surprised when I used to make Sis have fudgesicle races with me to see who could eat one the fastest, then after she'd gobbled hers down I'd sit and tantalize her with mine just to be mean. They knew they were in for it when I would run crying from the room at some perceived slight to either slam my bedroom door and throw myself wailing across the bed, or tear out of the house and down the street to the park to ruminate in tears over the Unfairness of It All.

And it only got worse.

They stood by as I broke not only my ankle, but the hearts of tens of boys. But it didn't end there. They saw my heart broken by tens of boys in return. They watched as I went down many wrong roads, and let me get lost enough to find myself. It all took years. And years. And years.

I was and am a rebel. I have always had to live through the bad parts in order to appreciate the good parts. It's something I've never outgrown.

It's something I really hate about myself.

You see, I always wanted to be the good girl. I always wanted to be the one who always obeyed, who always set a good example for others, who always made her bed, helped little old ladies across the street, and ate her liver and onions with a smile. I really did.

I wanted to dress up every day, apply the perfect makeup, be part of the perfect family, do good deeds, rush home to do my homework, fly through my chores, and do the very best I could at my part-time job. I wanted to be an honor student, a cheerleader, a member of both the band and the orchestra, an actress, and to win every scholarship known to man.

But I got in the way of me.

(To Be Continued....)

Really, It Would Be Pathetic If It Wasn't So Sad And All...

Yesterday I got a haircut.

Let me insert here that I have let my hair grow out Quite A Bit from the lovely picture you see at the right of the screen. It's now sort of a long bob-ish thing. Oh, and I wear glasses almost all of the time now so as to block my super-hero-type eyes from boring holes into furniture and dogs and small children.

Well, that and to be able to... uh... SEE and all....

You know how it is.

The one thing I did not like about the newish do was the length of my bangs.

Now, my hairdresser and I go WAY back. We both chipped stone tablets for Mr. Slate at the quarry in Bedrock back in the olden days, until she got a better job cutting hair for a living. And she's cut my hair for lo! more years than I can count. We've been through curly perms, loose perms, short perms, long layers, short layers, mullets, all one length of various lengths, a rainbow of colors and everything else you can imagine in our years together. She was the one who fashioned hairstyles for me and my dear stepdaughter for my wedding, and she eventually did DSD's hair for her own wedding. She now does the hair of not only me, my stepdaughter and my daughter, but my husband's ex-wife as well.

We're a close-knit bunch.

Ahem.

For years and years and years I have argued with my Most Excellent Hairdresser about one thing, and one thing only. The length of bangs.

You see, she is from the Let 'Em Hang In Your Eyes school of thought, and I, being almost blind anyway (see above), am from the Cut 'Em High College. I mean really, why did God invent eyebrows if they weren't meant to be seen? And so each and every time I have visited my dear friend we have had The Bang Discussion, whether it be for me or for my daughter.

The ex-wife can handle her own, thankyouverymuch.

Yesterday I walked in looking somewhat like Shep, the Faithful Sheepdog, and told her in no uncertain terms that there would be no argument this time, and that I wanted ONE WHOLE INCH cut off of my bangs. I would settle for no less. And I MEANT it.

And yea, verily, the heavens did echo with the sound of her laughter.

But I stood firm, Ladies and Gentlemen. I stood Oh, So Very Firm in my resolve even as she regaled me with verbal assaults.

"Do you realize that if I cut ONE WHOLE INCH off your bangs you will look like your MOTHER cut them??"

Uh, no I won't. I'm paying YOU to make them EVEN. Mom never could get the knack of that.

"I ought to do it, you know, just to show you how silly it will look. I really should. Because you'll look like you're three years old instead of fifty...."

And someone's STOPPING you? I mean really, I love this woman dearly, but sometimes....

So she did it.

I have to admit that my rear end chewed a little tobacco as I heard the scissors close together for the first cut and I realized I'd possibly made a Serious Hair Mistake. However, there was face to be saved, and so I sallied forth...as only truly idiotic people can do.

Today I can safely say I finally got what I wanted from her. I can actually see without swiping my bangs to one side, and I have found the Island of Lost Eyebrows.

But I think I'll have her wait for a while to trim them. Because this fifty-year-old that looks like a three-year-old has to put her foot down every once in a while just to show that SHE'S NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!!

And I think you can see how VERY mature I've become about the whole thing.

Next time I think we'll go for a half-inch compromise.

This Is Going To Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You...

WANNA BET???

When I was little and would get a spanking from Mother or Daddy, it used to make me cry and cry as it would any good-as-gold-and-particularly-undeserving-of-any-punishment-whatsoever-especially-the-corporal-kind child. I used to wail and weep and gnash my teeth after such a whoopin', and I cried so hard it wore me out. When I mentioned it to Dad, how I got so sleepy after I got spanked, he started calling my punishments "sedatives" as a kind of joke.

Yeah, Dad. Real funny.

When my daughter was four I gave her a spanking for something she had done that she was not supposed to. Rather than cry her eyes out, she packed her little preschool backpack with a pair of underwear, her doll, some "crowns" (crayons, for those of us who speak four-year-old), some books, and various things to eat. She then proceeded to tell me she was running away. When I asked her why, she said, "Because you 'panked my butt!"

Duh.

And she proceeded to walk out the door.

And I let her.

And I videotaped the whole thing.

At the time we lived on a corner lot. She walked down the driveway to the street and stopped. Then she turned and followed the edge of the yard all the way around the corner, all the way up the hill and into our back yard. She went along the back of the back yard and down the other side to the front, then back to the driveway. And she repeated this little walk several times.

Because she wasn't allowed to cross the street.

It brought back such memories for me! Because folks, that apple fell straight from the tree.

Oh yes, it did.

At the tender age of five I remember packing a hard-sided suitcase that was bigger than I was with a coloring book, dolls, and underwear. Because after all, you always have to have clean underwear.

I announced to Mother that I was leaving. I was running away and she would be sorry. She would cry and she would miss me, but I was going and she couldn't stop me.

To my surprise, she didn't try to stop me. Instead, she wished me well and told me she was sorry I'd miss the lemonade and hotdogs we were having for dinner, as well as the drive-in movie we were going to see that night.

It was Pinnochio. The year was 1962.

I clunked off down the street (because I was allowed to cross the street in those days) and got about halfway down the block before I decided that maybe Mother had learned her lesson. Besides that, I was getting hungry and those hotdogs sounded really good. I might even be persuaded to eat one if she was really nice to me. And if she treated me REALLY well, I'd even go to the show with her and Daddy to see Pinnochio. After all, they'd need someone to explain it to them.

My daughter lasted a lot longer than I did. She was out in the yard for almost an hour before she finally came in and told me she was moving back home.

I was glad. I missed her. And in her honor we had hotdogs for dinner and watched a video of Pinnochio.

Just like old times.