The Lines On My Face

So recently I've been noticing a couple of new crease lines on my cheek.  What the heck?  They're not crows feet, I've got those a little higher up next to my eyes.  At first I thought it was just pillow lines, but I was noticing them lo-n-g  after I got out of bed.  What the...I never saw anyone with lines like these.  Oh well, I'm almost 60, so I guess it's just old age. Figured I'd just have to find some new kind of makeup that would fill them in, like spackle.  Yuck.  Another age thing.

But wait.  One day I was talking on my iPhone and after I got off I looked in the mirror for some reason.  The creases!!  They were really prominent.

DUH!  I've been using only my iPhone recently because I'm travelling and have all my calls forwarded.  It's not old age creases. 

It's iPhace!

P.S. Tomorrow is my 60th birthday. Glad I could make myself laugh. 

Facebook Caper

This is a good one.  I was reading the newspaper the other day and there was an article COMPLETE WITH PHOTO about a young guy who got caught for robbery because he posted a photo of himself on Facebook holding a big wad of cash.  This, after recently posting that he was flat broke and out of work. 

Now, meanwhile, a Dollar General store VERY close to this guy's house had been robbed.   Of a big bunch of cash and some other stuff. 

His own Facebook photo showed him grinning away with this wad of cash in his fist, and also visible in the photo were a few items identifiable from the Dollar General robbery. 

Apparently  the police are now using Facebook as an evidence-gathering resource and they couldn't help but notice the stupid idiot with the cash.  So they arrested him, and sure enough, he did the robbery.

Well, my late husband, who just never could understand the big deal with Facebook, always said somebody should start an Assbook.  I think we just found our first member.

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The Elephant in the Room

Well, I think I only have two options here:  either scrap this blog altogether and shut it down, or acknowledge the elephant in the room and write about it.  So here goes.

My husband died last month on February 25th.  My joined-at-the-hip best friend husband.  He had been feeling poorly but I really thought he'd go to the doctor, find out what was going on, and get it fixed.  But no.  It was cancer.  Again. And this time it attacked with a vengeance and took him fast.  One week in the hospital, that's all.  Of course, I must quickly add that this is exactly the way he would have wanted it.  In fact he said it many times.  When a friend died last year and we were told that he had been feeling perfectly all right, then felt bad, then went into the hospital on a Friday and died the next Friday, Buddy said "He's my hero."  In other words, no hanging on with tubes and treatments, just shuffle on out of here.  And that's the exact thing that happened to Buddy.  We performed a show on a Tuesday, he went in the hospital that Friday, and died the next Friday.   My hero.

God was very good to him.  Merciful.  Took him Home quickly.  Although that hell-week in the hospital seemed like an eternity to me, it was really just the blink of an eye.  So thank you God.  And I mean that.

So for a little over a month I have been living day to day in a new reality.  Friends, neighbors and family are absolutely wonderful to me.  And they are keeping my head above water.  Of course I must add to this that I am lifted up in a most miraculous way by the Presence of God.  Even in my worst pain and my biggest ugly cry, I know He is here with me, holding me.  I admit I can't always feel it.  But still I know it.  And this is the meaning of faith.  "Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."  God is here, and miracles are everywhere.

I have been talking on the phone with my old college roomie (sorry about the 'old'), who also lost her husband to cancer just a little over six months ago.  This is kind of crazy.  The two of us both lost our husbands within six months of each other.  How did we go from talking about our wild and crazy sworn-to-secrecy college days, to talking about how we're coping without our husbands?  I think there may be a novel or a movie in there, but that's for another time.

So I just had to get it out there.  I had to write that it happened.  I won't always write about it, but probably will write about it sometimes.  Maybe the 'Widows Club' is another whole blog. I don't know. 

But I do know that I will also still write about things that strike me funny, or stuff that strikes me as odd or ironic.  Because I'm still me, and I still laugh, and I still like to write, and I still find humor in life. 

And I still know that God is good, and this life isn't the end of it all.  So why not poke fun at it. 
Hey, you gotta laugh.

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Recycle, Re-use and Don't Stub Your Toe

Don't you just love finding a use for something you would have thrown away or stashed in the back of the closet?  And don't you just love when you figure out how to solve a problem using that thing you were going to throw or stash? 

So here's my story.
Part One:  Several years ago my sister-in-law gave me a pair of Bugs Bunny slippers.  Mostly as a joke because she knew I kind of accumulated bunnies of all types.  I hesitate to say collected because it was mostly unintentional, this accumulation of bunnies.  (Or "fuzzy Americans" as my husband called them.)  Anyhow, I actually wore the slippers for awhile because they were really soft and cushy under my feet.  But we live in Florida, and I hit menopause, and that pretty much put a stop to wearing anything - even on my feet - that might cause me to sweat.  So I retired the slippers to the back of the aforementioned closet.

Part Two:  Buddy and I both had a painful habit of stubbing our toes (more like ramming them full on) on the leg of our bed.  Much hopping around.  Many bad words. 

The Solution:  Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words.....

YOU JUST KNOW THERE'S A LEG UNDER THERE WAITING IN AMBUSH FOR INNOCENT TOES.

AM I A GENIUS OR WHAT????

No more painful toes.  And Bugs looks so happy.

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The Target

"Squadron, this is Wing Leader.  How y'all doing out there?"

 "A-OK, Wing Leader, we're holding formation, awaiting your orders Sir."

 "Good.  Now listen men,  I want you to keep a tight formation as we approach the target."

"Roger Wing Leader, we're with you."

 "Roger that.  Now heads up everyone.  Target dead ahead, twelve o'clock."

"Roger that, Wing Leader.  Locked on target."

 "All right men, this is it.   Bombs away!"

 *

*

*

*

*

 (As I write this, Buddy's already at the car wash.)

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The Anniversary Dinner

Monday was our 18th wedding anniversary.  It's a little embarrassing to say this, but now we have finally been married for as many years as we lived together before we were married. Can anyone say "commitment issues?"  Anyway, we have now been together for 36 years and we've never been happier together. And it makes me happy to say that.

We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner.  We chose our anniversary restaurant with utmost care.  Which means that in true Florida geezer tradition, we chose the restaurant we had a gift certificate for.  A nice little Italian restaurant nearby.  That's the other Florida geezer rule of thumb.... find a restaurant nearby where you don't have to drive far to get back home afterward.  We did, however, make one exception to the geezer code;  we opted NOT to go for the early bird.  In fact, it was actually almost dark when we entered the restaurant. 

We were greeted by somebody's mother, wearing an apron and a poker face.  As she led us to our table, we immediately noticed that they had "entertainment" in the dining room. There was a man playing the piano and singing, very nicely dressed and somewhere between eighty and a hundred years old.  It was hard to tell.  As we entered the dining room he gave us a friendly wave as he pumped out the last few strains of "My Blue Heaven."  Thankfully we were seated as far away from him as was geographically possible.  But make no mistake, we were still able to enjoy his rendition of "Piano Roll Blues" and several other songs from the post Civil War era.   His playing was sprinkled throughout with the occasional sour note,  or as we say in the vernacular of the music business, clam.  We settled into our seats as they dimmed the lights and Mr. Piano began crooning, "All of me... why not (clam) take all of me.."   It was delightful.

We had a really nice waittress who took very good care of us. She brought us glasses of wine, we ordered appetizers, and we settled in for a fine evening of dining on our anniversary.  As we sat and talked and enjoyed our wine, we must have passed through a time zone of some sort during which Mr. Piano shifted from his cocktail set into his lively numbers.  When he launched into "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" it took me so completely by surprise, I thought my Pinot Grigio would come out through my nose.  Oh man, he was really rockin' -  in a dixieland swing kind of way.  The clams came fast and furious then, and I'm not talking about our appetizers.

Well, the evening was lovely, actually.  The food was good, the service was good, and of course there was the gift certificate.  Near the end of our meal, my husband excused himself to use the men's room, and when he came back he told me about this stuff they had in there, some kind of scented scrub, that you work into your hands and then rinse off.  He said it was in a bowl next to the sink, with a spoon in it to scoop some out.  He offered his hand for me to smell.  It smelled of mint.  He said the sign called the stuff "salts of the sea" or something, and today's scent was mint.  Nice.  He insisted that I be sure and go to the ladies room so I could experience this new thing.  So I did.  In the ladies room the scent of the day was pomegranate.  There was the bowl of this orange colored sherbet-looking stuff with the spoon and the sign.  All I could think was I sure hoped no one went in there really drunk and ate a spoonful of the stuff, cause it actually looked kind of appetizing.  Anyway, I used it and it smelled nice. I reported back to him and offered my fruity hand for him to smell.  We were having a grand time.

So we finished our meal, paid the check, tipped the waittress and my husband made a point of walking over and leaving a nice tip in Mr. Piano's tip jar.  After all, that could be us in a few short years. Mr. Piano thanked him and asked if we had a favorite song we'd like to hear.  "Oh no no, thanks, we're just leaving!" he said cheerfully.  We hurried toward the door and out into the night air. 

When we got in the car we agreed what a nice evening it was.  After a few moments he said, boy that mint smell is really strong, huh?  And I said I couldn't tell, all I could smell was pomegranate.  The smell seemed to intensify as we drove home and soon the whole car smelled of pomegranate mint.  Unique.  I finally sat on my hands until we could get home where I tried washing it off.  Uh uh.  Still there.  That's okay, we knew it would go away eventually.

So end of story, we had a really nice anniversary.  We always enjoy each other's company, and that's just the greatest thing. Maybe next year we'll try a different restaurant.  One with a soap dispenser.

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It's Officially a Non-Day

It's January 1st, but I have decided to postpone the new year.  I've decided 2012 will begin tomorrow.

Look, today is just not the day to start a new year.  First of all, it's a holiday - New Year's Day - and it's the day after whoop-dee-doo New Year's Eve.  (Which for me is not nearly as much whoop as it used to be, by the way. Instead of my usual one glass of wine with dinner last night, I had an extra half glass.  Oohhhhh  Whoop.)  But on top of that, it's Sunday.  A day of rest.  I'm sorry, but all those new year's resolutions and eager self-improvement ideas in my head are just going to have to wait a day. I can't pull it off today.  I'm taking the day off.  Suspending time for just a bit. 

Tomorrow, that's when I will begin 2012.  Tomorrow I will start writing that novel.  Tomorrow I will begin taking daily walks.  Tomorrow I will go grocery shopping and fill my cart with healthy food.  Tomorrow I will.....wait a minute.  If today is New Year's Day and it's Sunday, then tomorrow is the legal holiday.  It's another day off. 

Cool.  I guess I'm going to begin 2012 on Tuesday. 

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Vacuum Update

Okay, I did it.  I vacuumed, and I mean with the "real" vacuum this time.  The big, bulky, heavy, behemoth, domestic T-Rex version.

Sure enough, I scarred some more furniture, stubbed my toe on the thing, caught the on-board tools on a wire shelf  in the office and turned it over, missed three phone calls and a neighbor's knock on the door because of the Boeing 747 decibel roar of the damn thing. 

Did I mention that I hate vacuuming?

Oh, and really I have no excuse.  Our condo is barely 1100 square feet, and I only have to plug the monster in one spot to clean the whole place.  Well, now I'm a little ashamed. Nevertheless, the bathroom is just going to have to wait.  I'm all sweaty and I have to bandage my toe.

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Housekeeping My Way

I am not a great housekeeper.  I was going to say I'm a terrible housekeeper, but that's a little overstated.  I mean, my house is orderly, I'm not a hoarder or anything.  I don't have piles and piles of accumulated trash all over the house with a dead flat cat at the bottom of it all.  (I actually saw that on TV.  And by the way, when did a "horribly dirty messy person"  become a "hoarder"?  Probably about the same time a "brat" became "A.D.D.".  But I digress.) 

Anyway, because I use one of those lightweight rechargeable carpet sweepers every day or so to police the littered landscape of visible crumbs and assorted nuts around our couch (the detritus of our nightly TV snacking frenzy), I literally cannot remember the last time I actually vacuumed.  I mean beater-brush Hoover kind of vacuuming. I cannot remember.

I absolutely hate "real" vacuuming. I am not good at it.  I bump into furniture with the stupid thing, I knock stuff over, I get mad and yank the dining room chairs out of the way, flinging them headlong into more unsuspecting furniture, I just hate it. I pretty much hate anything requiring "elbow grease".  For instance, I also hate mopping, like with a bucket and everything.  So I use the Swiffer wet mop method on the kitchen floor.  Easy peasy. 

Actually, I have several "methods" of housekeeping to trick myself into at least attempting to clean.  Which, as I mentioned, I hate. One such method is the very reliable "Kleenex method" of bathroom cleaning, taught to me by my late mother-in-law, whereby you simply grab a few Kleenex from the tissue box nearby, and deftly wipe up the unsightly water spots and schmutz around your bathroom sink and toilet.  Voila! And lest you think this is a wasteful practice, let me assure you that Kleenex are a completely renewable resource.  There are LOTS more boxes of them at the store. 

Other "methods" include the scatter-shot method, where I bounce from mess to mess with no plan nor forethought.  ("Oh look, there's a smudge on that mirror.  Better wipe that off.  Ooh, there's a spot on the rug over there, better spot clean that with the spray cleaner.  Oops, there's makeup on the dresser, better wipe that off."  Etcetera.)  Also the "do one thing today" method, because it's all I can handle.  Like the aforementioned vacuuming.  And of course, the "one room at a time" method.  I just finished one of these in our bedroom.  I did a fairly thorough top to bottom cleaning, (how do the baseboards get like that?) taking my time and stretching it out throughout the day. Of course, now I'm so traumatized by the herculean effort, I'm not sure when I'll get to the next room.  Maybe by December sometime.

Oddly, I do not hate doing laundry, although I simply "forget" to do it until the hamper begins to bulge and vibrate and spit sleeves and socks out its mouth. And someday I'll tell you about my patented "magic fold" of bedsheets, that allows you to place the clean folded sheet back on the bed in such a way that you casually pull back the folds and replace your sheet perfectly without all the wild flapping and running laps around the mattress.  Got your interest, haven't I?

Well, now that I have cleansed my soul, and confessed my domestic shortcomings, I think I'll take a nap.  The bed's all made and it's the only room in the house that's clean.

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Bran Power

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I make these bran muffins.  They are, well... therapeutic... as well as quite delicious.  I have tried various recipes over the years, beginning with a recipe that used regular bran flakes cereal as the main ingredient.  They were nice muffins.  But my current version, uses the kind of bran cereal that contains FOURTEEN grams of fiber per half cup serving.  They are little sticks of dynamite in a box.  I call the new resulting muffins my WMD's. 

One day, back when I first started making these muffins, our air conditioning guy (who is also a friend of ours)  happened to be here, so I gave him a couple to take home.  He called me two days later to tell me, in his quiet and slow deliberate voice, "Those muffins were not only delicious, they had an excellent result."  (His exact words.)  From that day forward, whenever we referred him to a new customer, or he ran into anyone who knows us he would regale them with tales of my very effective muffins.  Strange but true. I guess you never know what someone will remember you for.  Perhaps my epitaph should be "Her muffins were delicious and they had an excellent result." 

Anyway, in keeping with the Fall harvest season upon us, I have recently been adding pumpkin to my muffin recipe.  Oh boy.  More fiber.  

So, I guess I just wanted to say....oops.  Gotta go.

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Ten Years Ago 9/11

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For my generation and older, it's been said that you never forget where you were when you heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot. I was sitting on a school bus in the parking lot of my grammar school, waiting for our driver to pull out and take us home at the end of our school day. But before we drove anywhere, a teacher boarded the bus and told us the terrible news.


At least that's the way I remember it. But I was a kid, and my childhood memories are always part fact and part fill-in-the-blank. So who knows whether that's exactly how it went?

But ten years ago, on September 11, I was a grown-up, and I do remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when the news of an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center hit the airwaves. Buddy and I were taking showers, shaving, getting dressed and putting on make-up, getting ready to perform a matinee show for a group of senior citizens who were coming by bus to see us at Tillman's Village Inn in Albion, NY.

At first it seemed that the first plane may have been a horrible accident. Then it became clear: No accident. Terrorist attack. The scenes on TV, so sickeningly familiar now, were unbelievable at the time. In a daze, we just kept getting ready to do our show, because we knew that the busload of people, from a town three hours away, were already on their way to see us when it all happened. We didn't even know if they knew. They were just on a fun day trip, going to see some entertainment, have lunch, and enjoy the rural scenery.

So we went to the Village Inn, and waited for the bus to arrive. We were all dressed up, our PA equipment was turned on and ready to go. The staff, the owners, the chef, and us, all wandering around in a fog, wondering if we should go ahead with the meal and the show. Would the people even want to, once they found out? Was it the right thing to do? Put on a show and smile and sing and entertain, while this horror was unfolding in our country?

The bus pulled into the parking lot and Buddy and I went out to meet them. This time, I was the one boarding the bus with the terrible news. But it turned out they already knew. Someone had called the driver on his cell phone, and he had relayed the news to them.

So Buddy said, "Well, what do you want to do? We'll do whatever you decide. Do you want to cancel the show?"

One gentleman in the back said, "We've been through this before. We went through World War II and one thing we know is, we're not gonna let them ruin our way of life. On with the show!"

The whole busload loudly agreed, and we all went inside and carried on with the day we had planned.

We gave them a show. We sang, we entertained, and we even managed to laugh a little. But instead of ending the show with our usual "Happy Trails to You", we sang "Proud to Be An American", and "God Bless America". During that last song, as everyone stood, clasped hands with each other and raised them high above their heads, singing their hearts out, I realized that this was the tower they couldn't bring down; a shining tower of American strength, faith, and determination.

"We will never forget."

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YES! Pantyhose are back!

Funny how things happen.  The last few days I SWEAR I've been thinking of blogging about how I miss seeing stockings on women's legs.  How I just think bare legs look awful sticking out under a dressy dress.  Not to mention the bare feet stuffed into those long pointy toe high heels.  AND WOULDN'T YOU KNOW, just last night I saw an article on Yahoo! News (and as we all  know, Yahoo! News is our most trusted source in global news, followed closely only by the Associated Press and Reuters) proclaiming that Kate Middleton, Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Cambridge herself, has put an end to the bare leg trend by wearing pantyhose!  Hooray!

Of course I, for one, never stopped wearing them.  And in fact, only noticed recently that I seem to be the only hold-out.  When did pantyhose go OUT anyway?  Which fashionista fart-head declared the ban?  I slowly began to notice that NOBODY was wearing them anymore.  Apparently it was 'SO EIGHTIES' to wear them.  So 'last millenium'.  On the two or three occasions that I have actually worn a dress in the last decade, I could feel the pity and scorn as people glanced at my hosed legs and quickly looked away. 

Well that's all over now!!  Thank you Kate for bringing reason and civility back to our appendages.  PLUS you may have noticed that her bra straps do not show.  Thank you!!  And Prince William keeps his boxers discreetly hidden beneath his trousers, which by the way seem to sit elegantly at his waist, not his crotch.  Thank you!!

So it seems the royal family has a purpose after all.  Keep up the good work, Your Highnesses. 

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Sunrise Service

6:55 AM.  I am sitting on the lanai, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the sunrise.  It's already light out, but the sun has not yet risen over the trees.  I'm waiting to see that first shaft of orange sunlight wash across the rooftops. 

I'm having my own Sunrise Service this Easter morning.  Waiting.  Listening. 
A joyful-sounding mockingbird is my church choir, along with assorted other birds singing their own songs. 
(I can see the mockingbird perched on the peak of the roof next door.  A constant stream of ever-changing notes, nuances, and rhythm patterns fill the air with crystal clarity.  An impressive string of vocalizations, all unique and totally different from each other, emanate from this little bird. How does he do that?  Why does he do that? One of God's many delightful mysteries.) 

Just now I got a sweet scent of flowers coming from the bush just outside the screen.   My incense.

I can hear the faint sound of traffic on the nearby interstate.  Occasionally the distinctive sound of a trailer truck downshifting, or a motorcycle speeding up, reaches my ears and I think, "Someone is driving that truck and I am connected to him.  Someone is riding that motorcycle and I am connected to him."  I ask God to bless them and keep them safe today.  I can see the white trail of a jet plane flying overhead - way up high - and I ask God to bless and protect all the people inside that tiny dot in the sky. 

Oh, a couple of Sandhill Cranes, with their clattery, metallic voices, have just joined the choir, and the sweet floral scent just intensified a bit.  This is a great service so far. 

A single phrase has been repeating itself in my head ever since I woke up:  "The stone is rolled away."  I sit quietly and let the phrase repeat as the morning grows ever brighter.  And there it is...that first shaft of sunlight shining on the rooftops.  I love it.

Another Sandhill Crane flies overhead.  It's a huge bird.  It's so big one wonders how could it possibly fly?

One wonders.  Jesus was so dead, how could he possibly live?  But he did. And he does. 

"The stone is rolled away."  Hallelujah!  The Son has risen!

Happy Easter Everyone

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My Mother's Shaver

I've never been a razor person when it comes to shaving my legs.  My mother always used an electric shaver, so that's what I did too when I began to sprout leg hair in the mid-sixties.  In fact, I used hers until I moved out and went to college.  Since then I've had several shavers that were adequate for keeping my legs sufficiently mowed,  but none were ever quite as good as Mom's Lady Remington.  Whenever I would come home for a visit, I'd always grab Mom's shaver out of the dresser drawer where it lived and indulge in a really close, smooth shave. 

After my mother died in 1991, sure enough, I found my old friend, Lady Remington, still in the same dresser drawer, still in the original box, and still fully operational.  No one objected when I claimed it for myself.  You guessed it.   I'm still using it. 

Since it's still in its original 1960's box, the instruction book is also still there, along with the little brush that Mom taught me to clean it with after every use.  The shaver still lives in its original container, inside the original cardboard box.  You can see its clever design in the photo.  (Yes, I just took that photo yesterday.)  The top swivels away to reveal the first chamber with electrical cord and brush, then that chamber swivels away to reveal the Lady Remington herself nestled in the bottom chamber.  Genius.  All the swivels still work, of course.  I also mentioned that the instruction manual is still in the box with it, albeit crumpled a bit.  I couldn't resist showing you the pages instructing you how to shave first your legs, then your armpits.  Glad they cleared that up.

You know you can't even find a woman's shaver with an electrical cord anymore?  And I love the little switches on either side of the shaver that change the heads from "legs" to "arms" position.  The detail!
And I believe it was actually made in the USA.  I know the booklet says "printed in the USA" on the back.  Even that's unusual these days.   (Most instruction manuals nowadays have instructions like "you must to attach tab in shlot in to thee back". Probably not printed in the USA.)

Anyway, I'm proud to still be using my Mom's Lady Remington.  It's still the best shaver ever.  I'd put it up against a stone cold razor any day.  Who wants to challenge me?  Anyone?

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Spider

I was going through my past blog posts and discovered a few that I apparently started years ago, and saved as drafts, but never finished, and never posted.  So since we're getting ready to make one of our trips up North in a few weeks, and stay with Dad, I thought I'd just go ahead and post this old one.  It's just such a typical day at Dad's.

(From September 24, 2006)

We're visiting here "up North", where we spend several months each year staying with my dad. So yesterday morning I was downstairs making coffee, talking with Dad as he made his breakfast, and he said, "Oh by the way, did you happen to look out the dining room window?" No, I said. "Go take a look," he said. So I did and what I saw was a spider the size of a small frog resting comfortably in the middle of a gigantic web strung on the outside of the window. Whoa. Big fella. Well we both admired the workmanship of the web, with its perfect spoke design and all, but mostly I was grossed out by the size, form and up-closeness of Spider Kong. I don't like bugs, especially spiders. But even though it gave me the heebie jeebies, I admit I was fascinated. While we watched, he pushed off from his perch, repelled downward on a tiny thread from his butt, hastily repaired a flaw in the web, and ascended back up the thread to his resting spot. Smooth and efficient. So I called upstairs to my husband. "Hey, Honey, you gotta come down here and see this spider. It's huge!" "Just a minute", he said. In a few moments he appeared, holding two cans of insect spray, one in each hand like six-shooters. "Where is it?" he demanded.
"No, no, it's outside," I said, "Look here". He looked, but was unimpressed with our admiration. He kept insisting he could go outside and blast him to kingdom come with one shot. I admit that would normally be my own reaction, but I had too much respect for this guy. And besides, I was comforted by the fact that this particular spider was actually too big to get in through any cracks he might find.

_ _ _

Say "Cheese"

I was looking through my oldest photo album yesterday, the one my mom actually started for me when I was just a wee lass.  (Okay, I'm not really Irish.)  Anyway, there, tucked in the back, were all the 8X10 class photos from kindergarten through sixth grade.  I've glanced through these occasionally over the years, amazed at how many kids' names I still remember, and chuckling over the GLASSES we wore. 

Anyway, my favorite is the kindergarten class picture.  For some ill-conceived reason, someone decided the picture should be taken outdoors on the playground.  Bright sunlight. And anyone who's ever taken a photograph on any camera knows that the photographer stands with his back to the sun, leaving the subjects to directly face the sun and try to smile while squinting and frying their retinas.  Add a slight breeze to ruffle the hair a bit, and you've got a recipe for photographic failure. 

Now, here's my favorite part;  when the photographer says "Say cheese", as he clearly did right before this picture was snapped, he's SUPPOSED to capture the "ee" part of the word, not the "CH" part of the word.
Guess nobody told him that.  So, here is the photo.  (You can click on it and it should come up in a separate window where you can really appreciate it.) 

And by the way, I count no less than nine missing teeth among us.

Ready?

Here we go....

Say CHeese!!!

(Okay, that's me top left.) 

- - - 

EAT PRAY LOVE YADDA YADDA YADDA

We just watched the movie "Eat Pray Love" last night (from the book by the same name).  I won't say I couldn't relate to the soul-searching, self-seeking main character Liz (the author of the original book), but I will say I haven't related to her for about 35 years.

Back in my early womanhood, if I had seen this movie, or read this book, I would have packed my bags for Italy and then booked a meditation room in an Ashram in Bali.  Well not really, because I didn't have any money.  But I would have been trying to figure out a way to do it.  Back then I was constantly trying to figure myself out.   Delving into various forms of philosophical bull poop to find meaning in life.  I had a need to figure out my place in the world.  Or something like that.  I guess I just wanted to know what to believe.  Who was right?  Whose ideas were the real deal?  What author, philosopher, guru, thinker, seeker or wise man should I believe.  Which one had the real answers?

Yuh.  Like that was the way to go.

Anyway, it was just kind of interesting to sit there watching this movie, realizing that it could have been me 35 years ago, and yet feeling none of the angst any more.  I can remember feeling it, but I'm amused by it now.

I do want to clear one thing up.  There is a moment in the movie when Liz has this epiphany about God.  In the big aha moment, she says, "I realize now that God lives within me, as me."  She repeats it for effect.  It sounds so profound, but it's not. Because it's not right.  It's not accurate.

God does live within me.  But not as me.  He lives within me as the Holy Spirit, which is entirely Him, not me.
If God lived within me as me, it would mean that I'm my own God.  That's absurd.
No, He lives within me as the Holy Spirit.  And the Holy Spirit doesn't conform to me, I conform to Him.  We become One, not because God yields to my personality, but because I willingly yield to Him.

I just wanted to straighten that out.  It was on my mind all day today since I saw the movie.

I gotta give credit to my husband, by the way,  who watched the whole estrogen-laden story with me. I never once noticed a gag response, although I'm sure they were there.  Even I had them.

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A Little Thanksgiving Story

 In honor of Thanksgiving, here is a little story I wrote a few years back.  
Have a Blessed Day.
________________

There once was a woman who just loved the Lord. In fact, she loved Him so much she was bursting with the desire to do something for Him. So she exclaimed, "Oh Lord, here I am! Use me! Just tell me what it is you want me to do. I'm ready. I'll do whatever you want, no matter how big, no matter how hard! Just tell me what it is. I'll be listening, Lord. In the meantime, I'll just go about my business. But rest assured, I'll be listening for your great command."

So the woman went to the supermarket to do her grocery shopping. As she circled the lot for a parking space, she spied a good spot right near the entrance. But just as she got near it, she noticed that someone else in another car was also approaching the same space. "Oh well", she thought, "they might need it more than I do. I'll let them have this one. I'll find another." And she waved them into the space and found another one, further away. As she walked toward the store, she noticed an elderly woman having trouble getting her groceries into her car from the little motorized scooter she was driving. So the woman went to her and helped her get the groceries in the car, then helped her from the scooter into the driver's seat. "Don't worry," she said, "I'll see that this scooter gets back to the store. You have a nice day now."

At the entrance to the store, some people were collecting money for disabled veterans, so the woman dug in her purse and pulled out a five dollar bill, which she tucked into the collection jar. She also noticed a homeless man sitting on the ground outside the store. She said a little prayer for him and went on inside.

The woman did all her grocery shopping, then stopped by the deli counter and ordered a sandwich. She thanked the deli man for making such a nice sandwich, and then took her cart to the checkout. As she stood in line, she couldn't help but notice that the young mother checking out in front of her didn't have enough money to pay the cashier. She was short two dollars. So the woman quietly handed her two dollar bills and gave her a wink. The young mother thanked her from the bottom of her heart, and her baby even smiled and gurgled for her.

As the woman left the store with her cart, she turned and walked to the homeless man sitting on the ground. Without a word, she reached into one of her bags, pulled out the deli sandwich, and handed it to him. "God bless you, Sir", she said.

When she got home, she sat wearily in her chair and once again spoke to God. "Well Lord, I'm a little disappointed. You never told me what it is I can do for you today. Oh well, maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll just go about my business.."

The Great Pool Adventure

So here we are, back in Florida after a wonderful trip up North.  Glad to be back, but sad to leave my Dad and family once again. More about Dad later....meanwhile....

Now this is big news....we've actually gone in the pool TWICE this week.  I know, huh?
  
Wait, what do you mean, 'so what'?  This is huge for us.  We live literally 50 paces from the pool, and I cannot remember the last time we went  for a dip.  And I do mean I can't remember what year it was.  But this was really great.  I even swam a lap.  (I'm never sure if a 'lap' is all the way to the end and back again, or just one way.  If it's just one way, then I did two laps.)  We were inspired to go in the pool because there are so few people around our condo complex now that it's off-season.  Usually the pool is teeming with other people, often including their offspring and grandchildren.  This is a turn-off to us.  We have an aversion to water wings and pool noodles.  But summertime is different.  Our little community shrinks to a handful of year-round residents and the place is all ours.  Not that this has made much difference in our pool activity, or lack thereof, in the past few years.  We're just not pool people.  We are also not beach people.  In fact, you should have seen us searching for bathing suits and beach towels once we decided to take the plunge (so to speak).  "Hey Honey, would you look in my bottom drawer and see if I have a pair of swim trunks in there?"  Now, you may ask why my husband had to ask me to look in his bottom drawer. Well, I don't think I'm betraying a confidence if I tell you that by his own admission, he doesn't bend very well anymore. Bottom drawers are largely relegated to stuff he doesn't really use much.  This would of course include swim trunks. In fact, the last time he wore them, he could probably still bend.  Anyway....the ones he remembered from around 2001 were not there.  But we found a reasonable facsimile. 

I, on the other hand, knew exactly where my two bathing suits (circa 1994) were stored.  I found them toot sweet and after trying one of them on, quickly discovered that in 1994 I must have been considerably braver about revealing my body.  And my body must have been considerably more worthy of revealing.  (Duh!  Do the math.) So the skimpier of the two suits went directly into the Goodwill bag.  (Don't worry.  It's still like new.)  The other one is also a two-piece but the bottom half is more like a pair of shorts than a fabric swatch, so this was acceptable.  Husband found his one-and-only beach towel, which is a Budweiser promotional item we got from a restaurant where we used to work, and features a full size rendering of a voluptuous female in a bikini down the full length of the towel.   With the word 'Budweiser' emblazened across the top.  I dug around the linen closet and found an  over-sized bath towel that would suffice. It is pink. 

So now we step out into the 90 degree heat, ready to approach the pool area.  We didn't require any special equipment.  I brought my watch so we could keep track of the time.  That's about it. We spread our towels on a couple of lounge chairs, noting how grateful we were  no one was there to get a gander at the Budweiser beauty, and stepped into the pool, anticipating that bracing sensation of cool relief.

Bath water, that's what it was like.  It was hard to say which was warmer, the air or the water.  But no matter, We were IN THE POOL!  Hey, look at us!  We're IN THE POOL.  Splash splash, swim swim, bobbing up and down now.  Okay, that's enough. 

Now, to the lounge chairs!  Hey, look at us, we're SUNBATHING!  Vitamin D shines down on us and courses through our veins!  This is GREAT!

Flash forward ten minutes.  "Hey Honey, how long have we been out here?"

So we got wet, got our ten minutes of unadulterated Vitamin D, and decided that was enough.
But it was SO MUCH FUN we did it again two days later.  In fact, Husband went out and bought a new pair of swim trunks so we can do this ALL THE TIME.  Yea!
At this rate, I might even have a tan by September.

Enough

Enough is enough. 
I'm not saying that as some kind of I've-had-it declaration with an exclamation point at the end.   I mean it as a simple statement: "When we have enough it is enough."

At what point in our history did we start getting the idea that it's not enough to  have enough?  That we must have more?  I can remember reading some kind of self-help book or article back in the 80's and it advised emphatically "never be content".  Really?  I thought that's what we all wanted to ultimately achieve - peace and contentment.  But no.  Apparently it became the new sin of the 'me' generation to be content.  You must climb higher, achieve more, accumulate more wealth, power, and stuff.   I was still young and impressionable, and naively presumed that people who wrote books and conducted seminars must know what they're talking about, so I believed it.  And it made me unhappy.  Because I didn't have big goals and ambitions that I could write down and tape to my bathroom mirror and check off one by one.  Not the kind they were talking about anyway.

Now years later I find out that this way of thinking ultimately made most everybody unhappy.  Because they did buy into it.  After all, when you want more, you will always want more and you will never have enough, and you will never have any peace.  And I guess that was the problem.  At some point someone decided that 'peace' is not a good enough goal.  It became the norm to believe that "the one who dies with the most toys wins".

The term  "American Dream" was coined in the 1930's when people's hopes were for a better life.  It was based on the second sentence of the Declaration of Independence; the inalienable right of everyone to  "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness".   It came to represent the dream of owning your own home (possibly with a white picket fence) and the sense of safety and security that accompanied it.

When did that simple dream become the grossly bloated version that has dominated recent history?  When did we start buying into the propaganda that we must trade up, move up, have a bigger home, and much MUCH bigger bank accounts?  People thought those things would bring them happiness.  But it's just the opposite.  Unhappiness and unrest rule the day.  The American Dream run amuck is evidenced by the sorry state we find  ourselves in right now. 

Enough should be enough. 

But as usual, God works in mysterious ways.  I won't go so far as to say that foreclosures and bankruptcies are blessings. That would be an insult to people in pain.  But running parallel to those sad tales are stories of families spending more time together around the dining room table.  People are re-evaluating what's truly important.  An up-tick in volunteerism is emerging. A lot of people are beginning to understand the folly of 'more is better'. Folks are scaling back and trimming away the unnecessary clutter we've stupidly striven for to reveal the lean essence of what is good and lovely.

I pray for a 'renewing of our minds' and a turning back from the unhealthy teachings of the Book of More.  A healthy life begins with our minds - our belief system.  I pray we may all return to Truth.  I pray we may all realize that 'abundance' has little to do with money and belongings, and everything to do with our state of mind.
Joy, peace, love and faith.