The Felony Couch

Why does it seem like when you have the least amount of money everything starts to go downhill? For example, all within the last two months our dryer went out, our toaster broke, Hubs’ car desperately needs a tune up, my cell phone fell apart into two separate pieces, my computer is on its last leg, and my couch, oh my couch.

We got our couch about 6 years ago. We replaced a sofa and a love seat with this couch which is a sectional. It’s awesome because it seats so many people. It runs the length of our family room and there is a detached ottoman at the end, separating the family room from the kitchen. It’s green, which is fine, because it blends in with our décor. The polk-a-dots on the couch, however, are not original. They have accumulated over the past 6 years. It has withstood two babies, three children, one cat, one puppy, one very crumb-droppy, spilly Hubs, countless birthday parties, karaoke nights, 5 Super Bowl Sundays, play dates, sippy cup malfunctions, and a well-intentioned washing of the pillow and cushion covers.

I warned Hubs that washing the covers was not a good idea. I even thought that if I refused to participate it would deter him from wanting to go through with it. It didn’t. To make matters worse, I told him to replace the freshly washed seat cushion covers FIRST (because as we all know, these are the hardest to do) but of course, what do I know? He started with the pillow covers and was extremely pleased with his handiwork, and it was so EASY. But, of course, when he got to the cushions, it was another story. After about an hour of grunting and sweating and mild cursing, he finally conceded that he should have listened to me. And, of course, I got roped into helping him finish the job, which, of course, was most of the job since he had only succeeded in getting half a cover back onto the first cushion. For about a week the covers were, indeed, cleaner, but the couch now looks like we put the whole in its entirety into the washer and dryer. Somehow one of the zippers even managed to break, so that cushion looks especially droopy.

Even so, our couch is the envy of all of our friends because it is SO comfy. It is so comfortable, in fact, not a single friend who has spent more than an hour on our couch has been able to resist falling asleep on it. (And no, we are not boring—people fall asleep on it in the middle of LOUD parties, during out of tune karaoke crooners who could make your ears bleed, and Fourth of July fireworks even.) Hubs and I usually fall asleep on it every single night before we sleepily stumble up to bed in the middle of the night. Our friends call it the Felony Couch—because it’s a crime how comfy it is. I guess that makes it easier to overlook the decorations that have been added over the years.

The couch is on my list of things that need to be fixed/repaired/refurbished/deep cleaned. And when this darn economy picks up, I think we will have it reupholstered. It would be a crime to get rid of a piece of furniture that has so completely proven its worth. We will be smarter this time, however. The “face lift” will include micro-fiber somewhere in its definition and a Scotch-guard treatment—probably everything just short of plastic covers.

I am sitting on the couch as I write this. I think I need to go…I’m getting a little sleepy!




Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Easter Pies

Have you ever found yourself doing something simply because it is a family tradition and thinking, why am I doing this? Or, whoever thought of doing this? I read an anecdote about a family who always asked the butcher to cut off the small end of the ham, which they placed beside the larger portion to cook. When one of the daughters married, her new husband asked her why she cooked ham this way. She replied because it is the best way...my mom always cooked it this way. At the next family gathering, he queried the mother as to why she cooked ham in that manner. She affirmed that it was the best way because her mother had always done it that way. The next time the man saw the grandmother, he remembered to ask her why she cooked hams that way. She laughed and responded that her roasting pan was small and that was the only way the ham would fit!

I love pie, but hate to make piecrust. When I was first married, I was enthralled with the picture of the piecrust in the Betty Crocker cookbook. I have wasted hours of my life trying to make the perfect piecrust. And so I would only make pies for very special occasions or holiday. Since most of the other holidays had their own sweet dishes, pies became THE thing for Easter. A wonderful friend gave me an easy recipe for fresh strawberry pie and together with lemon meringue, they were necessities for our family celebration. We probably have more pictures of the girls stirring and then slicking the bowls of the Easter pie fillings than we have of them dyeing their Easter eggs. We didn't have pie at the end of the meal, because we couldn't properly appreciate it while we were so full. We would wait until just about sunset and then mark the end of another memorable Easter by consuming a huge piece of pie.

One Easter, we were not in the mood for the usual sit-down formality of a meal and so we put the ham and potato salad and rolls in a picnic basket and drove a few miles to the backside of nowhere and picnicked and then flew kites all that windy afternoon. We weren't quite prepared, however, to completely break with tradition and so we got home in time for sunset and the Easter pies.

As the years piled up and our family changed, we opted to make Easter dinner into Easter brunch. The Editor would make an unbelievable number of waffles that we would sometimes eat as we walked from the kitchen to the dining room so they would not be less than piping hot as we consumed them. Busybody taught us to eat fresh strawberries dipped first in sour cream and then in brown sugar, and so we no longer needed the strawberry pie. For several years, there were only adults at these get-togethers and they changed quite a bit to accommodate the composition of the family. Usually, one or more daughters would need to leave to visit the other family that now had share rights and the sunset pie was no longer a whole family observance.

This year it was only me and the Norwegian at home for Easter but I still felt compelled to make an Easter pie. The crust didn't seem so difficult--maybe because there was only need for one. And then, because the Norwegian was gone for the day and I had more time than usual, I happened to take note of the microwave instructions on the box of the lemon pudding and pie filling. I would never have departed from the tried and true stirring-in-a-pan method if we had been having guests for dinner. But, I can give up some points on taste in order to gain convenience and, really, is a husband going to notice? Surprisingly, it was easier! I licked the bowl--myself--trying to determine what made those scraped up bits so delectable to little girls. And now I know!

The celebration is over, the pie is gone, but memories have a way of hanging around. Maybe that's why we start traditions, steadfastly maintain them and pass them on.


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Project Runway Meets Romper Room

I love to watch “Project Runway.” I find it fascinating that designers can come up with an idea based on a challenge and put it all together in such a short amount of time. I wish I was that talented. But almost as much as I love the content of the show I love the lingo. I love Tim Gunn’s little phrases, like, “Make it work.” That’s a good motto for life in general I think.

Anyway, this week the challenge was to make an outfit for a little girl and then they had to make a matching outfit for an adult. As you can imagine, neither the designers, nor the models were very good with kids—although they tried to put up a good front. One of the designers said, at one point, “The work room was a little like Romper Room on crack.” I thought it was a little dramatic—the little girls were just being little girls. But I can totally relate to that statement.

Sometimes when I get home from work and I walk in the door, the house is quiet. The kids are upstairs playing with Gigi and the Norwegian. For about 5 seconds I just drink in the peacefulness. And then when they realize I am there, the insanity starts. Either they get a rush from me coming home and it gets them all hyped up, or my presence changes the whole magnetic field of the house and everyone has to act crazy. From the time they realize I am home until they get into bed they are “a little like Romper Room on crack.” They scream and howl and run around and act like little wild things. After a long day at work, and just a long day in general, sometimes it’s a little much. It makes Hubs a little crazy himself.

It is what it is, though—they are kids and they go crazy about funny things. Right now I am going to take it as a compliment. They are happy to see me and they are showing it by acting like little addicts. I am going to encourage this addiction as long as I can. I get a high from reuniting with them, too. When they get a little older and need to act “cool” these days will be a distant memory, and so I will enjoy it while it lasts…because one day you’re in and the next day you’re out!

Auf wiedersehen!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

The joy of talking

My oldest, Joy, started talking at 9 months and I swear she hasn’t come up for a breath since. She falls asleep mid-sentence, she wakes up mid-sentence, and if she doesn’t have anyone to talk to, she talks to herself, makes up stories, or begins a conversation with her toys. Most of the time it is ultra-cool to have a child who can communicate better than most adults, sometimes it’s exhausting, and sometimes it’s just downright funny. I especially love her little sweet 4 year old voice saying words that she mis-hears. (OK, on a side note, I think it’s genetic, this ‘hearing’ of certain words incorrectly. I guess the one I will own up to is a Boyz to Men song…Down on Bended Knee. If you know the song you know it’s all about some guy apologizing for something stupid/guyish that he did to his girl. There’s a part where he really belts it out and says, “I’m gonna swallow my pride, say I’m sorry, stomp on your fingers, the blame is on me…” Whoa! Hold the phone! Stomp on your fingers? How is that going to make anything better? I’ve never had my fingers stomped on, but if it feels anything like your toes getting stomped on, it is no bueno. I am pretty sure that won’t restore any guy to any woman’s good graces. And then my sister, laughing in my face set me straight. It’s not stomp on your fingers, it’s stop pointing fingers. Oh. Well. That makes more sense, I guess. If you have any spare time on your hands, go listen to the song and you tell me what it sounds like.) But back to Joy’s mispronunciations… I rarely correct her because she usually only mispronounces them 3 or 4 times, and then corrects herself. (And the way she says it is so much more fun—sometimes ‘insterical’.)

Little Miss Loquacious loves Alvin and the Chipmunks, except they aren’t Alvin and the Chipmunks (Simon and Theodore)—they are Almen, Simon, and Eeyore. She loves the part where ‘Almen’ is in the ‘oven’ (the dishwasher) and he is singing, “Don’t you wish you ganny Y Ha! Like me…” (Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me) and then he says, “I’m waiting for the minse (rinse) cycle.” Then she proceeds to say that you should never get into the oven because the fire could kill you, but always wants to know if our oven has a ‘minse’ cycle. (Our oven doesn’t usually have a minse cycle, but lately I don’t think our dishwasher does, either. In fact, we might actually have a Chipmunk (or a herd of them) who has a membership to shower in our dishwasher because I think our dishes come out dirtier than they go in.)

Last Christmas she saw a Nativity scene and wanted to know why the baby was lying in the bed with all the animals looking at him. So after about 972 times of telling her the nativity story, complete with a loud rendition of “Away in a Manger” at the end (each and every time), she finally decided to tell it herself. This is her version: “God told Mary she was going to have a baby and she had to name him Jezuh so then Mary and her husband Josuh went to Befleham which is also known as the City of David (like David and Wendy David?) but there was nowhere for them to sit down so they went into the barn with the cows and donkeys and alpacas and Watusi with the long horns and Mary had a baby and she named him Jezuh and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in the manger and then the angel went to the shepherds in the hills who got really really scared, but the angels sang to them so they wouldn’t be afraid and then they went to go see the baby in the barn and then the smart men followed a great big star to see the baby in the barn and they took him presents of gold, Frank and sense, and myrrh.” We have a tree decoration that is a wooden carving of the nativity scene. She points to and names Mary, baby Jezuh, (the angel) grandma Josuh, and the manger (Joseph). (Just to clarify: David and Wendy are our neighbors, there is a farm down the road that has alpacas, donkeys, and long-horn cattle called Watusi, we have a Grandma Josie, and an Uncle Frank—who really doesn’t have much sense at all.)

When she was 2 she got a doll for Christmas. I asked her what the doll’s name was and she said she didn’t know. So we tossed a few around, but none of them were the right names for the doll. So I just called her ‘Cupcake’. Awhile later we were leaving to go to Grandma’s house and she started asking if she could have Pancake with her. In our rush to get out of the house I was confused as to why she wanted to have pancakes. After all, the table and frig were full of homemade tamales and all kinds of holiday dishes and treats. I think she ate half a pound of budge (fudge) by herself every time she thought no one was looking. When we were actually walking out the door she went back in to grab her new doll and insisted that Pancake had to go with us. Other dolls and stuffed animals get new names and identities almost daily (I am expected to remember all of them) but Pancake never changes. Pancake is always Pancake. A few months ago, she dressed Pancake up in a little pink frilly dress. We were playing hospital or school or something like that with the dolls and I remarked how cute Pancake looked in her pretty little dress. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mommy, Pancake is a BOY!” Oh. Really? Really?!? Yep, Pancake is and always will be a boy. Just like the Cabbage Patch doll someone gave her—his name was Manny Moe, but has been changed to Nanny Lo. Boy. Now and always. Now, the owl that sits by our pool to discourage pigeons from hanging out by the pool, drinking and carousing as pigeons will do, has been named Patrusty. Sometimes Patrusty is a boy (when he scares the pigeons away) and sometimes she is a girl (when she takes care of other little birds who just want a quick drink and then fly away).

My little one year old does a lot of talking for her age, too. She says Mama, Dada, dance, ghost, more, all gone, what’s that, woof woof, cheese, yes, no, this, hi, bye, shhh, yay, please, ear, twinkle, A…and I’m sure there are a few others that I am forgetting. (It’s hard for me to remember anything with the 4 year old walkie talkie’s constant chatter!) But Marlo’s joy does not come from talking, like Joy. No, Marlo derives her joy from eating. Anything that I give her, she eats with gusto. I have to be careful with her, though. If we go out to eat I have to give her a snack first. (And no, I am not worried about her losing her appetite!) If I don’t give her a snack, she acts like I have been starving her since she came out of the womb! She shovels fistfuls of food into her mouth at lightning speed, nearly chokes herself, spits part of it out, then stuffs it back in again. Sometimes she leans down and sticks her whole face in the plate. It gets rather embarrassing. She was chubby for quite sometime, but now that she’s walking, she has thinned out, but her appetite is as voracious as ever. I have to change, bathe, dust-bust or sponge bath her after each and every meal. You can tell, just by looking at her, that she LOVES her food. No spoon for her soup? No problem. She is just as efficient at eating soup without a spoon as she is with one. She even helps us out by not needing a napkin. Don’t you know it’s just as easy to wipe your hands on your hair? It’s true. She is like a little squirrel. (Not the pants wetting kind of squirrels, the food storing kind.) I guess she thinks that we might not feed her again, because I find food hidden everywhere: between the high chair seat cover and the seat, inside DVD cases, inside pumpkin shaped candle holders, in Barbie purses, in the trunk of her little scoot-along car, folded up in doll clothes, frittered away in play kitchen dishes, on the shelves of the lower cupboards, in the waistband of her clothes, etc.etc. She is devilishly delighted when she “re-discovers” these hidden treasures. And apparently it doesn’t matter how long it’s been there or how stale it might be, she wolfs it down like it’s her last meal. Bless her little heart—or maybe I should say her stomach—and thank heaven I don’t have a picky eater on my hands!

Just recently we went to Denny’s for breakfast. She ate the following: oatmeal, fruit, hash browns, pancakes, scrambled eggs, milk, orange juice, bacon, sausage, and toast. In between bites, she would gleefully throw a handful of food into the air to shower over her head—and not wanting to waste the food, she would look up, open her mouth, and catch some of the food in her mouth. Needless to say, this attracted a lot of attention from the other diners. Fortunately our waitress was very busy and not very attentive. We strategically staged our exit to coincide with her being in the kitchen so that we wouldn’t have to apologize profusely for the edible carpet Marlo left beneath our table. I guess our strategy wasn’t so well thought out—we left a trail from the table to the car…and probably down the street and all the way home.

And so my life goes, the enduring theme being good food and stimulating conversation. I love my two little girls and the unique qualities they each bring to the table (literally!)—a voracious appetite and a bountiful vocabulary. I thank Jezuh for them every day.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

(and, from the length of this post, we can see the apple didn't fall far from the tree in Joy's case)

Clearance Puppy

Joy saw the movie “Marley and Me” and wanted a puppy. Well, let me back up, she had been wanting a pet for about a year. And this is why…

I was born in Arkansas, but was so little when we moved to SoCal that I have no memories of it. (Actually I do have memories, but everyone tells me I was too little to remember it, so I just say I don’t. But I do. I have a really good memory—just not for anything useful.) I have basically lived in SoCal my whole life. OK, so about 10 years ago I started a graduate school program up in Fresno. That was the first time (of the times I am allowed to say that I remember) that I haven’t lived in SoCal. It was culture shock. It was awful. I didn’t know anyone. It was not fun. So one day when a little gray cat showed up on my doorstep and didn’t leave, I invited her in. She accepted and stayed for a meal and a little conversation. The next day she came back. I was desperate for company so I invited her to be my roommate. She accepted—on her own terms, of course, she was a cat after all! I was going to school for forensic psychology so I named her Psyche because she never did tell me what her name was before that.

She was a good cat. She didn’t get up on the furniture unless invited. She loved to be petted—except right in front of her tail. She wasn’t picky about food, but she was picky about her friends. She loved soft blankets but did not particularly like dogs. She didn’t mind riding in the car unless you put her in a cat-carrier. That was a problem. She was also tolerant of going to be groomed, but was humiliated if you put her in a dryer. She was sweet. She moved with me six times. She never played in the street, she never stayed out over night. She was a good cat.

Hubs, however, is not a cat person. He never fully appreciated all of her good qualities. He was tolerant, usually, but when she got older and started to barf all over the place on our carpet, he got less tolerant. Once morning when she barfed in front of our bedroom door and he stepped in it, he decided (Hubs v Psyche, 2008) that she needed to retire to cat quarters in the garage. I tried to reverse this decision as much as I could, but with a 3 year old and a newborn, he seemed to win that battle most days.

In December of 2008 I had to run to Target for something. When I got home Hubs was waiting outside for us. Because I needed to get Joy out of her car seat and get Marlo’s infant seat out of the car before it was parked in the garage, he offered to pull it in for me. Joy was almost in the family room and I had just stepped inside the house with the infant seat when I hear a strange ‘popping’ noise. Hubs got out of the car and said, “I think I ran over something.” He got down on his hands and knees and immediately got upset. He punched the ground and said a few choice words and said, “I hit Psyche.” The world started to go gray and to move very slowly. I set the infant seat down inside the house. Hubs told me to go inside because Psyche was still moving, but asked me what to do. I knew from the noise it was bad, but I thought it would have instantly killed her. I told him to take care of it but he said he didn’t know how. So I told him to get the next door neighbor to help him but to hurry up because I didn’t want her suffering. They were outside in the garage for about an hour, “taking care of it”, cleaning up, and putting my little friend in a box.

My heart was broken. My little friend who had been with me through thick and thin for the past 10 years was gone in an instant. I didn’t even have the courage to go out to say good-bye. I should have been the last person she saw before she left this world, but I was too much of a chicken. Instead, the last person she saw was Hubs, who never really liked her.

As I sat there crying, Joy wanted to know what was going on. I tried to keep it from her, but she is VERY persistent. So I explained, as best as I could, that Daddy had accidentally run over Psyche with the car and that she died and went to Heaven to be with God. Somehow, in her 3 year old mind, this is what she heard: Daddy squished our cat with the car and killed her so she flew up to Heaven in a space ship. This became a very juicy bit of news for her and she told anyone and everyone within earshot this story, over and over and over. So not only was I broken-hearted about the whole incident, but I had to have the wound raked with the sharp prongs of the story 25 times a day, every day. I was not able to go into the garage for about a month. I had to park my car outside in the driveway, and any items needed from the garage had to be handled by Hubs. (Later Hubs told me that she wasn’t really moving, it was just reflexes…a bit of information I would have found useful earlier in my grief and guilt over not being able to say goodbye to my friend in her final moments.) After a few months, the novelty of telling the story wore off and Joy moved on to something new, and the hole in my heart started to heal a little. We buried Psyche, that great little cat, under a tree in our front yard.

In 2009, around June, Joy started mentioning that she wanted a pet. Specifically, she wanted a kitten. Her requests would ebb and flow, but in August, on the way home from Jennifer’s baby shower (see the shower mea culpa for further), we saw a mobile pet grooming truck. Joy asked if it was the ice cream truck. I had to explain to her what it was—a truck that comes to your house to groom your pet so you don’t have to take them anywhere. Joy found it fascinating. But then she pointed out the obvious. “Mom, they can’t come to our house because we don’t have a pet. Dad squished Psyche.” (Ouch—it still hurts.) Then she asked if she could call Daddy on my cell phone. So we called him and asked if we could get a pet to replace Psyche (who he squished). He said we could talk about it when we all got home that night. So, as luck would have it, we went to the park when we got home (me, Joy, and Marlo) and when we got there, the most adorable little black kitten with beautiful green eyes was wandering around. Joy thought it was fate. And so the requests began in earnest…and then we saw “Marley and Me.”

Joy fell in love with what she passionately referred to as ‘Clearance Puppy.’ She wanted a puppy or a kitten, but probably a kitten because a kitten could stay inside with her and sleep on her bed. (That was her rationale.) The marathon that is my life began to speed up and suddenly it was December and Hubs and I decided that we would get the girls a kitten for Christmas. So we went down to the county animal shelter on December 17.

The cat section comes first in the shelter. There were several adorable 2 month old kittens. Joy was willing to take any one of them—or all of them, whichever we wanted. (Yeah, right.) I thought we were home free…but just beyond the cats was the dog section…and Joy heard the barking and said, “Let’s just go look at them.” So we went, and when we got to the end condo, she saw five little shepherd-mix puppies. There were four little, roly poly, fluffy boy puppies and one little teeny-tiny girl. Joy said, “That’s our Clearance Puppy.” And that was it. Kittens were forgotten. Joy wanted this puppy.
And indeed, she was a clearance puppy—they were having a Christmas special…all adoptions were 75% off. We got a new puppy, spayed, equipped with a micro-chip, to be picked up 2 days before Christmas.

We picked her up on December 22—a day early. The girls were ecstatic. The puppy was playful. She was excited, too. We decided that it was too cold for her to be outside, so we kept her in the laundry room. (I still don’t think the floors have recovered from the shock.) She was a little rambunctious to just run around indoors, so when we weren’t able to devote our attention to her 100%, she stayed on a blanket in her room. (The girls stayed on their tummies on the floor in front of the laundry room, looking under the door just to see the new puppy.) Joy named her Rosha. That night, Hubs, the pet police, thought she was too little and lonely to stay in the laundry room and let her sleep on a pillow in our bed. Excuse me? We ironed out that kink real quick. We try to minimize kid visits to our bed, we do not need a puppy there instead!

After a couple of days, we thought we hit our stride with Rosha. We enjoyed Christmas with a new “family member.” Things were going well.

On Monday, December 28, we found out that a dear friend that we used to work with at the police department had passed away on Christmas Eve. His funeral was on Wednesday, December 30. We arranged child care for that morning, but on our way out we noticed that Rosha was a little out of it. She was just lying in her little bed in the laundry room, not moving, not eating, not really doing anything. We left for the funeral, obviously concerned about our new little pet. When we got home, she was a little better, but not much, so we decided to keep an eye on her. That night, after the kids went to bed, she was seemingly her normal self.

The next day, New Year’s Eve, she was lethargic again. She did not want to go for a walk and she vomited. So I called the vet at the shelter. They told me to bring her in after 2 pm. So, we put Marlo down for a nap, and then Joy and I took Rosha back to the animal shelter. The vet seemed annoyed (it was past our contingency period to bring her back in for any reason), but when I started describing her symptoms, he went to check the computer. Bad news. The other four puppies that had been in her litter (all found in the river bed) had been brought back in and had tested positive for Parvo. I had never heard of this puppy disease before, but apparently it is very contagious and is usually fatal, if not caught early enough. Even if you catch it early, there is only a 75% success rate for recovery. So I asked the vet what our options were. This is what he told me—in a flat, monotone voice: you can leave her here and we will euthanize her within 30 minutes, or you can find your own vet to treat her. Treatment can cost upwards of 2500 dollars. If you are like me, you are still stuck on the word ‘euthanize’ back there.

I had to call Hubs. He talked to the vet on the phone. We took Rosha home. We found an emergency pet hospital that would take her. They just failed to mention that they didn’t open until 6 pm. (It was 3.) We didn’t find out this information until Hubs had driven the 2 counties over to get there. So then he called me to find somewhere open earlier that would take her. I finally found a place (15 minutes from our house) that said to bring her in. Hubs spent several hours at the vet. I spent several hours home alone with 3 heart-heavy little girls. (Hubs’ daughter was with us for the week.) When Hubs got home it was bedtime for the girls. And then the more affordable, do-it-yourself Parvo at-home treatments began.

We had to administer an IV twice a day, oral medication three times a day, and give her a special diet 6 times a day. It’s a good thing we’re not busy or anything.

The good news is that Rosha has pulled through and survived the Parvo. The bad news is that, in celebration of her clean bill of health, Joy accidentally shut her paw in the laundry room/garage door, which landed us back in the vet’s office for x-rays.

The moral of the story is: screen your children’s movie selections very carefully! They can end up costing you (financially and emotionally) more than you can even imagine!


Posted by The Editor for busy, busy Busy Body

2010 Project

New Year’s Eve is almost here. Another year has slipped through the hour glass. Where does the time go? I am not one for New Year’s resolutions…but I do love me a good project. What will my project be for this year? Hmmm….

Marlo is 15 months and Joy is 4. My home is a wreck. Things that should be placed are piled. Piles turn into permanent fixtures. The permanent fixtures begin to take on a life of their own. I have a really good memory…just not for anything useful. This “talent” certainly comes in handy in the “Babe/Mommy, where is the/my/a ________?” I just go into the corners of my mind and visualize whatever is being searched for and locate it. The kids think I’m part magic. Hubs thinks I’m part bewitched. We’re just going to let them think that. They don’t need to know that I am part crazy mixed with useless information. But anyway, this brings me to my 2010 New Year’s Project:

I am going to print out a calendar. Each night, after the usual daily tasks are done but before I fall into my nightly semi-sleep haze, I am going to devote 20 minutes to a chosen task. This will include things like, ‘organize the junk drawer’ (there are 17 of these in my house—at least there are 17 that I know of—there could be more, I just haven’t found them yet), ‘straighten the cupboard under my bathroom sink’ (sounds simple…until I let you in on a little secret…this cupboard is where the girls love to do their own organizing, daily, as I am attempting to get ready for the day), and ‘simplify the office’ (as in, throw away scraps of paper that have very important information on them that I cannot decipher—and haven’t been able to for the past five years). I intend to organize, straighten, clean and simplify my way through 2010, or at least make myself crazy trying! (Crazy isn’t really that bad…it makes you kind of dangerous in a “let’s indulge her because we don’t know how she’s going to react” kind of way.)

Hopefully by 2011 I will have my life a little more back on track. At the very least I hope to have a few less larger-than-life piles of stuff taking over my home. At the very most I hope to have a few more drawers, a little less chaos, and a little more peace/piece of mind. If this doesn’t work you can visit me in the local psych ward.

Here’s to finding yourself a New Year’s Project for 2010!


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Decorating the Empty Nest

The daughters call my house the Christmas boutique: I call it home. But decorating the empty nest. Not so fun. There is no lack of things to choose from: Over the years I have accumulated many boxes of Christmas treasure. The question used to be where to put it, now the question is how much can I leave in the boxes. As I was decorating, memories flowed. I particularly enjoyed my recollections of my first venture out into the world and my journey back home for the holidays.

I was over twenty when I started college and I thought I was the most independent of my siblings: The most adventurous; the most mature. Being the middle child, I thought I was the one that didn’t need the apron strings, but now I know that I had just pulled them off by holding them so tightly.

I chose a small, religious-based southern college hundreds of miles and several states away. Glad to be going: Happy to be on my own. It was fun. It was exciting. It was different. Ah, college. Time rushed by. It was Thanksgiving. There was a mass exodus of students going home. I wasn’t one of them. All of those states and miles were not in my favor, now. I caught up on my sleep, my papers, my laundry, my letters, my dorm room cleaning, hmmm. On Thanksgiving Day there was a big dinner in the campus cafeteria. I didn’t go. I went for a walk in the woods and I was (choose one:)

1. Impressed by nature

2. Homesick

3. Ready for more challenges

4. None of the above

The correct answer is (2). Homesick. Everything reminded me of home--even sights and smells that probably should not have been included in the category, I could somehow relate to that perfect spot on earth. Well, now, the only remedy was to go home for Christmas. Did I want to exchange snow at Christmas ( a new experience) for sunshine(the same old familiar stuff)? You betcha. I needed to inform my parents that they needed to send tickets for whatever--bus, train, plane—just get me home. I had to wait in line for the one phone in the dorm hallway (the college thought we were there to be studious, not talk on the phone) and I smiled in anticipation. My mom answered and I jumped to the middle of the reason for my call, because every minute was metered and they really valued brevity during phone calls. She listened and then said, Here, you better talk to your dad. He listened. He went to the middle of his reasoning. He reminded me that we had decided, before I left for school, that I wouldn’t be coming home during the school year. It was less than a year’s time that I would be away; it was too far; it was too expensive; our three minutes are up. Call over. Smile gone—new plan.

I had heard that one of the guys who happened to live in an adjacent town to my hometown was going to drive home and was taking paying passengers. I had an emergency bank account in town. What could be more emergency than going home? I put on my coat and gloves and knee socks and struck out for town. It was all downhill easy, but going back uphill was a little breathtaking. Not so much so as to deter me from my appointed task, and so I went straight to the boys’ dorm and had the young man paged. When he showed up, I waved my money around and begged incoherently and randomly for one of the seats in his car. Yeah, o.k. (Wow, that was easy.) BUT, there’s no eating or drinking or chewing gum in the car. You can bring one small suitcase and one small purse. You can have a pillow and a blanket (small, as I remember). Rest stops will be timed and you must be ready to go at the appointed time. Hey, I’ll type this all up and leave it in your campus mailbox. (Great, there is now a car code. Going to a small, religious-based southern college in the early ‘60’s meant there was a dress code, a dorm code, a dating code, a study code, a moral code, and now, a car code. I finished that school totally encrypted. Oh, well, small price, right?)

Skipadeedoodahing back to my dorm, I thought of my next requirement. I would have to tell my parents. I would much rather rush up to the front door and yell, surprise, surprise, but the car code required that someone pick me up at a designated parking lot in Driver Boy’s hometown. And so, I wait in line, dial home, bypass my mom, put dad on the phone, please, and sure enough, my definition of emergency is not the same as his. He does, however, agree not to leave me stranded on an unknown parking lot beyond walking and carrying my own suitcase, purse, pillow and blankie distance from home. I am homeward bound! The visit was HYPER (one of my Greek vocabulary words, look it up!) I’ll have to save those stories for another session of visiting with” you all“(one of my southern expressions). At the end of the two (too) short weeks, we kept a predawn rendezvous on that same parking lot. My dad wasn’t a huggy, kissy kind of man, and so our leave-taking was brief, but when he shook Driver Boy’s hand and his voice was full of tears as he said Drive with care, I knew our definition of emergency had blended.

P.S.

Did I say empty nest? It actually is very crowded with all the precious people with whom I have shared my life. Including you. Have a blessed, down home Christmas--wherever that may be.




Posted by The Editor for Gigi

My Version of Home...

"The Editor" so eloquently described what home is…my version is slightly different, slightly skewed because I am influenced by my husband’s version, and though one of my children never stops talking, and the other one is not yet quite that verbal, I am still influenced by what their version of home is. So here we go:

Home is where you can double dip without anyone being grossed out.

Home is where you can take your socks off at the end of the day and leave them on the couch.

Home is where bed-head doesn’t even warrant a second look.

Home is where you can leave your dirty dishes in the sink for three days straight, knowing someone will rinse them off and put them in the dishwasher for you.

Home is where you can finger paint in the dust on the coffee table.

Home is where you can laugh so hard that whatever you are drinking comes out of your nose.

Home is where piles of laundry are invisible to all but the launderer—unless, of course, they can be turned into a game.

Home is where clean laundry sits in a basket in the laundry room for weeks on end, with items being removed to wear, but the basket never gets put away.

Home is where you can take bites of cookies and put them back in the jar.

Home is where you can lick the frosting off of doughnuts and put them back in the box for someone else to finish off.

Home is where it’s cute to burp or stick your finger in your nose.

Home is where you can find a plastic Dora figure in the refrigerator, cookies in a DVD case, crayons in a lunch box, and Barbies in a briefcase.

Home is where scribbles are celebrated, bodily functions applauded, milestones met.

At home you don’t get any awards for doing a job well. You don’t get merit increases in pay—in fact, you don’t get any pay at all. You don’t get applauded when you cook a great meal, accomplish everything on your to-do list, or have the cleanest house on the block. You might get a hug or a thank you or praise from your family, but no trophies or certificates or prize money. But, if you are lucky, you might get something like this:

“Mommy, where did Marlo come from?” asked Zoe. Daddy said, “From Mommy’s tummy, just like you.” Mommy said, “You used to be little angels in heaven, but He sent you to us to love.” Zoe said, “Did you get to choose us?” Mommy replied, “Nope—God just chose you for us. Didn’t He do a good job?” Zoe said, “Yep, He sure did. He picked the perfect Mommy and Daddy for us to have.”

Now that’s priceless. There’s no place like home.

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Are you Home today?

Home is...

where you hang your hat…

where you rest your head…

where your loved ones are…

where your heart is…

a safe haven...

where you are cherished...

where you want to be.....

So here we are, starting a blog: desperate times call for desperate measures, or maybe not.

Sometimes the forces of the universe conspire to inspire us to find our voice and sing out with all our might the song that only we can sing.

The reasons why we think we couldn't or shouldn't reach for the stars can be obliterated in unfathomable ways by all the reasons why we should.

For each of us has a directive that is wholly unique.
No one else can fulfill it.

Let us see past the distractions,
listen beyond the naysayers,
journey through the discontent and claim our song.

Every morning is a renewal,
every meal, a chance to nourish,
every day, an opportunity to move our bodies through space and time on this planet and become stronger and more vibrant,
every night, a time to renew.

This is our collective desire,
to explore, define, construct and establish the space
we need to accomplish our goals-- the space we call Home.

{{for gigi}}