Boggarts in the Walls and Honey on My Foot!

The kids and I just finished reading the Spiderwick series. We absolutely loved it, but now my second oldest daughter, "The Hippie," is taking things a bit too far.

                     In the book, if you're nice to one of these:

 

It will turn into one of these (a brownie):

THEY REALLY LIKE MILK in the book, but the movie strongly suggests giving it honey.   Wrong move Nickelodeon Productions!

"The Hippie" keeps leaving honey EVERYWHERE!  She knocks on walls and says they knock back.  She talks to herself in strange Spiderwick voices and even asked if we could make a hole in the wall--just to see if our Boggart is inside.  I LOVE when kids use their imaginations, but not when it involves leaving honey everywhere and wanting to put holes in my beautiful walls!

So, my little boy "The Zombie Elf" disappeared somewhere in the house.  I screamed for him, yelled like my hair was on fire.  It's scary when he hides like that.  When I finally found him in the closet, he sat sulking like Gollum and was completely covered in honey.  I kept expecting him to say, "My precious," but instead he said, "Bad guy did a no no."

"Yes, bad guy did do a no no," I said.

It took forever to wash the honey off.  The whole time I scrubbed he talked about bad guys in the walls.  He's more scared of the boggart than anyone I've ever seen.  "The Hippie" walked past and said, "Shhh.  She doesn't have the sight.  She doesn't know she's a water nymph."  That cracked me up.  If I REALLY was a water nymph, wouldn't I "have the sight" too?  I smiled smugly thinking about it.  My kid thought I was a water nymph--that was cooler than cherry taffy.

After banishing all the stickiness, I decided to clean the T. V. room.  It was A MESS.  A music box had died amongst various other toys I'd spent tons of money on over the past years.  "What in the world?" I turned and asked my golden-haired daughter, "The Hippie."


"I told you we had a boggart."  


I groaned.  "Do you expect me to believe a boggart did this?"

"No," she said.  "You don't have the sight."  She tried to tra-la-la from the room, but I grabbed her by the arm.

"Oh no, you don't.  You get right back here and help me clean up this mess."

But instead of helping, her eyes suddenly darted about nervously.  She whispered, "If she's mad now, imagine when she sees your house."

"Who are you talking to?"

"No one."

I felt like I was back in Alzheimer's Hall   Would she talk to herself like that forever?  Would I need to admit her and then myself!  She scooted against the wall and smiled like she'd just eaten every single one of my favorite cookies.  "What are you hiding?" I asked.

She pushed her back even closer to the side wall.  "Nothing.  Mom, did you know that I love you.  You're the best mom in the whole world."

"That's . . . great."  I love compliments, but not when they're administered at a crime scene.  "But if I'm so awesome, you wouldn't mind telling me what you're hiding.  Would you?"

"The Hippie" fidgeted.  "I'm not hiding . . . anything."  Her eyes looked at something next to her.  "I think she's onto you, Boaggie."

That was enough.  "Stand up."

"I don't want to."

"Are you telling me no?" 

She moved like an arthritic old lady, or someone defrosting from nine-hundred years in ice.  As she stepped from the wall, my heart fell into my butt.  My lungs stopped working.  My eyes refused to blink.  There was a hole--IN MY PERFECTLY-YELLOW WALL!!!  "What have you done?"  I was beyond reason.  "What have you done?"  I turned, but "The Hippie" had vanished from the room.

My legs seemed like heavy boulders.  I trudged closer to the wall, put my finger in the hole and stared at my pointer, mystified when it came out powdered in sheet rock.  "Get your butt down here!!!"

Little feet scurried down the stairs behind me.  I knew "The Hippie" had come back into the room when she said, "She really wasn't a nymph!  She was a Brownie this whole time, but now she's turned into . . . a Boggart!  This should do the trick."

I stepped backward, stumbling really, so upset I couldn't contain myself.  That was when my foot slipped into A BOWL OF HONEY!

"AHHHHHH," I screamed and watched as honey dripped from my foot and hit the freshly vacuumed carpet.  "AHHHHHH!!!"

"Oh no . . .  The honey wasn't strong enough."  After the words left her mouth, I saw "The Hippie" swallowing hard.

I didn't have the ability to move further.  I felt worse than that poor woman in The Parent Trap.  Do you remember the one the twins don't want marrying their father.  They played all sorts of pranks on her until she turned insane.  They never show you what happen to her in the end.  I bet she went straight to the nut house where she made balloon animals--ALL DAY LONG!

"The Scribe," my oldest daughter must have heard me scream.  She came into the room and asked, "What happened?"  She saw the wall and gasped.

"I know it . . . it's horrible.  Can you believe this?"  I said, knowing she'd understand.

"No."  She shook her head and didn't even look at me or my golden foot.  But then she shocked me with her response.  "This is awesome," she whispered.

I blinked, stunned.  How was it awesome in any shape or form?  "How is this awesome?"

She grinned at the hole in the wall.  "We have a boggart!  Spiderwick is real!"

I snorted, that was looking at the glass totally empty.  I DO NOT want a Boggart in my house and I will never buy honey ever again! 

But the day wasn't all bad.  "The Hippie" apologized after that.  "I'm so sorry about the honey, mom.  I didn't think you'd step in it."

"It's . . . okay," I said.  "But can you stop putting honey everywhere?"

"Yeah, and I won't let the Boggart put any more holes in the walls."

I rolled my eyes.

"How are we going to fix the wall?" she asked. "I'll give you all my allowance even though my piggie bank gets sad when it's empty."

"You don't need to give me your money."  I paused trying to think of something--anything to make things better.  "I was just thinking, that looks like a perfect place to put the couch."  I pointed to the marred wall.  "As long as you promise to stop pretending quite so well, I'll let you help me move the funiture."

"It's a deal," she said, and after I finished cleaning off my foot we spent the rest of the day moving furniture until it looked just right--like something a Brownie would approve of.

 

:

Sewing Saturday

If you were going off to war (or some other similarly horrific situation) and could only take one book with you, which literary book would you take and why?

I would take the Bible or Gone With the Wind because either one of those books would remind me that God is always there and truly strong people persevere through hardship. 

Texting can cause car accidents, but it can also make you feel younger

My neighbor is an amazing woman. She's sweet AND hilarious--a combination God rarely allows on Earth. She makes me laugh even if I'd planned on creating a bucket of tears. That woman could draw a smile from anyone because she's just funny. So, when she asked me to teach her daughter piano, I was thrilled. She made one condition on the arrangement though. "Text me every Wednesday, so I won't forget about her lessons."

"No problem," I said, and that was the beginning of the biggest misunderstanding the world has ever known.

Everyone's heard horror stories about texting; how it can make you walk into manholes; how you can get mangled in a car wreck; how you can get a break-up message if you make the wrong move in a relationship.  I'd heard about the nightmarish things that can happen, but I didn't listen until things went awry for me personally.  I didn't fall into a sewer filled with rats, but something bad did happen--something much worse!

I'd been texting my friend for two years, TWO YEARS!   But things had gone well; she always responded with hilarious things and I loved it. 

"Lessons are today," I'd text.

"I still don't play the piano."

"I know.  HA. HA," I'd respond.  "That's why we need to get you some lessons too."

"So how are you today?  I haven't talked to you all week."

"We're great."  I smiled because we'd had some pretty funny texting sessions over the past years.  I actually looked forward to Wednesday because it made my smile bigger than a crocodile on novocaine. 

As I sat there grinning, my phone beeped with that happy little jingle I'd set.  I looked at the screen on my phone and blinked hard.  The message made no sense.  I read it twice, three times.  "I'm a hard one to convince," the words shot out at me.  "But I've decided to take you up on your offer.  I want to take piano lessons.  Really, I just want to meet you in person."

What???  Didn't we see each other all the time, pulling weeds, driving the kids to school, at the gas station, in the bread aisle at the store!

"HA. HA," I texted back.  "Sometimes you get me rolling, Mel."

"This isn't, Mel.  I didn't know how to tell you.  I tried at first, but then didn't want to ruin things . . .  My name is Brian and I think I'm in love with you."

I could have peed my pants!  I still wondered if it was a joke.  That Mel, she's one funny lady.  So I ran over to her house and thank God she was there.  I showed her the last few texts.  "Very funny, woman!" I scoffed.  "You had me going for a whole sixty seconds.  You really did."

"That's one Hell of a text session you got there, honey.  Who's it with?"

"It's from you!"

"No, it really isn't."  Amusement lit her eyes, like I'd never seen.  Her irises twinkled like they could have been the reason kids always sing about twinkling stars and such happy things.  She started giggling.  "What have you done now?"

I flipped open my phone.  I did it detective style, like I had a notepad and was preparing to write down some pertinent evidence.  "Fine," I said.  "Is this your number?"  I pointed to the numbers parading on and off my screen.

"Nope, sunshine.  I think you've been texting the wrong person.  See that three?  It's supposed to be a seven.  Looks like you got yourself another piano student."

"Fine?  You want to play this the hard way?"  I called the number on the phone.  It rang once, twice, but Mel's phone didn't ring.  She held it up toward my face and I looked at her horrified.  Just as someone--a man--answered the phone I hung up faster than a bald man picking up his fallen toupee.  

I put my face in my hand.  "Why do things like this always happen to me?  Why?"

She laughed so hard, I thought she'd spit out some of the diet coke she'd just taken a swig of. "Only you, my friend.  Only you.  That's so awk--ward."  She sang the last bit and grinned.  "So, what are you going to do?"

"I have to let him down easy.  I'm married for crying out loud."  I flipped out my phone again--my weapon of choice.  "What the Hell do I say?  He's been a good friend to me?"

"Tell him you're a man."  She sputtered the words, laughing so hard.

I snorted.  "He sounded like a big dude.  I don't want to make him mad."  

I started punching buttons on my phone.  "I'm happily married, really I am.  And it's great that I've sparked your interest for playing the piano.  Hopefully you can find a teacher near you."  Then I hit send.

"Good for you.  You show 'em."  Mel nodded, still smirking

My phone beeped rather quickly.  "I knew this was a mistake.  I'll think of you every Wednesday," the words read.

"Good luck with those lessons," I texted back.

 "I feel like an idiot!" I said to Mel.

"It's okay, honey.  On a side note, do you want my real number, just in case you feel like texting someone you know this time?"

I turned red, like a big-fat, juicy apple.  Then we both laughed.  It was quite funny.  I couldn't believe that had happened to me, but at least I'd inspired someone to start learning the piano. 

 

Versatile? I LOVE something heart felt.

Another award, can you believe it?



Thank you:
Heartfelt Balance/Handmade Life
The good the bad and the family
and
The Cre8tive Mom

So, I'm supposed to accept this and write seven things about myself? Hmmmm . . .

1. Orange is the best color in the universe. God said, "Let there be light," and the light was orange.

2. I play six instruments: violin, piano, alto sax, tenor sax, clarinet and a bit on the drum set. I LOVE music and am teaching my two oldest daughters how to play the violin as well.

3. I own a sewing business: www.ecboutique.com



4. I've written two manuscripts which I hope to get published someday. One is a memoir about my son who had birth defects and one is a middle grade fantasy. My daughter wanted to know why her brother died and in an attempt to put a happy spin the situation, I wrote a fantasy about a boy who was taken by a witch and some pirates. The only way he could come back was if his sister journeyed to the bowels of the ocean and saved him.

5. I own only one casual dress and one pair of heels. Why? Because dresses suck and heels are even worse! 

6. In high school one of my nicknames was "Bible Girl." I always carried a Bible with me, but it grew so old I duct taped it together. I held Bible studies during lunch and instead of buying regular food I'd always purchase Ben and Jerry's mint chocolate chip ice cream because ice cream rocks it like the 80's!

7. I hate being called a girly girl. There's nothing graver and it's worse than being tied to a tree. I AM NOT a girly girl. I love the outdoors and don't wear pink UNLESS it's on sale at the second hand store ;)

Controversy in the Clans and My Son Who Died From Birth Defects

I got an award!!! I'm so thrilled because this picture is GORGEOUS like that necklace Miss Lohan stole. I still can't get over that madness. Have you heard anything about it? She said she was too busy to return it--that's some serious chaos!  You'd think she has as many kids as I do. 

Here's some info if you're interested:

Click Here to read Lindsay's Story

So, anyway I got an award and it couldn't have arrived at a better time.  I got a call yesterday and apparently my blog is still very controversial. It's getting mixed reviews from my extremely religious family.

If you're going to understand this, you need some background. I'm a religious mutt.  My dad was raised very Mormon--his family wears the white underclothes and everything--and my mom used to listen to a priest. I in turn grew up pentecostal.  My husband's beliefs are metaphysically based and most of his family is Mormon or New Age.  

Here's the problem: One of my great aunts (once removed) saw the picture of me on the toilet and said, "That's suggestive. It's very risque.  You should take down that embarrassing toilet picture right this minute!"  Now, she's not the first family member to say this.  Someone on my husband's side already shares her views.

"How's it risque?" I asked, stumped.

"Because it looks like you're actually going!" 

I LOVE my family and respect their opinions, but it's crazy how I feel like I can never do anything right--until now!  Thank you Angela Scott of whimsywritingandreading.weebly.com (one of my FAVORITE blogs ever by the way) for believing in me and backing my crazy idea of a blog. 

So I told my great aunt (once removed), "If you think it's risque, then it's a good thing you're not the one in the picture." And I know this is horrible, but I almost wish she was in that picture because it would make me giggle and do a happy dance.  I could sing a song, and look at the picture all day because it would be golden.

So, I feel bad if my blog is embarrassing people, but if so, they don't need to read it.  I started this in an effort to bring joy.  I want to help people laugh, especially those who have had children with birth defects.  I miss my son every day and if I'm ever going to publish my journal about his life, I need a blog and people willing to support me.

With that being said, I have a message for everyone who has been "embarrassed" by me and this blog.  Things could be worse!

 

#1 I am not a stripper, I never have been and never will be. 

#2 I am not on drugs. 

#3 I've never gone to jail, although I've heard the food there is exceptional and even better than food at the hospital cafeteria. 

#4 I do not go to the bathroom outside on a toilet UNLESS it's plumbed. 

#5 I really did change tires and oil for big rigs while working at the truck shop AND I'm proud of it! 

#6 My potato launcher is awesome and I will be safely testing it today.  (No, the kids will not be near it and yes, I won't follow too close or speed on the way to the testing ground.)

#7 I love you all so much, but feel like I'm never good enough.  It's horrible always being told what I can do better and how it's not right the first time.  Sometimes a simple, "That's incredibly awesome," would suffice.

#8 I hope you can love me for me and accept that writing a public blog isn't the worst thing since Uncle Ronnie injured himself with that nose hair remover.

This really is something I need to do.  I'm not trying to be disrespectful and I'm sorry if it comes off that way.  I know Zeke's memory needs to live on.  If he'd survived, he'd want his story out there.  And by golly, even if I lose an eye in the process, have to learn braille and everyone hates me, I'm going to do my best because his story is strong and unmarred by time.  It's something people need to read so they can realize how lucky they are.

If your children are healthy--you're lucky.  If you're alive--you're lucky.  It's amazing God gave us life in the first place.  We all need to be a little more appreciative and smile because each day and each breath is a blessing.  Trust me, I know. I lost my son.  He's never coming back, and there's nothing I can do about it.  No amount of time or energy will bring him from the grave.  None of my prayers convinced God to heal him.  Nothing!  What I do have is my journal filled with the memories of his precious life: when I held him in my arms; when he looked at me with so much love it carried me through the disaster of his death.  I've seen terribly hard things, but choose to focus on the bright side.  Because after Zeke died I realized I had a husband who loves me, a family whose quirkiness makes me smile and a God who never left me!   There's so much to be happy about.  I want to focus on those positive things, not how much my blogging or toilet picture sucks.

Closing note to family:
Maybe I'm not the greatest boon our family's seen, but I'm not in the slammer.  So with that being said, thanks for taking the time to read this and please know how much I love you, silly moments, boots, potato launchers and cafeteria food.


Sincrely,
A Crazy (Award Winning) Mom

Valentine's DISASTER!

My husband looks like a tough man. He holds himself tall. He eats steak and has a bear's laugh, but that man cries at sappy movies and I love him for it.  I was actually quite excited for Valentine's day this year--until he sent me a two sentence e-mail as my gift!  That's when I knew I'd make him pay. 

Before . . . I'd decided to do something really nice for that poor man who's been stuck with me for over ten years. Not just anything would suffice though. I needed to do something big like sky diving, or getting a tattoo, something that usually signifies a mid-life crisis and would be fun for Valentine's Day.  I thought about it forever and concluded; I'd make him a potato launcher.
Here's the best link I found for how to make a spud gun:
Spud Gun Instructions *caution extremely dangerous DO NOT TRY*

Making a potato launcher should be fun, but with four kids running around it took far more effort than it should have!  I felt really cool as I worked on it--empowered--like I could take anyone down.  My husband's potato launcher and I were more powerful than Xena or Alice in Resident Evil.  I could launch potatoes; Hell, if the end of the world came I could kill zombies with those potatoes.  I know I'd have to double tap, but I could do it!  Making the potato launcher was actually hilarious and is a story all its own.  I won't go into that right now because a more important issue needs to be addressed and that's about my husband--sending me a two sentence e-mail as a gift--after I risked life and limb to make him a veggie gun!!!

The e-mail read something like this: I love you.  Thanks for everything.  Love, Cade

WOW!!!  Really?  After ten years, birthing him five babies and making a potato gun that is now mine?

I don't need big fluffy gifts, or expensive trinkets, but I did want something more than an impersonal e-mail or text.  The thing that topped it off was that I got the exact same thing from him a couple weeks ago for my birthday.  So I hope you won't think I'm a horrible person, but I didn't give Cade the potato launcher.  I felt bad not giving him anything, so instead of responding to the e-mail I wrapped up some pimple cream.

Before you say, "You're so mean to your husband," or "How rude."  It was NEW pimple cream.  I dressed up extra nice, wore an evening gown for crying out loud (and that means something since I never wear dresses.)  I did my hair and looked all right for once.  I was about to pull off something unfathomable and thought it would work better if I looked human.  

I thought how funny it would be to wear my evening gown, stand on my porch and use the potato launcher as I waited for my husband to get home.  My neighbors probably wouldn't even blink an eye though, not after the toilet episode.

Click Here to read my "Potty Probation" Story

When Cade got home he looked tired and worn.  I thought for a minute.  Maybe I should be nice like Jesus in the Bible.  I could turn the other cheek, give him the gift I'd made and then we could go inside, start watching a boring movie and fall asleep like we always do lately.  

I gazed down at the cute Valentine's bag in my hand.  I thought about that pimple cream and it made me grin wider than Aphrodite!  The pimple cream would lead to a fight, and sometimes fights lead to really good make-up time afterward!  So, with happiness lighting my eyes I handed him the bag.

"What's this?" he asked.

"The greatest gift in the world," I said thinking about what it would lead to.  Our kids crowded around.

"Open it, Daddy.  Open it!"

He pulled the tissue from the bag.  The smile on his face made him seem suddenly awake and happy.  I almost yanked the bag from him and said, "Wait.  You don't want to open this."

Then before I could stop him, he cradled the pimple cream.  "Ummm.  How . . . thoughtful."

So, even though I made a potato launcher, I'm not as tough as I try sounding.  I felt really bad.  His dreamy eyes caught mine and he raised a brow.

"The Hippie" jumped up and down.  "What is it, Daddy?  What did Mommy get you?"

"Well, it's something . . . quite offensive."

I hadn't thought of it that way, but maybe it was.  And that's how the fight began.  As it continued, I smiled in the corner like a greedy old woman.  It was turning into a good fight, making up would be nice.  Somehow though, my plan went awry.

"So," Cade said to our boy when he didn't know I heard him.  "Mommy wants to make me mad?  Two can play this game."

Then Cade followed me around and told me how I can't do dishes right.  Apparently I can't sew a straight line.  I can't mop the floor correctly.  I stamped on the floor and put my hands on my hips.  "I can too sew a straight line.  I'd like to see you sew a dress!"

"I can do cooler things than sewing a dress," he said.

"You make me so mad!"  He'd brought me to the breaking point and I almost screamed.

"Are you mad?" he asked.

"How can you tell?" I fumed.

"Serves you right.  For trying to make me upset."  He laughed so hard, I thought he'd split open from pure amusement.  "Pimple cream, HA!"

"You made me mad on purpose?"

"'Cause you're cute when you're mad!  Plus, you were trying to do the same thing to me.  You can't get mad at me now."

I couldn't believe that twirp had given me a dose of my own medicine!  Maybe we are perfectly matched.
He was absolutely right, though.  I couldn't be mad anymore or I'd be a hypocrite worse than Judas.

So, after it was all said and done I've decided making up can be fun.  Cade took me to a nice dinner when I told him I needed more than a two sentence e-mail.

It turned out to be a really good day I'll never forget.  I gave my husband an offensive gift, and in return I got: an e-mail, a dose of my own medicine, a very nice dinner and my very own potato launcher! 


I hope every Valentine's Day will be as disastrous as mine was yesterday!

Boys Vs. Girls

How is it that little boys can be so different from little girls?

I survive examples of this every day. Sometimes I feel like I got buried alive and barely managed crawling from the grave.  Yet by some testament of God's love I'm still here blogging about it.  My little girls never pulled out the vents or parachuted from the top bunk.  They never shoved G. I. Joes in the oven, threw chocolate cheerios at me as I drove or tested my best plates as frisbees.  Yet my boy, who looks like an innocent, Michelangelo cherub, does all of those things.  He keeps me on my toes, in a small size of pants and completely stocked in strong coffee!

The differences between the sexes are amazing and they remind of a story that happened when I was fifteen.  Sometimes boys do crazy things.

I sewed a swimsuit for the first time.  I puffed with so much pride you wouldn't believe it.  The suit was something similar to this number, just without the straps:



I'd smocked something for the first time.  The top glistened beautifully: I swore the damn thing could have sang--if it had a voice; flown--if it had wings.

So, I did that and felt awesome.  I called my best friend and we decided to swim at the rec center, just so I could test out my new suit.  I couldn't wait to wear the thing.  I wondered if anyone would ask where I'd bought it.  If they did, then I'd say, "I made this.  It's even smocked.  Cost me less than five bucks and that's better than a double coupon special!"  My fifteen-year-old arms got goose bumps as I thought about it.  I smiled wider than a rainbow, so excited to go swimming that hot summer's day.

I donned my new suit and everything went well at first, until I walked from the dressing room.  Some of the most popular kids from junior high were outside.  They played chicken at the far end of the pool, and to my horror that's where my friend wanted to go.  I would have been fine staying in the kiddie section.  Who cares that the water was two feet deep.  I could have sank down and no one would have noticed me.  The kids there sang "Red Rover" and I knew that song by heart--every word.  I just didn't want to go by the cute boys and those snobby girls who wouldn't befriend me anyway.

But my friend insisted on pulling me along.  "Don't you dare go in the kiddie pool!  That water looks yellow!  Next year, we'll be in high school.  If we ever want to be friends with the popular kids we need to make it happen now."

I really didn't care about clicking with the popular kids.  I'd helped some of them with homework throughout all of ninth grade, and knew enough to be happy in the kiddie pool.  It wasn't that they were horrible people, we just had different ideas of fun and completely different standards.  While they went out drinking and toileting papering, I went to the mountains and played my violin.

As we walked closer to that end of the pool, I nearly died.  One kid there, who I thought seemed chiseled from a perfect stone, watched me as I walked.  I didn't want to go closer.  I folded my arms and whispered to my friend, "Why do we have to go over there?  They can see us!"  I wished I had Frodo's Elven cloak, then I'd turn invisible, take my stupid home-made suit and run.  None of those girls would be happy I'd spent less than five bucks on my suit!

"I'm sure they can see us,"  she snorted.  "We're gonna love high school.  This is our chance."

"At what?  Making fools of ourselves?"

She continued along and I reluctantly followed like the second henchman they always have in Disney movies.  Then before I could convince her to turn around she ran and did a cannonball not too far from the cute guy I'd had a crush on for TWO YEARS!


My friend surfaced and shook her wet hair from her face.  She grinned and her bright teeth shone next to the rippling water.  "Jump in, Elisa."



The cute guy winked at me and then as if getting a great idea started chanting, "Cannonball, cannonball," like he led an army of good looking vikings to battle.  I couldn't believe he'd even looked at me.  I know I blushed and folded my arms even tighter around my body.  Now, don't get me wrong, I was normally a spunky kid, I just felt shy standing there--in my swimsuit--in front of all the popular kids and the viking captain!  But it felt nice for them to chant at me, like they needed me as more than a tutor.  So I balled my fists and got ready to run toward the pool.


Now before I go on, let me tell you that smocking can be a peculiar thing.  It's not as easy as it seems and I should have tested my skills a bit more before going to the rec center. 

When you smock you have to cut out a section of fabric twice as long as you want it to end up.  That's because the elastic bobbin thread (sewn on the inside) will make the fabric scrunch together.  Here's an example from the bodice:





After you start sewing the elastic on the inside, you should tie it in several knots so the stretchy sections won't randomly spring free from the thread and fabric.  


I didn't tie enough stupid knots! I guess that's why my top fell off as I listened to their stupid chanting and jumped toward the pool.  After surfacing, it took me a second to realize what everyone was laughing at.  When I saw my top floating near the "Viking Captain," I crossed my arms again, went under the water and huffed out some bubbled air.  I didn't want them to see me.  I wanted to run away, but I was half naked!  I bobbed from the water, only letting my eyes show at first.  I glared at my friend, even though she hadn't made the stupid suit the elastic had sprung from.  She paled, horrified, knowing I wouldn't go near my top that swam next to the cute guy I always talked about.  She hopped toward it.  It looked really wide floating there, reminding me of Cinderella after all the magic had worn off--that fabric had gone back to its true double-wide form.

Now this is how boys are different from girls.  My friend would have thrown the top to me, closed her eyes in embarrassment, told me she was sorry.  She wouldn't have done what the "Viking Captain" did.  He snatched the top faster than anyone else and instead of throwing it, he swam right up to me!  "Nice suit.  Where'd you get it?  I've never seen one like this before," he said.

Really, was he going to play that game?  We all knew the suit sucked!  I didn't want to have afternoon tea and chat like old gossips.  I still didn't have a top on!!!  He held it out, waiting for me to grab it.


"I always had a thing for smart girls," he whispered.


I glared at him and snatched my suit.  I wanted to smack him, sew him a suit that sucked and could cause embarrassing moments.  


"So, you wanna go out sometime?" he asked, being the lord of bad timing.


"I wouldn't go out with you, even if you bought me the best swimming suit in the world.  I bobbed away, trying to be dramatic, and look classy.  I know I failed, but at least I'd had the last word.  I pulled my drippy top tightly around myself and waved as I got out of the pool.  


I never did try to fit into the popular crowd after that, even though my friend did.  She started dating the "Viking Captain" while I excelled at the violin and got good grades.  I hope their relationship turned out better than it probably did--because he was nuts.  A classic example of how boys can be very very different from girls!

Sewing Saturday: Cape

My sewing idea for the day is to use fur as the lining edging for a cape.  It's easier than finishing off a blanket and gives it such a beautiful look!




I LOVE crushed velvet!

The Real Reason Jerry Sloan Resigned

My parents went to dinner with Jerry Sloan last week.  I LOVE the Jazz, but my parents love them even more.

If you're wondering who the Jazz are:

Click here

So anyway yesterday Sloan resigned and I got my oil changed--a big day all in all. The guy helping me really didn't want to be there.  He kept trying to pull up his pants, but his gut hung in the way.  He looked like a ruffled owl and spoke in a monotone.  "Welcome.  You're the twelfth car today.  Normally we have forty by now, but thanks for your business.  This day sucks.  Did I mention I have a migraine?"

"I have some Tylenol."  I started digging through my purse.  "Tylenol or coffee always help me when my head hurts."

He glared at me like I'd killed his favorite pet.  "I've tried those, Ma'am.  Both of them.  Twice."

Okey-dokey.  There was no helping that ornery fellow.  He led me to the waiting area and turned on the T. V..  We listened for a moment as Jerry Sloan gave his resignation speech.     

"It's crazy," I said.  "My parents went to dinner with Sloan last week."

He turned and reminded me of a cranky war vet from an old folks home.  "Really?  Your parents?"  He tugged his pants up again, fighting an endless battle--with his own clothes.  "Your vehicle will be done in about twenty minutes.  Just enough time for my headache to get worse."  He lopped from the room and shut the door behind him.

"The Scribe," my oldest daughter sat next to me.  Her eyes stayed on the door.  "Do you think he knows someone that died?"  I watched as another thought hit her.  She gasped. "Did someone make him eat fish?" To her eating fish is worse than death.  "He's not a very nice person."

"And his head hurts," I said.  "But you never know what someone's going through.  I probably wasn't very nice to people when Zeke was in the hospital.  I was just really sad."

I thought of all sorts of things that could make that man so cantankerous.  Maybe he hated oil, or maybe it was his kryptonite.  How sad would that be, working around something that took away your power of happiness.  I told "The Scribe" my theory. 

"He should still be nice," she said.  "Maybe he needs some hot chocolate.  That's what I need."

I went to get her a drink and as I went out the door "The Pants Adjuster" said, "Can you believe she'd expect me to swallow a line like that?  Her parents know Jerry Sloan?"

One of the other mechanics saw me and pointed.  The color had been erased from his face.  I smirked at "The Scribe" through the glass door and slowly got the hot chocolate.  I stood there long enough that "The Pants Adjuster" would realize I'd heard him.

After they'd finished up with my van and I paid for my bill I looked at the man and said, "My parents really did have dinner with Sloan.  I have pictures of it and everything."

"Fine then," he said.  "Why do you think he resigned?  Was it because of his history with the Bulls.  Or something with D. Will?"

"Nope," I said.  "Jerry just knew a time would come when he'd want to retire.  Looks like that time came."

The Prude and the Dude (Part II)

I convinced Cade to take the girls swimming but he insisted I should go too.  I whimpered about the naked mob in the dressing room and the lady who knew karate.  He just laughed at my suffering and said we'd have fun watching the kids swim.  Too bad it didn't work out like he'd expected.

When Cade pulled into the parking lot I asked, "Can you drop us off?  We're late.  You can bring the babies in and I'll meet you by the pool."

Concern sprinted across his face.   "Bring . . . the babies in?  Both of them?"

I turned away and smiled.  "Yes, both of them."  He cracked me up.  That guy manages entire construction sites, operates any kind of equipment, yet still has butter-fingers when it comes to packing kids from a car.

"Ummm.  Okay.  I guess I can do that."

That was sweet of him, considering I never get a break and wanted one so badly!  He just didn't understand that sometimes homemakers can lose their minds if they don't get time to themselves.  I wanted a Mommy time out, needed one, but felt like it would never happen even if I won the lottery!

After he dropped us off, the girls were ready and swimming quicker than a gypsy-trick.  "The Patter" was no where to be seen.  I felt glad she couldn't tell me to stop running or how much she likes "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."  Then I felt bad after a second.  Maybe she'd patted her last pat.  I could see the whole thing, how she'd sat too close to someone in the mafia.  Maybe she'd turned to a life of crime where people slap each other, just for fun.  I thought about that for awhile, how she'd look so innocent, hitting people for a living.  I giggled under my breath, until looking at the clock and realizing it had been quite awhile and Cade hadn't surfaced from the men's dressing room.  I worried, threw all my concern into the moment.  I knew firsthand how horrible the women's dressing room was--my lip trembled in terror--I couldn't imagine what the men's would be like.

In high school I was a janitor for my dad's construction company.  I still have nightmares about that bathroom.  The guys hooked a "fart maker" to the door.  Every time you went inside, a different fart-sound would trumpet for all to hear.  It was really embarrassing if someone who didn't know about the fart-maker, stood outside.   You'd have to yell, "it wasn't me," from the bathroom, but hardly any of the visitors believed.  A mirror hung on the opposite wall.  The words on it read, "Conserve water, bathe together."  The bathroom did have an air freshener which puffed every few hours, but all the cinnamon scent in the world couldn't save that bathroom from the stench.  

I thought about Cade and my babies braving the men's dressing room, and decided the swimming place wouldn't invest in a cinnamon freshener.  That's when I stood and walked toward the men's dressing room door.


I paced there for a minute, wanted to fling the door open and scream, "Cade, are you okay?"  But I remembered the time I accidentally walked into the men's bathroom at the airport--it wasn't pleasant.  I'd seen a stream--a yellow stream of doom.  

But what do you do when you think your husband and babies are suffering janitorial neglect?  I stepped closer, closed my eyes.  When babies are in danger, mothers will do crazy things!  Then just before I could make the biggest mistake of my life, I heard the door open, and Cade stood in front of me.  I was so happy to see him and the kids--ALIVE!  I couldn't smell any cinnamon and thought it was amazing they'd made it through!


"You're okay.  You're all okay," I said, forgetting how angry I'd been before.


He snorted.  "That wasn't easy."


"Being in the men's dressing room?  Are naked ladies there too?"


He laughed.  "No, it wasn't easy getting these kids inside."  We have a double stroller, yet Cade held "The Zombie Elf" (our two-year-old) in his arms while trying to navigate the boat of a stroller.  

"Did you get the towels?" I asked.


"They weren't in the van.  I think you left them at home.  If you take the kids, I'll go back and get them," he said.


"Not in a million years."  I grabbed the keys and before he could object, I vanished from the building.  Maybe I'd wiped one too many butts, or blown too many noses.  Maybe my anger at "The Patter" and fear of naked old women, drove me to do crazy things.  Maybe I was having another twenty-ager crisis:

Twenty-ager Crisis Story

Whatever it was, I flew from that building and a grin played across my face.  

I felt like skipping to the car, like I could do anything.  Hell, I could even have a soda and no one would beg me for a sip! 



It was the best break ever.  I sang while I drove.  No one fought about who whacked who.  No one cried, or said they needed to go potty.  It wasn't until I grabbed the towels and started driving back, that I started missing my kids.  My baby wasn't gooing.  The "Zombie Elf" wasn't trying to throw his shoes at me, and my girls weren't there to sing.  I sat in the van, with nothing except a couple towels and my loneliness.  I completely hit rock bottom when I started singing a song by Celine Deon!  I sang it loud and clear.  I sang, "All By Myself!"

It was a good thing I took a break though. I felt like Lucy when she came back from the wardrobe; I wanted to tell my girls about my adventures, but they were clueless to my disappearance. I hugged them tightly and gave each of my babies a kiss. Cade sighed when I got there, "I'm so glad you're back. I can see why you'd want a break."

So, all in all it was a great day. Cade grew some appreciation, the babies got time with their daddy and I didn't die in the men's dressing room. What did I learn?--life is good as long as you forget the towels!

The Nude and The Prude (Part I)

My kids are taking swimming lessons--which is great--too bad we made a fatal mistake and went into the women's dressing room instead of the family one.

A mother warned me.  We sat, watching our kids swim and she flapped her lips like a dog in the wind.  "Have you been in the women's dressing room?" she asked in a weird, creepy sort of way--as if clowns reside in that dressing room.  I liked chatting with the woman, I did, even though she was a little eccentric and sat too close for comfort. 

"No, I haven't.  Why is it bad, as far as dressing rooms go?"

"Thank God I saved you."  She put her hand on my shoulder like we were kid sisters and she was a prophet!  Then she patted me.  I am not a touchy person.  I have this personal space thing that goes further around me than moons in orbit.  I didn't move my head, but strained my eyes so I could see her from the corner of them.  I didn't know what to do as she continued patting me.  It really only lasted a couple seconds, but seemed like forever and could have saved my life if I'd been choking.  I didn't want to be rude and say, "Stop giving me the Heimlich," but at the same time her hand was a hot coal burning into my soul every time it whacked me!   

My one-year-old started crying and my two-year-old (the Zombie Elf) wriggled in the stroller at that point.  I shot up faster than yeast-filled bread, clutched the stroller and waved goodbye to "The Patter."  

"It was great talking to you," I said, because it had been until she started doing karate.  "I better take these little ones for a walk."  

At first it felt awesome strutting around that pool.  There's no better confidence builder than wearing clothes and boots around a bunch of half-naked people.  Did you ever have that classic dream about going to school in nothing but your underwear?  I did.  It wasn't pleasant.  I didn't dream about it until I bought Scooby-Doo underwear.  The cashier happened to know me from school.  He looked at me really funny when I paid.  "I like cartoons too," he said.

"Yeah, they're pretty awesome."

"I like underwear too."  After he spoke, he blushed like a budding flower.  "I didn't mean it . . . like that.  I just mean that . . . we . . . we have a lot in common."

It was mortifying!  And that's when the dream about going to school in my Scooby-Doos started.  The cashier was always in it--saying how much he likes cartoons.  I still like cartoons, but come to think of it, I'm not too hip on Scooby-Doo anymore, not after talking with that cashier.


So, strutting around the pool was the complete opposite from "the dream."  It felt awesome, until a half hour passed and my babies insisted on making me do all sorts of silly things just to keep them from crying.  I did peek-a-boo (the old classic); we walked and sang about a farmer who had a farm and a dog who's name was Bingo.  When I sang about Twinkling Stars I passed a boy's high school swim team.  They stared at me like I was the one who should feel exposed.  I kept singing, turned the corner and walked faster.  My baby smiled and her gums showed her happiness.  But I became so flustered I headed to the side of the pool where "The Patter" sat.


"I love Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," she said, but I only waved and went on my merry way.  I wasn't about to get whacked again.

"There's no running around the pool," she hollered at my back.  "Stay safe."


No running around the pool--HA!  I wanted to pat her a few times and see how she liked it!

So when the kids finished swimming, I was thrilled.  "The patter" motioned for me to follow her into the family changing room, but there was no way I'd go in a changing room with someone named "The Patter."  

With a brave face, I turned from the entrance she'd gone through.  I put my hand on the women's room door, closed my eyes and stepped in.  I thought she'd joked about the horrors resting within.  She made it sound like the entrance to Hell.

We walked slowly.  Steam filled the room and it was hard to see anything.  I told "The Scribe," "The Hippie," and my boy "The Zombie Elf" to stay calm.  We saw something move in the steam ahead.  Then another flash shot through my vision.  The place reminded me of a scary movie when you don't know when the shark will attack.

"The Hippie" stood closer to me.  "I'm scared," she said.

"The Scribe" rolled her eyes.  "Don't be pansy.  There's nothing . . . to be afraid of."

Something else moved in the steam.  My little boy, "The Zombie Elf," started singing some mumbled song that only added to our fear. 


"But this place feels weird."  I watched goose bumps appear all over "The Hippie's" skin as she spoke.

"We'll be okay," I said above "The Zombie Elf's" song.  But I'd been wrong, when we stepped around a corner, to where the steam wasn't so thick, a nightmare awaited us.  It wasn't as bad as the entrance to Hell--it was worse!  "The Patter" had been right and I should have followed her.  
Naked, old ladies filled the dressing room!

"The Scribe" (who always acts so tough) clutched at the stroller.  "The Hippie" looked at me, terrified.  And "The Zombie Elf" sang a bit louder.

"It's so yucky," the words faded from "The Hippie's" lips.  

"The Scribe" covered her little sister's eyes.  "Do you remember Percy Jackson?  Do you remember Medusa?  Whatever you do, do not look into their eyes!"

"I won't!"


I could have peed my pants.  Those girls are hilarious!!!

We went to the end of the dressing room, where skin didn't clutter in rolls around us.  I have to tell you though we did make it out alive, that time.

But the girls have six more days of swimming lessons!  I guess I'll brave the room where "The Patter" goes.

Today is awesome though because Cade is off and he's wanted to watch the girls swim.  I think I'll send him to the pool instead.  

Poor Cade, I'm always throwing him into crazy situations.  At least it makes our marriage interesting.  Plus, I can't wait to hear what he'll think about "The Patter."    

Did Blogging Save My Life?

I'd been blogging during the day--something I should never do. Then I realized my kids were too quiet and knew something horrible waited in the future.



So, I pried my fingers from the computer's keyboard and slowly tip-toed upstairs. A strong smell of manliness weighed at the air. It reminded me of men's deodorant or cologne. I continually sniffed the air, like a bloodhound on a criminal's tail. I passed my oldest daughters "The Scribe" and "The Hippie." I eyed them sceptically at first until deciding they were innocent. The only one in danger from their schemes was Ken; all the Barbies vied for his love, stalking him like a violent mob. I went to the next room where my baby girl still slept; she's such a tender one. Then as I continued down the hall, I realized the smell poured from under my bedroom door.

I knocked slowly, worried for what would be inside. My little boy whispered in his two-year-old voice, "Mama say, 'no no.' No. No. Mama." That was a sign of the dark side. He felt guilty about something and needed to confess his sins. I knocked again, even more politely, gave him a few seconds to mend his ways, but had a hunch that hours would not be long enough.

"Mama's here, darling. What are you dooo-ing?" I kinda sang it, just to keep the worry from my voice.

"Not!" He opened the door, came out and shut it behind him. The boy stood proud, like a bird of prey. His bare butt stuck out and his chest puffed. He stared at me, defiant in his nakedness. I gasped! Whenever that kid gets naked it's the worst sign of all. When he does horrible things he's always naked. I don't know if it's because he wants to be like sinful Adam in Eden, but it's serious.

Remember that day he put my credit cards in the vent? He was naked! The day he tried vacuuming the cat's tail. When he put gum in "The Hippie's" hair. When he threw a bowl off the fridge. When he ate all my chocolate! He was naked. Clothes keep that kid in check! I need to duct tape them on him so I'll stay sane!

Not only was he as bare as a yucky picture, he'd smeared blue gel all over his body, wanting to be the future of Avatar. He smelled like a ball of potpourri and the whole thing made me terrified to enter my room.

"The Hippie" and "The Scribe" must have smelled the intrigue in the air because they circled around us and waited for me to open the door.

"What have you done?" I looked at my boy and whispered like the last air from a deflating balloon. I trudged into my room and saw blue footprints leading to my bed. An empty bottle of men's body wash lay scorned on the floor. My boy had covered the entire bed in intricate blue designs, iced everything with body wash, all the blankets, the pillows, the fancy comforter . . . It was A MESS, but too my relief, the main part of the mess was on my bed.

Now let me tell you, I felt my brain boiling to soup. It heated and dinged like an overly cooked entree. But I remained tough and didn't want to wake the baby from her nap. So, for the sake of napping babies everywhere, I took the whole thing in stride. I sighed before breathing deeply. "No, no," I said.

"Mama say 'no no'," he repeated and I glared. I bet my face looked like Medusa.

I gathered all the stuff and shoved it into the washing machine. I kinda punched it down in there because it felt nice punching something that wreaked so much.

Right after I started the washer, "The Hippie" told me to sit by her in the T.V. room. I sat and she said mystically, "If you stay here long enough, you'll realize something."

"Like what?" I sat down.

"Well, if I tell you, you won't realize it."

I snorted. "Fine." So we sat there. I figured we'd be safe enough--since my boy had clothes on.

"The Scribe" and my son saw our meditations and decided to run around us.

"The Scribe" talked as she ran. "I'm Santa." Her voice went low. "And . . . I'm a zombie."

What is it with zombies? They're everywhere lately. Not even Santa is safe--apparently.

"The Scribe" chased my boy around. They laughed and laughed. "Don't let me get you. If Santa bites you, you'll be the worst kind of zombie. A Zombie Elf!" As if Zombies Elves are the ultimate bane for our planet. Plus, it's February! Why is she still talking about Santa anyway. He should be old news by now.

So, they continued running around. My boy turned into a Zombie Elf and since they're supposed to be so evil I felt shocked his clothes didn't disappear as soon as he contracted the disease. It's crazy how much Santa gives; he even shares diseases these days.

I realized then that "The Hippie's" eyes had remained closed the entire time. "Do you feel it?" she asked, her eyes still shut.

"Feel what?" I asked.

"The way the world's spinning. If you sit here long enough, you can feel it . . . in the air." She opened her eyes, licked her finger and held it out. "Just try it, Mom."

So I did. I licked my pointer and poked the air with it. To my surprise, I did feel something. I felt the floor below us shaking and then heard the wha-bump wha-bump of a cannon going off in my washer.

"Wow, I've never felt it like that before." Her nature-loving eyes beamed. "The Hippie" is hilarious! But I wasn't amused then, too concerned with the washer.

I ran downstairs and gaped. The washer had turned into a rabid dog. It shook and foamed at the mouth. It groaned and whined with the scraping of metal against an awkward load of clothes. My three oldest children surrounded me. I screamed so loud the baby woke from her nap.

"The washer's about to blow," I yelled. It shook around like a possessed toy. I stepped into a cloud of bubbles and moved faster than a ninja trying to end a war. I slipped and slid, but finally turned the washer off.

My heart still whomped louder than the load had. I slid next to the machine and sat in a poof of bubbles. "Laundry sucks," I said and looked at my children.

"Don't blame the laundry," my oldest daughter said. "This whole thing is my fault."

"Why, honey?"

"Because I shouldn't have turned the washer into a Zombie Elf."

I laughed SOOO hard. Then a thought hit me and I said it aloud. "I can blog this. This whole story would be perfect for my blog."

I normally would have cried, sobbed amongst the bubbles and manly smelling blankets, but instead I smiled, happy in the madness because I have a blog.

So I had to tell you, thank you for reading this and inspiring me to write because blogging really did save my life!

Elderly Charms

The charms of the elderly never fail, that's why I volunteered to be a CNA for a week. I'm glad I made it out of the old folks home alive!





I love old people as much as I love strong coffee and classy boots. They're amazing and full of crude one-liners that make saints laugh and stuffy people cry. Old folks don't care if they fart in public. They figure it might be their last stinker and want to go out with a bang. They sing whenever the Hell they want. They don't always go to the bathroom alone, and wear rubber shoes that squeak when they walk.

Cade and I have performed at a ton of old folks homes. It's really fun and they pay surprisingly well. Old people throw out compliments like Hansel throws bread, plus the music pries funny memories from them. Every time we perform, we stay for all the closing conversations that start with, "I remember when I was your age," or, "I was the best looking feller in town."

I always nod and say, "I bet you were!"

So, maybe that's why I volunteered to train as a CNA. There's only one problem with that; the nurses put all the newbies in the Alzheimer's unit!


Now people in the Alzheimer's unit DO NOT qualify as your average elderly people with charm. I was still a naive idiot my first volunteer day. I tried standing strong, but toward the end, I cowered as I went down that hallway. A lady followed me. She screamed about some missing box. "Have you seen it?" she asked.

"What?"

"My white stepping box. I set it here yesterday." Her eyes suddenly bulged as she looked at me, pointed and gasped. "You!"

I stepped back. "Me?"

"You! It was you! You took my white stepping box!"

"Me?" I felt horrified and turned into my own echo. "Me? I'm not a thief! I've never seen that box in my life," I told my trainer.

"Neither have I." He leaned closer and put his hand to the side of his mouth. "There's no box. She's gone . . . crazy. Just like the rest of them down newbie hall." Newbie hall? I wanted to bury myself in a hole. I had volunteered there for an entire week. But I wouldn't give in. Even if they stuck me in that hall forever, I knew I'd get the hang of it. My resolve didn't make it easier at that moment though. All those people had contracted the same disease. I didn't want to admit it, but I worried I'd start wanting a box too--if I stayed too long and got too close.

We drifted away and she ran down the other hall. "That new girl stole my box! That new girl with the ugly hair . . . she stole my box!"

"Don't worry," my trainer said. I wondered if he referred to the woman or my hair. I put my hair in a ponytail after that.

"I'll take you to Ethel's room. Just bring her to the potty and I'll be over here waiting." He said it like it'd be as easy as eating apple pie. He even used the term "potty" as if that would soften the blow. Wasn't he a treat; it was my first day and he already expected me to bring someone to the bathroom . . . by myself! I didn't think anything of it, happy the box lady ran the other way. But when I walked into Ethel's room I nearly peed myself. I'm a twig of a person--pretty skinny--not like the inmate behind door #33. Ethel, sweet Ethel who needed help walking to the bathroom, was wider than the bed!

She grinned when she saw me, being a kind sort. I liked her, but didn't think we'd make it to the bathroom alive. The bed creaked in pain as she moved. It arced like the bottom of a boat.

"God," I whispered, actually showing the first sign of grief--bargaining. "I'll do anything. I'll go to church. I'll quit wearing make-up and jewelry, just like Paul preached about in the Bible. I'll do anything, just don't let that woman fall. She'll probably collapse on me, then we'll both die. I don't wanna be a two for one special today."

I could see myself standing in line at the gate to Heaven. "So how you did you two die?" some guy would ask.

Then I'd hush Ethel, invent some story about how I tried saving some kid's kitten from a tree. I'd tell a lie at Heaven's gate, too embarrassed to admit that someone's butt killed me.

"They want you to take me?" Ethel asked.

I nodded before running from the room!

I didn't take her, and the worst still waited. I met the most cantankerous inmate of all--a war veteran who said he needed to go look at his plane. He swore he was gonna get gunned down that day. He kept putting his hands out like guns and making a popping noise. That was when the situation went awry. He looked into my face. His arms curled around me and crushed me close. "Oh sweetheart. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost you and you'd never come back."

My eyes darted from side to side as I patted the man on the back.

"I still have it," he crooned. "I look at our picture every day. You were so beautiful." He hobbled over to a wedding picture. I was so beautiful? Was! The woman in the picture seemed quite homely and looked NOTHING like me!

So it was an eventful week. Even up until the last day I was nervous to go back, because my trainer said I'd be on my own. I shook in my scrubs until I got an idea.

I knew what crouched in my future and was ready for it. I could handle the Alzheimer's hall!

I pulled on some tan knee highs, put on some squeaky rubber-soled boots since they were fashionable at the "home." Then I sang Eye of the Tiger, but only the first instrumental section.




I know it sounds stupid, but that's what I did because when you're going into war, there's nothing better than singing the instrumental sections by Survivor!

I imagined the whole things as I sang.

How I'd strut down that hall. When the box lady shrieked, "It's you," I'd winked at her and smirk.

"Yes, I'm back."

"You took it!"

"Yes, I guess I did. But I've altered it. Now it's even better!" Then I'd pull a box from under my scrubs and the lady would clutch it like candy at a parade.

I'd take Ethel to the bathroom, all by my damn self. And when I went to see the war vet he wouldn't think I was his wife. He'd think I was someone he couldn't say used to be beautiful!

So with my fancy scrubs on, my immaculate make-up, I strutted down that hall and got a rude awakening. Maybe it was because I actually started singing the lyrics to Eye of the Tiger--a fatal no-no. Or maybe since no one survives their first day alone. Whatever happened, it didn't go well.

"It's you!" the lady shrieked and I pulled a box from behind my back.

She eyed it suspiciously. I set it on the ground and that's when she stepped on it. I thought it was a great little box, until she stepped on it and the thing flattened right then and there. The lady didn't smile like I'd hoped, or grovel about my kindness. Instead she screamed, wailed! "It's you. It's you." She ran down the hall. "The new girl broke my box! She broke my box!"

Then I turned and saw the war vet. I thought my make-up would do the trick and he'd realize I wasn't his wife. "You . . . you came," he sputtered. "You came and you were always so beautiful."

That was when I ran to Ethel's room. I sobbed about that dumb box and the guy who thought I used to be beautiful.

"You wanna take me to the bathroom?" Ethel asked.

I wiped my tears and nodded. "Are you sure we can do this?"

"Bring me that walker, honey. I'll hold it, if you pull my dress down so no one can see my undies. These boys are always trying to get fresh with me and I'm not even old enough to date." She winked, the wink of youth and I loved her for it. I decided if she fell on me and I had to die, maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

But I didn't die. We made it to the bathroom!!! While I stood outside of the door Ethel yelled, "I sent you a message. Did you get it?"

I wrinkled my brows, then sniffed and grimaced. I coughed, waving my hand in front of my face. "I got it."

"I'll be just a minute more. I'll flip the light on when I'm done."

I went out into the hall. The guy that had trained me walked over and said, "I don't know why I quit dealing in Vegas--for this."

"Drugs!" I said.

"No cards!" He laughed so hard. "So, you had a horrible week, huh? All the newbies do."

I remained silent and listened to the noises the hall offered. The box lady squeaked around somewhere, screaming about the flattened box she probably held. I heard the vet asking where his wife had gone, and then I heard Ethel toot.

I smiled the biggest smile in the world. The instrumental part of Eye of the Tiger still played in my head.

"No," I said. "I'll never forget this place."

I even went and bought a white box, just so I'd never forget. Maybe I had caught the disease all the people in newbie hall had--the one that made you search for a white box.
But if I did catch the disease it isn't so bad after all.
I love the box; it's filled with memories, and memories are worth searching for.

Pirate Girl

Here's my latest sewing creation:

Flooded Basement, Heart of Gold

Yesterday I wrote about how horrible people can be; today I'll focus on their awesomeness.

Like this guy. I LOVE this guy. I have no idea who his is, but we'll call him "Frank the flooder." He's a gem waiting to be discovered. He really is, and I'll tell you why; I bet his basement flooded and then (like any person I adore) he made the best of things, slapped on some scuba gear and posed for this picture. He's gold--pure gold--and I'm glad his camera wasn't involved in the flood.



What I love most is the plunger. What could he possibly plunge at this point? I hope he found a toilet that still worked and started flushing fast!

My friend's basement flooded the other day. It wasn't as bad as "Frank the flooder's" experience, but still bad. The weather's been so cold that a lot of people are dealing with frozen pipes and indoor swimming pools.

My friend called, and her voice shook as she spoke. "Bring over some buckets quick. Do you have . . . anything?"

I dumped piles of fabric out of a couple containers, before running like the ground was made of smelly laundry--no one wants to stand in stinky clothes for long. When I got to her house, the door waited, open. "Are you home?" I peeked into the hallway.

I listened for someone to answer, but only heard gushing water. I hurried after that, burst through the door and flew down the stairs to where it looked like Water World came to life. I gasped as clear liquid fell from the light fixtures and made a syncopated rhythm I've never heard before. My feet sloshed closer to my friend. "I'm so sorry," I said, nearly dropping the containers in my hands.

I didn't know what to do after that. It seemed like some crazy-traumatic soundtrack should burst through the air, like when Gandalf falls into the pit with the balrog. Then we could hold up our hands and watch in slow motion as the water descended and distorted the greater mass below. A water ballet, ebbing and flowing without a care, but I guess it wasn't supposed to be beautiful even though some things are beautiful even in their destruction.

I just stood there for a moment, staring at the room. It was a terrible sight; so much sunk in ruin.

My friend is extremely talented. She's a photographer, a crafter; I swear she can make anything better just by looking at it. That's probably why she takes such amazing pictures. She sees the unexpected and amazing side of everything. That only made the whole situation break my heart. The room getting hammered was her craft room.

I snapped out of my sluggishness after that. We grabbed everything we could and hauled it to a dry place: boxes of family pictures, decorative papers, fabric, books. She called the city utilities and they shut the water off. It felt eerie when the water stopped coming through the lights and still left us with the mass around our feet.

Her neighbor, a genuinely nice guy, came and helped us after that. At one point my friend peered around and said, "There's nothing like someone seeing your skeleton."

It hit me how hard that would be. I can't imagine what some people have in their basements--boxed-up sweaters from grandma, black-mail pictures their mom took--it could be horrible.

I tried thinking of something, anything to make the situation better and since I'm the queen of awesomeness I said, "You have a great skeleton."

So, it wasn't the most profound thing to say, but it came out anyway and was much better than saying, "Looks like God gave you that indoor pool you wanted."

She half-snorted. "I have a great skeleton?"

"Yep. As far as skeletons go." What was it? Halloween? I don't know why I say these things, but at least I was trying to be helpful as I stood in my drenched shoes and told her how fantastic her skeleton is. What was I . . . an orthopedic specialist?

Then her neighbor came back into the room and we threw away more of my friend's favorite possessions. The neighbor grabbed a soggy pen and stuck it through the ceiling. A huge stream of water poured out, like a dairy cow's udder. My eyes glued to the saggy ceiling which looked like an implant gone terribly wrong. And even though I should have continued helping, I felt hypnotized by that stupid stream of water. Do you know how peculiar it looked for someone to poke a hole through a ceiling and then see water magically pouring from it? It was Alice in Wonderland weird--like when she drank the wrong bottle and cried a flood of tears!

We were in a crisis, a real crisis in suburbia and it had clustered us together. Fate is strange and can draw different people who must prevail in good and horrible times. Like when an elevator gets stuck, or a bad car accident happens. Those are profound moments when we can affect each others lives in amazing ways.

There we were in that small room with the implant ceiling and the water-magnified floor. The room practically swam around us and my friend decided to do something that I'll never forget.

As we sloshed around, she kinda chuckled. I cocked my head. "I'm glad to be cleaning this room. I've been wanting to downsize," she said and a huge smile lit her face. I wanted to cry, dance in the puddles, but I didn't want anyone to see what a sap I am. So I turned and hid the tears in my eyes because she's so strong. She knew the water probably ruined her floors. Hell, it even turned her ceiling into an implant and took a ton of her craft supplies to the grave, yet she still had the courage to be happy.

I'm so proud to know people like her, who see what really matters and really counts. I'm glad she showed me how great life is. Even if your light fixtures cry and you suddenly can go swimming in your own craft supplies, there's always a bright side. She showed strength in adversity and I got to be Alice in Wonderland!