Happy Monday to Me!

Our local paper has a trivia-type photo game to play. A photographer will shoot a picture of any object of his or her choosing that is located somewhere in the county. They publish a portion of the photo in the newspaper, and the object is to guess what you're viewing. The next day, they publish the entire photo. I have no idea what you win if you guess correctly. Probably nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done.

In honor of this game, I give you the following section of a photo I took.



Know what it is yet? If you guessed Swiss cheese, you're wrong.




If you guessed "Plastic diaper cover accidentally tossed in dryer", you win! Congratulations! Much like our newspaper, the gift you get is your own satisfaction.

Now, before you go thinking I'm all green and whatnot, never fear. I'm neither overly environmentally sensitive, OR stupid ambitious enough to use cloth diapers. Did that with my first two to save money. Discovered I'd rather be slightly sane than rich. Switched to She Who Must Be Hated By Eco-Conscious Wackos.

The real reason I have had these crinkly panties, as they're referred to in our house, is because not only am I of the Anti-Global Warming Frenzy lot of Americans...I am also a card-carrying member of the Moms Who Don't Change Diapers in the Middle of the Night Club. And the Save Yourself Some Laundry Loads By Putting Crinkly Panties Over Your Daughter's Diaper Just In Case She Drinks Too Much Before Bedtime Club.

What dumb thing have YOU done lately?

I Need Sunshine On a Cloudy Day

Does it matter that it was 7 PM last night before I realized my underwear were on wrong side out?

I hate cold weather. It's depressing. It makes me not care about things like clothing...and eating right...

Now, if I can figure out which way to put on my unmentionables, maybe I'll stroll on over to Taco Bell and let them help me lose some weight.



--------------

(FYI...I'm laughing as I type this...no deadly weapons are in sight, so don't call the Stress Unit.)

Today Is Brought To You By Hasbro and By The Letters "C,E,R,E,A" and "L".

Because I don't want anyone to think our house is boring and monotonous, I bring you this morning's kitchen floor offerings.



See...we have colorful neon Playdough, sparkly leftovers from New Year's Eve party hats, and strawberry shredded wheat, tossed onto the floor courtesy of an irritated 17 month old little girl. This is oh-so-lovingly swept into the center of a square of my flooring, size 6"x6".

Yes, I have bigger plans for my New Year than constantly sweeping up crumbs. Tomorrow, I move on to Airing Dirty Laundry. Stay tuned.

I Don't Work for General Mills, I Just Feel Like I Do.

My daughter gave me a new broom and long-handled dustpan for Christmas. A very practical gift, as my back objects to using a typical dustpan, and my daughter objects to being the dustpan holder. (I always hated that job when I was a kid, too!) Practical, because at any time, I may ...no...WILL be facing this.




As a general rule, I sweep the kitchen floor after the babies are in bed for the night and the dishes are done. So, this, folks...this combination of Corn Chex, Apple Jacks, Cheerios, bread crumbs, and who-knows-what-else...is one morning's worth of dirt. On my kitchen floor. That I crunch. Every time I take a step.

But it gets worse.






I have Cheerios in my Christmas tree! And under my piano. And in my couch cushions, furnace registers, laundry baskets, shoes...

Rabbits! They should have named them RABBITS!

And to top it all off...I went to Walmart this morning - with no list - to buy a new vacuum cleaner, because my old one died. The minute I walked in the house, I remembered what I had forgotten to buy at Walmart.

GAAAAAAAH!

Quiet, Please

Our television is on way more than I'd like for it to be. Actually, I'd dearly love to toss it to the curb.

In trying to get Dylan to remember where the volume button is located, I taught him to start at the far right button and count over three. (That's the DOWN button, as the only time we need the UP button is when a train is going by the house.)

I just overheard him saying "One, two, three" and miraculously, Bob the Tomato is no longer bellerin' into my living room about Larry the Cucumber's poor choices.



Encouragement that not everything I've done lately is a screw up.




- Image from google

Do Age and Gravity Mess With These, Too?

I believe the Bible. I believe it is 100% accurate. I believe it is God's word to us. I believe that humans misinterpret it. Often.

Some times, the way things come full circle just cracks me up.

As a setup, please note that I spent my primary school years in a church-run school that sometimes took Scriptures just a wee bit out of context, and when that didn't work, they'd just make stuff up. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but thank goodness I have a brain and can figure this stuff out now!

There were lots of rules, especially about how one was supposed to dress. (Well, let me clarify. Mostly, the rules were about how FEMALES were supposed to dress.) I'm OK with rules, to an extent. I understand that law and order are paramount. I can tolerate minor irritation for the greater good. My parents didn't particularly agree with all the regulations, but they felt the good outweighed the bad.

So -

Monday through Friday, I donned my dress with sleeves below the elbows and length three inches past mid-knee. I was too young for makeup, but that wouldn't have been allowed, anyway. I left my forbidden open-toed shoes in my closet, and tamed my uncut, brunette tresses with Aquanet. Allowed color, automobiles, and running water, we confused some people who thought we were Amish.

Occasionally, we'd ask for the Biblical source of these dress standards.

On why women shouldn't cut their hair - "A woman's hair is her glory" 1 Corinthians 11:15 (King James Version) But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.

On why women shouldn't wear pants - "Women shouldn't wear men's clothing" Deuteronomy 22:5 (King James Version) The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

On why jewelry wasn't allowed - "Women don't need jewelry to be beautiful" 1 Timothy 2:9-10 (King James Version) In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.

My arguments against this rationale fell on deaf ears.

"If a woman's hair is her glory, then why do you twist yours up in a knot on the top of your head so no one can see how long it is?"

"Back in Bible times, I thought men wore long robes."

"Why is a strand of fake pearls around my neck bad, but you can wear the same kind on a barrette on your knotted head?"

All of those verses, when read in context, are logical. When used to validate the edicts...eh...not so much.

Remember I mentioned that if a Bible verse justifying an ordinance couldn't be found, things were just made up? Here's where it turns comical.

One of the tidbits that was shared along the way was the reasoning (?!?) behind the necessity of sleeves covering elbows. Apparently, elbows make men think about breasts.

There are verses in the Bible about breasts. Lots about sexuality, both proper and improper. Men's thoughts are mentioned a few times. But no where do I recall reading about elbows. It could be mentioned in Song of Solomon, I suppose, since he mentions just about every other body part. As beautifully gifted as he was with poetry, I'm not sure he would include elbows and breasts in the same sentence.

Over the years, I've conducted research. I've plunked my elbows on the table and asked people "What do these look like?" The eye-rolling and chortling that follow the explanation grows funnier the more I age.

But about that full circle thing I opened this post with...

Actually, I thought the breast-elbow connection was complete hogwash. Until my three year old son confirmed it.

Headed to the shower recently, I was holding the clothing I intended to wear for the day, including a particular undergarment worn on the upper portion of the female anatomy. Nothing slips by Dylan, and even though it was partially covered by my jeans and t-shirt, his vision honed right in.

"Hey Mom, are you gonna wear that on your elbows?"

The Annual Stalking of Bambi

Today is Testosterone Day in Ohio. More conventional people may also designate it as Orange Day, but I'm not real conventional. When you can sense it just by opening a living room window, it's T-Day.

I'm referring, of course, to Opening Day for deer hunting season.

It's guaranteed that if I drive anywhere in the next week, I will see several deer hanging from trees, dripping on garage floors, and lolling over pickup tailgates. (Especially the bucks. You NEVER put your tailgate up when you get a buck!)

Life demanded that I make an errand run today. My route took me past a house that is apparently a hot spot for hunters. Two mega-duty trucks pulled out in front of me, thick black exhaust rolling from the jumbo pipes rising above the cabs. Two more trucks waited for me to pass, so they could join the cavalcade. The drivers and passengers were sporting the universally recognized neon orange. One by one, they all turned the same corner. I envisioned fourteen overgrown boys piling out of the monster machines, smacking each other on the back, popping the lids off their Michelobs and reliving the take-down of the 12-pointer swinging from the tree in the front yard.

These men may or may not have surprised their wives with a bouquet of roses in the past fifteen years or spent a dime on a family movie night. Vacations to Disney or the Grand Canyon may be a foreign concept. But! By golly, they've had this week of vacation approved at work since the first of January. Every year. Without fail.

When I was in high school, all of my male classmates who hunted were allowed to take a free day on Opening Day. The notion of allowing the females the liberty to enjoy a day for shopping wouldn't have been entertained. Sure, the men were hunting and providing for the family. But we all know that's not why men pull on their boots and Carhartts and perch precariously in homemade tree stands in subzero weather waiting for the elusive stag to have an unfortunate meeting with the wrong end of a shotgun. The fact that the family gets a little deer jerky and enjoys a steaming pot of venison stew is a side benefit.

Several months ago, Tom brought home an eight point buck head that one of his friends at work had parted with. The friend was cleaning out the Man Cave. I'm not, by far, the best decorator in the world, but our house is not a log cabin or in the country. I wasn't thrilled with this monstrosity hanging on my wall. I appreciate benevolence, but...

Tiffany was even unsure what to think about it.




We recently came to an agreement, with the help of an acquaintance. This guy had reason to step on our front porch while the Thing languished in the bad weather, and upon noticing, he declared an immediate need for it. He desired to own it to the extent that he offered us his own deer, should he get one this year. When we didn't respond to his offer quickly enough, he increased it to include a really nice Pack-n-Play for Tiffany.

The Pack-n-Play is lovely girly colors and suits Tiffany perfectly. We're waiting for the call that will fill our freezer. And somewhere, there's an eight point buck hanging on a cabin wall, with a bunch of strong, tough Davy Crocketts beating their chests and telling fish...I mean...deer stories.

Granny, Help! My Bread is Terrible!

Typically, junk mail causes me to sigh, roll my eyes, head straight for the closest trash receptacle, maybe even get a blood pressure check...it rarely makes me smile.
There's one catalog, however, that always makes me chuckle.




My Granny was a junk-mail queen. Among her garage sale plastic flowers, Conway Twitty 8-tracks and homemade yarn kittens, we could always find items she purchased from Fingerhut. Trinkets, dust collectors, most of it junk. All Granny. She bought a lot of flowered hand towels, probably from Fingerhut. She cut them in half, crocheted across the top, attached a button so the towel could be looped over a drawer handle, and gave them away as gifts.




Granny was little more than a feather. Barely five feet tall, she probably weighed a hundred pounds on a good day. She struggled with heart disease and several other health concerns, so she didn't have a lot of good days in her last years. She may have been small, but she was anything but weak. She raised nine children. She worked in a diner on Broad Street in St. Louis, Missouri. When she felt well, she was always on the go.

When I was about ten years old, my mother took my younger sister and I, my aunt and her boys, and Granny to a local park. The kids were all playing on the swings and slide. Mom and Aunt Joyce decided to enjoy a trip down the slide as well. Not to be outdone, Granny nimbly climbed the steps and began the trek down the shiny metal. Apparently, Granny had, over the years, forgotten how to gracefully bring yourself to a halt at the bottom of the slide. KERPLUNK!! Into the dust Granny landed, directly on her tailbone, legs out straight in front of her. I can still see the look of complete shock on her face. As soon as her daughters were sure she wasn't badly injured, they did what all good children do when their seventy year old mother falls off a slide...they burst into raucous laughter.

Around this same time, I recall sitting in Doc's Place, an ice cream shop, in Homer, Michigan where I grew up. Granny was relaying to my mother a story that my aunt had shared with her. I do not have a clue what the story was about, but I can remember that it involved how gravity affects a woman's upper body parts. My grandmother, being the proper lady she sometimes was, didn't want to mention this issue in front of my sister and I, but she wanted to make the point to my mother. Sitting at the table across from me, grinning and eating her ice cream, she kept drawing her hand down her chest. "You know, how they...you know...fall...down". I'm not quite sure why she thought that I wouldn't know to what she was referring!

Granny made The. Best. Dinner. Rolls. Ever. THE BEST. Try as we might, no one in the family has ever been able to duplicate the taste of Granny's bread. Countless times, we asked her to write down her recipe. "Oh, you just throw a little of this and a little of that in and stir it all up."

So you can probably sense my frustration when my bread machine malfunctions on Thanksgiving Day and I get this! (Great for having Communion with the family, though!)



Granny has been gone for 21 years. She would love my children. They would love her fuzzy TV with rabbit ears, her crocheted slippers, her bread.




Granny, I miss you.

The Cake, or Next Time Someone Else Can Drive

Last week, we had Dylan and Tiffany's adoption party celebration. After 16 months of waiting to adopt them, 2 months of party planning, (well, really more than that, because I've been planning to plan a party for a very long time!) and a few hours of decorating and cooking, we pulled it off.

Other than knowing we'd get to introduce our new children to some friends we hadn't seen for quite some time, the biggest thing I was excited about was their cake.

When Dylan first came to live with us, he brought one change of clothes, a couple of diapers, and a couple of small trinkets that the police officers involved in the case had given to him. That was all.

When he got to our home, he attached to a small, stuffed Jo-Jo, from Disney's Jo-Jo's Circus very quickly. Jo-Jo went everywhere Dylan went. He played with her so much that her nose wore off, so then he kept her under his pillow all the time so her "broken nose" wouldn't lose more stuffing.

In planning the party, I decided to go with a circus theme, for two reasons:

1. It describes our family perfectly!!

2. I wanted to have a huge Jo-Jo cake made by a local cake artist. (I don't use the term artist lightly...she really does do great work!)

Sunday morning, we skipped church (Shhh!) and spent the morning finishing up for the party, which was beginning at 2 PM. I left the party spot, retrieved the cake, and headed back to the party spot.

The cake was gorgeous. Perfect. Jessica did a WONDERFUL job.

(Photo courtesy of a very smart cake maker named Jessica, since I didn't get one with it looking like this!)

This trip, half-way across our small town, should take approximately 1.3 minutes, although we do have a double train track, so it sometimes takes longer. There were no trains during this trip. And apparently, I was trying to shorten the time to 1.1 minutes, because my foot slipped off the brake pedal. This, of course, caused me to hit the brakes again, a little too hard...

Yeah, you know what happens next...

I heard it going, reached back to catch it, as it was sliding off my van seats (which had been laid down for this particular excursion)...

Yeah..




Yeah....



Tom managed to salvage Jo-Jo's face, at least. Everybody said "Oh, don't worry about it. The cake tastes fine."

In the great big grand scheme of life, the fact that this cake hit the floor doesn't matter one iota...

Still...

I Bet Mayberry Didn't Have This Kind of Citizen

This is another one of those "What makes people tick?" posts. The kind in which I make a slight attempt to figure someone out in writing, then admit defeat and just go with laughing at how foolish they are, and feeling bad about how sad they must feel inside.

We've lived in this house for a little over 5 years. We've had the same neighbors since we arrived at this address. The family to the east of us is very nice. One kid. Both parents work full time. Typical American people. The people to the west of us...

Mid 50's, OTR truck-driver man, chain smoker, beer can ever present, filthy mouth...wife generally never comes out of the house except for a post office run...hopefully NOT typical American people!

They. Hate. Us.

(For the record, we have NEVER had issues with our neighbors. Never. None. We've had quiet neighbors, loud neighbors, druggy neighbors, churchy neighbors...we've invited, and been invited, to neighborly dinners...We're fun people.)

What we AREN'T...is politically correct, or particularly particular about our yard, our vehicles, or our children's outdoor toys. We also aren't prone to letting other people dictate how we live, or how we take care of our yard, our vehicles, or our children's outdoor toys. This has landed us on the fecal roster with our neighbors due west. Not caring that we're in this present predicament has only made it worse.

We are not your average American family. We have 6 kids. We are foster parents. We drive vehicles more than a decade old. Our kids aren't involved in 37 sports. Mom and Dad are in charge. We're home more than we're gone. (Well, not Dad - Dad works a lot to keep food on the table.) We also inhale and exhale several times throughout the day. And there's the problem.

These neighbors seem to think that the local police department has nothing better to do than listen to them complain about us. They have filed some of the most ridiculous, albeit hilarious, complaints.

*Gabe's home health aide blocks the sidewalk with her car.
A: The car was a Geo Metro - TINY
B: No one's using the sidewalk at 5 in the morning, anyway, even if she DID block it.

*They found pears in their yard that our kids threw.
A: I watched squirrels carrying pears from our trees all over the neighborhood.
B: Our kids were throwing APPLES at bats to watch them swoop down. They weren't anywhere near the neighbors yard.

*They went to village offices to request we be required to obtain a building permit for Preston to slap 5 boards up between the shed and a tree and call it a fort.

*Tom stands outside while she's mowing, staring at her, to make sure she doesn't come over on our property.
A: She rarely mows. He does it. (Probably to get away from her screeching.)
B: Tom has way better things to do in life than deny people the privilege of mowing our yard.
C: Tom's good, but he doesn't have telepathic powers strong enough to keep a riding lawn mower carrying a chubby middle-aged woman from veering onto our lawn.

*We, particularly our children, harass her so much she doesn't even come outside anymore because we drive her crazy. Our children smile and wave at her. They look at her through the (our!) windows.
A: She doesn't come outside anyway. She's very reclusive.
B: Naughty kids, you, smiling at the grouchy lady!

*We park our vehicles in our driveway, which isn't a driveway, and they can't see to back out of theirs.
A: Hrm...gravel, dirt, tire tracks...looks like a driveway to me.
B: Police officer checked the backing situation by pulling the cruiser into their driveway and checking sight line. HE had no problems, and documented that.

The list could go on, but I should save some web space for other people. Otherwise I'd be accused of being selfish.

Speaking of being accused...we've been told:

*We're stupid
*We're poor
*We're bringing down the whole neighborhood
*We should help the boys fill out McDonalds and Wendys applications because that's their future. (Because we home school) (This irritated the police chief, who was happy to point out that, on average, home schooled students do better than publicly-schooled children in a variety of ways. As my sister said, "It's good to have Barney Fife on your side.")
*It's nice to have money, so they can use their dryer instead of hang clothes outside.

These people are just plain mean. I've never met anyone like them. I can't comprehend how people can act this way, because I'm just not a nasty person. I'll admit to having grouchy days, especially when there's no coffee around, but I'm not a mean-spirited person. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but this couple just begs for the snark to come out of me! Have they ALWAYS been this way? Why in the world would they get married if they're both so nasty? They just prove that Misery Loves Company. How sad!

We have had several people suggest that we apply to Extreme Home Makeover for a home redo. (Not that our house is crumbling, but we could for SURE use a better layout for Gabe, and it's an old home that needs a lot of repair. More rooms for foster kids would be great, too.) BUT!! Who wants to be chained to these neighbors forever??!? No, when EHM decides to do a complete relocation, maybe THEN we'll apply! My request would be - move us just outside city limits, in a NON-extravagant home that doesn't require outrageous taxes, and turn this place into a Village Park.

If these neighbors think 6 kids are bad, let them deal with the whole town playing basketball in their back yard!

P. Allen Smith I am NOT

I bought these flowers less than 3 weeks ago. They were beautiful! And only $12! I hung them on my porch. Thank goodness I took pictures of them! Because..........



...obviously, my green thumb is sorely lacking something necessary to keeping plants alive!




Can you over water petunias? Is that really even an issue, when I don't remember to water them everyday, AND there's a hole in the bottom of the pot to drain extra water?

On the upside, though, my vegetable garden looks pretty good, so I'm not a complete failure...so far!

You Talkin' to ME??!??

Ever just sit and watch people? Wonder what makes them tick? Why they act like they do? What happened to them to make them so bitter, nasty, and mean-spirited?

I do.

I have a pretty tough skin. Things that bother many women just plain don't bother me. I'm not calloused. I just happen to believe that most things that stress people out WOULDN'T, if they'd put it into perspective. Sure, things get to me, and sometimes they're stupid things...everybody has bad days. I'm just not one to sit around moping about things I can't change and aren't really that important in the grand scheme of life.

However, I DO like to be liked. I've never read How to Win Friends and Influence People, and don't plan to add it to my Must-Read list, but I truly enjoy being around just about every kind of person imaginable. I am a people watcher. I can, and very often do, strike up conversations about anything with nearly anybody. All the better, if I can get a chuckle out of them, make them smile, give them a reason to think. I have a personal bubble space, but I'm not afraid to shrink or expand it, even invite others in, if the mood strikes.

I don't, as a general rule, set out to make people dislike me, but that sometimes comes with the territory known as Deanna. Rarely do I find myself flabbergasted enough to honestly not care if I offend someone by speaking my mind. When I speak truthfully, my methods of communicating do offend some people. I occasionally have to apologize, because while my viewpoint about a topic may be unchanged, my delivery could be fine-tuned. OK, major overhauled!

But...(ya knew that was comin', didn'tcha?)...

Call my kid a pig on the public transit system, and I will not care who knows that I'm not happy. I'm not going to grow cancer in my brain over it, but it isn't something I'll forget.

We just spent 3 days in Chicago with Bucky, celebrating his 16th birthday. It was 3 days of just Tom, Bucky and me, doing fun stuff, eating food that I didn't prepare, exploring one of the most beautiful cities in the country, full of, for the most part, friendly people. Nearing the end of the 3rd day, we were exhausted. We were returning from Sears Tower, and having reached the end of our walking capabilities, we hopped on a near-capacity bus. We may be from the sticks, but we know bus etiquette says "Sit in the handicapped section if no handicapped people need it. Offer your seat to elderly people, pregnant women, or passengers with small children." Knowing this, we sat in the front of the bus. Tired. Zoned out.

Bucky had a significant headache, so he certainly wasn't paying attention to what his fellow passengers were doing. I wasn't being overly watchful, but I had noticed an older lady across from me, reading a book. She was not at all happy when someone sat beside her and bumped into her belongings, and the thought crossed my mind that she just looked grumpy and not very nice.

A couple of blocks down the road, an older, perhaps in their 60's, very able-bodied couple and another older lady got on the bus together. The only seat available was right next to the grumpy book lady, so the single lady took it, leaving the couple standing in the aisle. Several more people climbed aboard during the next few stops, so it was getting crowded. I noticed the book lady glancing at me over her reading glasses. I overheard a conversation that the couple was involved in, regarding an upcoming lecture the lady was to be giving "And I don't even know the topic yet!" My thought was "What's so special about this lady that they ask her to lecture and haven't chosen a topic?"

Shortly, in the back of my tired mind, I began hearing the word "pig" repeated several times. Glancing at the book lady, I realized she was speaking to the couple and their friend, but the words she was speaking were directed at us. "Kids these days are just PIGS!! It's so disheartening! It really is! I mean it! They're just PIGS! PIGS!!!" Her eyes darting from my face to Bucky's kinda gave it away.

I just stared at her. She looked away. I kept staring. Again, she said the word "Pigs" very loudly several times. By this time, the bus was completely full, and I stood to offer my seat to an arriving older lady who looked like she needed it. She very kindly told me that as long as she could hold on to something, she was fine, and remained where she was. We had arrived at our stop by now, and had to step around several people to reach the back door.

I could not resist leaning right into the grumpy book lady, getting down eye-level with her mean face. Patting her on the lap, I smiled sweetly, wrinkled my nose, and softly said, "We raise pigs for a living. We could lecture on it." I walked off the bus, feeling not the least bit guilty about stretching the truth a wee bit...after all, when I was 8, we did have pigs we slaughtered and sold.

Apparently as I was departing, she said, loud enough for Tom and Bucky to hear, "You're pigs!!" They were both oblivious to what had transpired over the past several city blocks, as well as to what I was doing in this woman's face. I had to relay the entire bus ride, lest they be convinced I'd finally lost my mind for good.

But as for the lady - what was she trying to accomplish? Whatever it was, she probably failed. What has she experienced, who has wronged her, how long has she held on to anger?

How much happier could she have been that day, if I'd sat beside her and cracked a joke? Would she have hit me with her book, or would she have warmed up enough to tell me who the author was? Because I would have liked to know...the front of the book looked pretty. Eyes of a child, entitled Honolulu, or something like that, if I recall correctly.

I would have loved to tell her how gorgeous I think her city is. How friendly Chicagoans seem. How absolutely stunning the flowers on the Magnificent Mile are. That we chose Chicago, so Bucky could see Blue Man Group. What a great kid he is.
Ask about her family. Her work, life in the city, good places she liked to eat...

But she called my kid a pig. So now, she'll never know Bucky. She's missing out.

She Wore An Itsy-Bitsy, Teeny-Weeny, Yellow, Polka-Dot.....Burlap Bag!

I was reminded last night of why it's been well over 6 years since my last bathing suit purchase. Just looking at the price caused a mild heart attack. I am not about to spend $86 dollars to learn Humility Through Donning Spandex!

Upcoming events require that I be dressed appropriately for water activities. I don't know how to swim, so how many of these activities I actually participate in will be somewhat limited. If being in the general vicinity of the action requires appropriate dress as well, the management may need to change the rules about not letting people wearing garbage bags into the roped off areas!

Typically if I'm around water, it's a lake, so I can wear what I want. Shorts and a tank top, or shorts over an old bathing suit, or something along those lines. I haven't been in a public pool since...well, I don't recall ever being in a public pool. However, feeling the pressure to conform, I took a stroll through Kohls last night to see just how The Others...you know, the Ones With Bodies...dress when in or near bodies of water.

I searched till I found what I thought would be a tolerable piece of equipment. (That's the only way to refer to something this distasteful. "Cute" and "Sexy" are really quite obnoxiously unkind, not to mention untruthful, words to choose when viewing swimming apparel on the body of a mother-who-birthed-4.) Figuring that a "shorts and long top" style would be better, not to mention cheaper, I grabbed a couple sizes of the same style and headed for the dressing rooms with the Mirrors From Hell. I was certain I wouldn't look any worse than the 60-ish grandmotherly-type lady, quite a few pounds heavier and a couple inches shorter than I, shopping in the same Misses department.

I have no idea what that lady looked like, but THIS lady ain't goin' out in public wearing what she tried to wear in that claustrophobia-inducing hole! The sticker-shock heart attack wasn't enough to do me in, but the broken neck from falling down laughing almost made death a reality. My first thought, after picking myself up was "Oh my gosh! There's no way I'd let my boys see me like this!"

Despite what many people think, Image Isn't Everything. However, image is SOMEthing! And no one should have that image in their mind. That whole "picture is worth a thousand words" thing... I only need two words..."NO WAY!"







(image from google)

Tearing the Wrapper Off Counts as Exercise, Right?

Miniature Cadbury Caramel Eggs just don't have the appeal of the larger ones. Sure, it's easier to hide one in your mouth if one of the kids happen to appear in the room while you're sucking one down enjoying every small nibble. But darn it, they're wrapped in foil. Got any idea how long it takes to unwrap one of those things? I don't either - I gave up and just ate the gold shiny stuff along with the chocolate and caramel. Figured it might help me with the elimination process later on.

I also like to eat chocolate chips. My mother-in-law thought I was a complete loon when Tom and I first got married, because she had never heard of eating chocolate chips sans cookies. *BOGGLE* She thought it was such a strange notion that one year for Christmas, she bought me a bag of chocolate chips as a gift. It was practically my favorite gift that year, proving that sometimes mothers-in-law actually do get it right!

In the nearly-18 years I've been married, I can probably count on one or two hands how many times I've baked chocolate chip cookies. However, my hips tell a story of proportions best left denied. We won't go into that right now.

This issue with chocolate isn't held by myself alone. It is a familial trait. My oldest sister employed various methods of weaning her body from the desire for chocolate chips. One of my favorites involved her putting the yummy morsels in her deep freeze in her unheated, subzero temperature cement-floored garage in an attempt to fool her brain into thinking it could go without chocolate. Her feet didn't care that she had no socks on - they just automatically marched her body down the hallway and planted themselves in front of the freezer while she munched on frozen Nestles. I'm thinking she gave up on the notion that this plan worked, because she didn't develop frostbite requiring amputation.

Hershey's Kisses do in a pinch, but for all the work of unwrapping the chocolate, and picking off the pieces of that darn white tag that rings "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" bells in holiday commercials, you'd think the bite would last longer. Then again, maybe it would, if I actually bit instead of inhaling.




I like regular Hershey Bars, without almonds. There is no reason to clutter up perfectly good chocolate with nuts! But several years back, when they changed the wrapper to the shiny, slick plastic stuff, it nearly sent me over the edge! You have to grab the end just right, and pull it slowly open or you rip it, and therefore ruin the presentation of a perfect bar of chocolate. You actually have to put effort into ripping a straight line down the center, because otherwise the evil wrapper-gods sit and laugh at your mounting frustration as you watch the chocolate ooze out the end - melted at the mercy of your angry hands. I had to ask what was wrong with the old Foil-covered Paper Wrapping, so I called to complain. Yes, I actually called that 1-800 number they provide for just such comments. I complimented them on the quality of their food product, and told them they were causing issues with my addiction by forcing me to slow down in the presentation process. They took my comments under advisement, and most likely fell off their chair laughing. It did me no good - they didn't return to the former packaging.

Hershey's Nuggets are a much better option, if you have to unwrap. They're solid rectangles, and the wrapper is paper as opposed to flimsy, Kisses-type foil, so it doesn't rip. You can make them last for 2 full bites and feel like you've accomplished something. They have a melt-in-your-mouth option, if you're willing to hang on long enough. If you're not a chocolate purist, there are even several editions with various flavor enhancers like caramel, dark chocolate centers, and raspberry.

But...

...for the immediate satisfaction without any of the fuss, go with Mini Hershey's Kisses. Found in the baking aisle with the chocolate chips and cocoa, these little temptations are smaller than your average Kiss, but packaged like chocolate chips. Therefore - unwrapped. Simply cut open the end of the silver bag, and pour the little boogers right into your hand. Directly into your mouth works if you're desperate, but this is usually only required for the first mouthful, after which you can dump some into a bowl and pick up smaller quantities.

Considering that we are so close to the Easter Holiday, I can't forget to mention one of my favorite places to sneak into once in a while. If you're anywhere near the Ft. Wayne, Indiana area and you're alone, visit DeBrand Fine Chocolates. I say alone, because if you haul the whole family in there, you're going to walk out with a T-shirt that says "I Went To DeBrand and All I Got For My 20 Bucks Was 5 Truffles and This Shirt That Won't Stretch Over My Hips".

My name is Deanna, and I'm a Convicted Chocoholic.


(image courtesy of google)

Attitude Tuneup Performed By Grandy

One of the blogs I follow is Grandy's Functional Shmunctional. The name caught my attention a year or so ago. I like blogs with weird names ever so much better than your ordinary Plain Jane-type. Susie Blathers On About Weirdness is more interesting than Sue's Blog. Call me crazy and dip me in garlic butter, but I'm just weird like that, I guess.

Anyway, a few weeks back Grandy started a weekly post called Sunday Stalker Spotlight wherein she interviews her followers and gives them a chance to talk about themselves. Ha! If there's one thing I'm good at, it's talking, so I rather enjoyed answering her questions. She was quite kind with the editing buttons and she let me ramble for a bit.

Grandy has a touch of the odd sense of humor that I find amusing, and while she's more succinct in her delivery than I probably will ever manage, she still keeps her topics varied. One of her recent posts was about having gastric bypass surgery. It made me stop and think about my attitude toward people and their health care choices.

I know several people who have had gastric bypass surgery, and before I read Grandy's story I would have been happy to tell you just what I thought of those people. Because my judgmental attitude can pop out at the most inopportune times, (with said attitude usually being accompanied by my unlocked and loaded mouth,) I could have railed for several minutes about how people should just go on diets and lose the fat. Then Grandy comes along, and tells us the multiple reasons she chose to have this type of surgery. She wasn't attempting to resemble Barbie - she just wanted to live!

So now how many of these people that I know have done the same thing? Sure, I'm betting that some of them might have had "lose 6 dress sizes" near the top of their list of "pros". I know that at least one of them wasn't enough overweight to warrant the surgery based solely on pounds, so her doctor told her to gain weight. I thought that was unethical, but now since learning more about the medical reasons why people might have the surgery, maybe gaining the extra 20 pounds makes sense.

Bottom line is - I'm not in these people's shoes. I don't follow them around all day to see if they're eating 100% healthy food. I don't know their family medical history, their stressors, their prognosis, or anything else about them. I can sit and watch the 450 pound man, carrying an oxygen tank, wheeze and puff up the 2 steps it takes to get to his table at Olive Garden. I can shake my head and think "Harumph! How many carbs is he going to eat today? No wonder he's so big!" - But my attitude stinks and it doesn't make me feel good inside.

So Grandy, thanks for inviting me over to your place. And better yet, thanks for encouraging me to reconsider how I view other people and remember that I just might not be seeing the whole picture. I'm going to work on living this lesson past today, and transferring it into other situations. I'm glad you're feeling better. And you just plain look good.

I Have a Right To Remain Silent?!?

Tom has a friend that, years ago in school, thought the Miranda Rights included "a cannon will be used against you in a court of law".

Ben Franklin, bless his intelligent soul, had similar thoughts a few years back, and thank his lucky stars, this idea
never took off!

It seems he believed people should be forcefully roused from their pillows by ringing church bells. If that didn't work, he proposed cannons being fired. At 4 AM, mind you. Or when the sun rose - now, I live in Ohio. The sun doesn't rise at 4. Neither does Deanna. Cannons or not. I often rise between 5:30 and 6:00, because I like to see Tom for a few minutes before he heads out the door to his very long work days. But until I've mainlined enough coffee to make me human, you're likely to get a fist in the face if you start belting out "Come On, Ring Those Bells, Light Deanna's Tree..." (there's a throw-back to the 70's with the Allowable Christian Christmas Music by Evie...)

For people who take issue with Daylight Savings Time, shush it! As someone who is ever so much nicer in the summer than in the winter, I appreciate all the sunshine I can get. They have a name for people like me. Actually they have lots of names for people like me, but the specific name I refer to is SAD. Do I sound like a SAD person? I'm not SAD. MAD might be more appropriate. Mouthy Affective Disorder is fairly accurate, but the doctors see it as Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD gets you in trouble with your insurance company, MAD gets you in trouble with the cops. So far I've managed to avoid trouble with both industries. Pretty much.

So here's to Ben Franklin's better ideas, mood music, and sunshine. Spring your clocks forward tonight.

I love summer!



Big Ben courtesy of Google/FreeFoto

Dumpster Diving

OK, so I'm gonna break down here and admit that every once in a while, something comes across my path that just grinds me.


Normally I can deal with these rare occurrences and no one is any wiser as to the wrestling in my brain. I am no Monk by any stretch of the imagination (my clutter would push the poor man into a permanent catatonic state), but I do have a couple squeamish tendencies that make Tom refer to me as a germ-a-phobe, in a very loving sort of way. I use hand sanitizer the minute I exit Walmart, I use my own pens to sign papers at the doctors office, and I hold the electronic stylus pen at RiteAid with my sleeve when I sign for prescriptions. I think that's only logical! Who goes to the doctor and pharmacy? Sick people!! (I also prefer my kitchen cupboards to be organized by food group, can size and labels turned OUT, and my bathroom closet to have all towel edges turned IN - does this indicate a need for psychological evaluation?)

Despite what you may be thinking right-about-now, the subject of this post really isn't my minor OCD issues. No, the subject - the daily grind, if you will - is TRASH CANS. In particular, OUR trash cans.



Our kitchen trash can being full doesn't bother me. The fact that I'm the only person in the house who routinely notices that it fills up bothers me. The fact that I am still, after nearly 17 years, explaining to my children the task of properly taking the trash to the outdoor trash can and REPLACING THE BAG IN THE KITCHEN TRASH CAN bothers me.




The lid doesn't bother me. We utilize the trash receptacle so often that I generally don't even keep the lid on it. It's stored near the trash can, and prior to company coming over, we'll dust it off and dutifully slap it on top of the (hopefully) empty can. It bothers me that I don't have a "place" for my trash can other than way-too-near my kitchen table, but it works out great for tossing the dry pizza crust and chicken wings and flipping the Corona bottle tops without getting off our chairs.




Dirty trash cans REALLY grind me. Growing up, my mother used paper grocery bags to line the trash can. Paper bags are shorter than the average kitchen trash can, so this effort really did nothing to keep the trash can clean. Emptying all the trash cans in the house was one of my routine chores, so you can imagine my displeasure at having to haul a nasty can outside to the burn barrel and watch the days' disgust roll down the side of the stained, formerly-white-now-dingy-gray can into eternal ashy oblivion.

As you can see in this picture SOMEONE didn't bother to make sure there was a trash bag in the can before tossing a few coffee grounds in, or else SOMEONE ripped a hole in the bag that was there, and a few coffee grounds slipped through. However, my solution to this problem is this: when I mop the floors, I use my kitchen trash can for a bucket. It keeps it nice and fresh. The bottom of my kitchen trash can is NOT stained, and in fact is so clean, that I wouldn't cringe if a piece of chocolate fell in - I'd probably consider the 30-second rule, blow off the imaginary germs, and depending on the day of the month, yes, I would probably eat it. Because I use a botanical germicidal spray on my trash cans, they are actually pretty clean in between changing bags. So that the other trash cans in my life don't feel left out, I let them masquerade as mop buckets every so often, too. My house may be a mess, but by golly, the trash cans are gonna be clean!



Something else that bothers me is the price of trash bags. Have you bought them lately??!? A couple years ago, I could get 96 quality bags for under $5. Now it will cost me almost $8, for 80. And the box they come in is flimsier! It's not even heavy cardboard, it's barely cardstock weight! So I had to salvage the last heavy box we had. When I get ripped off buy a new box of trash can liners, I toss the box they come in, and put the roll into the old box. I have nightmares that someone with lesser trash can liner fears than mine will toss the old box and I will daily, sometimes more than daily, have to face the fact that I no longer can purchase 96 bags at one time. Seriously, I'm tossing money into the trash can! It's preposterous!



This is my saving grace, though. It proves that I'm not a complete lunatic. It proves that not all trash cans are created equal. It proves that I can find ways to stick it to the man save money.







This came with our house. We bought this house and moved in 5 years ago today. Upon arriving in our new God-provided home, I was pleasantly surprised to find a couple outdoor trash cans loitering around the back door. Great, I thought. Wonderful. I won't have to buy new ones. So I didn't. I didn't care that this one didn't have wheels. I just prop it against the house, or the other trash cans. It works fine. It has serviced our dirty diapers, tomato soup cans (that don't get used on Tom's car), moldy bread, junk mail, used coffee filters, and empty Hershey wrappers faithfully for 5 full years.

But now...after 5 full years ... I have been put on notice. Apparently not everyone appreciates my money-saving finesse.

I've been served collection notices in the past, but they've never made me laugh. Until now... and they have a new twist. It's a NON-collection notice! Yahoo!



Two weeks ago, the trash guys left one can untouched on Trash Day. Sitting there so neat and orderly by the street, they abandoned it! We happened to have some extra stuff out that day, so I thought we were over our "limit", although we typically are and nothing ever happens. They're so nice, and they need our junk so much, they just take it for us. Our solution was to have the boys haul a couple of extra bags over to a neighboring house which never puts ANY trash out, because it's owned by a church and not occupied. The pastor's wife told us years ago if we had an occasion where we had extra trash, we were welcome to put it out at that curb, because the church pays for trash pickup for that location anyway. This was the first time we've taken advantage of her offer. (This pastor's wife had some of her own trash disappear a year or so ago, and she thought she was losing her mind. As it turns out, the police had swiped her trash bags from her curb in an effort to nail some drug dealers they thought might be dumping evidence in other people's trash. Ha!)

Voila! Problem solved. But wait! Two days ago, Preston Savannah brought in this lovely little green sticker from the handle of our free trash can. Now we know the real reason they left us in a lurch for trash space!




Have I mentioned we've lived here, and used this very same trash can, for 5 years???!??

I'm not sure why we're getting a sticker from the "Village of Delta" trash collectors. Tri-State Waste has always provided trash pickup for our village, to my knowledge. So I'm going to defend these guys by assuming that Tri-State must have subcontracted that day out to Delta, a town some 30-odd miles away from us. These guys would have no knowledge of my aversion to spending money on new trash cans, and as Tom pointed out, it is slightly difficult to keep the can standing up, with no wheels on it. This might explain why there was a dirty diaper left lying in my front yard after the truck pulled away...

But do you think I'm spending money on a new trash can now?

Think again. If I can screw a piece of wood onto the bottom of this puppy and stabilize it, I will not be replacing this trash can any time soon. The Trash Gods can just deal with it.

Cream and Sugar?

It's not much of a secret that I have an addiction to coffee. To make it easier to justify, I like to call it a healthy love affair rather than an addiction.





(It just wouldn't be healthy or proper for me to stalk this man.)


I didn't always drink my breakfast, but as I apparently am required to be awake to sufficiently care for my family, I caved to genetics* and began consuming the energizing beverage several years ago.

*My mother always had a napkin with a coffee cup ring on it sitting on her sewing machine table. My sisters and I would come home from school and there would be 3 matching dresses hanging on the sewing room door that had not been there when we left at 7:30 that morning. The dashboard of my father's pickup was littered with Styrofoam cups. I can almost smell the faint scent of McDonald's coffee that permeated the cab of his work truck. He convinced me when I was a kid that his vehicle just automatically turned into the drive-thru every day on his way home from a paint job.

Tom and I had a coffee maker that sat, unused except for company, for a few years after our wedding. Then along came the babies, and after the arrival of Savannah, Mr. Coffee became a permanent fixture on the counter top.

Tom worked 3rd shift the first twelve years of our marriage, so naturally he drank a lot of the sludge. He needed it to stay awake, and it really does smell good - I'll blame him for a portion of my problem. We both love to wake up to the smell of fresh coffee. He, more than I.* My addiction used to be more pronounced in the winter, so I kept a "winter" (12 cup) coffee maker, and a "summer" (4 cup) coffee maker available. Preston and Bucky occasionally like to partake of a cup with us, so we just use the big one all the time now. (I also now drink just as much coffee in warmer weather as I do in cooler weather, but who's counting??!?)

*For a short period of time, Tom decided we should have a Bed-n-Breakfast bedroom. His version was simple - take










the summer coffee maker















upstairs and keep a supply of ground coffee, filters, and a gallon of water under the bed. The preparations would all be in place before he went to sleep at night. In the morning, his alarm would go off, and without a word being said, he'd roll over. I'd hear him hit the snooze with his hand and start the coffee pot with his foot. In a few seconds, I'd hear "pssssssssss...." as the water began trickling into the carafe. This went on for several days, until one morning, listening to the chain of events take place in the darkness that is 5:00AM, I could contain my mirth no longer and simply burst into laughter. Shortly after that, he quit making coffee upstairs, and our bedroom returned to it's previous place in our domicile as Just the Room in Which We Sleep. I have no idea why.

I used to just drink the plain stuff, and while I still like a simple cup of coffee every now and then, my disease has progressed to the point that I now require special treatment. Where once I used to be able to survive on this,







now I use this.




Where once I used to speak daily with Mr. Coffee, my husband knew that Mr. Coffee could no longer fulfill the requirements I have for kitchen appliances, so he enabled me with this.





And you almost ALWAYS find something like this in my fridge.



Every once in a while, usually on a blustery winter evening when I happen to have time to read a good book, I might stray off the beaten path and shake things up a bit with some of this.







But lest you think I've drifted so far over the edge of sanity there's no hope for my return, be assured that I find useful ways to recycle various coffee-related articles. For instance, the larger containers of the plain-jane coffee make excellent storage devices for baby bottles.



Aware of the need to become more "green", another efficient use that I've discovered for run-of-the-mill coffee buckets is composting. Keep one of these suckers sitting by your kitchen sink, and toss in your leftover scraps from making juice, scrambled eggs and ....are you ready for this??....COFFEE!! Voila! Instant mush for your garden!




Now on the off chance that you think I'm not treating my body in a healthy manner, let me just say that I drink all this in an effort to retain my brain power. Granted, it would help if I could actually FIND my brain to begin with, but if I am ever successful at that endeavor, at least I'll be geared up for making sure I don't wind up suffering with dementia when I'm 80. And I've got proof!!!

So! Back off, all you naysayers! I'll be just fine.

Now...
where did I set my cup down?

Blizzards Aren't Just at Dairy Queen

What I'm dreaming about...longing for...wishing Tom and I were living...
















What I'm actually living...

---





Ah, but I'm learning... working on my attitude, remember?

It's beautiful. But I sure would like to work on my attitude while lying on a beach looking at pictures of snow.

Do I Have To?

This time last year, I waxed philosophical (Sorry, Phil - I know that was painful!) and blabbed about a few things I wanted to accomplish in 2008.

How did I fare? Well...


1. Plant a garden with more than tomatoes and zucchini. Not intentional, but sometimes you have to take what you get! - ROFL!! I found out later this was probably a pumpkin...???? Maybe??

2. Start and FINISH making our bedroom look like a bedroom, and not a catch-all. Somewhere I have pictures, but I can't find them. It's still a bit of a catch-all, but at least the walls look nice! We did get a remodeled bathroom, though! It has so much more room for Gabe to move around! And my washer and dryer are upstairs now! Wow!!

3. Help raise significant funds for Gabe's school to build a new
facility. Must have team cooperation - I don't know who the team is. Maybe next year?

4. Have a ton of fun celebrating Preston's 16th birthday. Yes, we did!!

5. Find a new(er) van that has 2 doors on the driver's side!! (long teenage legs...) Nothing yet...gotta be soon, though! We can no longer go anywhere as a family without driving 2 vehicles...

6. Help Ron Paul win big. We did our best! Funny how he was ignored in the media until the Bailouts became Top News...then he was all over television. He's doing lots of good things, though! Pay attention to what he says - he's a very smart man.

7. Help Savannah improve her sewing skills. She's working on it.

8. Spend a long weekend away with Tom. (Florida???) It wasn't Florida, but Tom did plan a surprise weekend away for us in May, right down to the sitters! We fought off the vicious raccoons while camping at Pokagon. No kids, no cooking...My husband is wonderful!

9. Locate some indoor skateparks for Bucky. Still looking...any ideas?

10. Adopt a child. (We're approved, licensed, and ready, ya know!) April 9th - got Mister D; July 16th - got his sister Baby T; November 17th - biological mother voluntarily surrendered parental rights; December - biological father extradited back to Ohio for court hearings; WE WAIT...

11. Finish paying off Bucky's braces, the bike, and various small bills. Progess made.

12. While we're at it, paying off the house would be a HUGE answer to prayer. I dream big! Still dreamin'...

13. Follow God in dealing with a particular family situation and find peace. Hard to know how to handle - so many people affected in so many ways...

14. Be a Godly influence to my children's friends. I'm sure hoping it's a godly influence! Recently one of Bucky's friends told him that he thinks Tom and I smoke pot because "No one can be that happy ALL the time!" ROFL!!!!

15. Send Christmas cards! Does buying them last year, losing them, and finding them again count for ANYthing?

16. Have family pictures taken! As evidenced by the photos on this blog, we have not experienced any professional photo shoots this year!

So what's on the agenda for 2009?

I'm thinking about it.

At the top of my list is improving my attitude. I have such a hard time reading the book of James, because I really hate being slapped in the face. If I didn't have so many people getting in my way and annoying me, I wouldn't need to bite my tongue now, would I???!?? Hard as I've tried to convince myself, being separate doesn't mean I can go on extended vacation. Drat! Guess that rules out living in solitude in the Fiji Islands.

I have no more room on my list - this is gonna take a lot of work!