Something Done Crawled Up Inside You and Died, or Indoor Road Kill in South Dakota

(From the road on Saturday, May 29, 2010)

Coming at you from I-90W in the wide open state of South Dakota. Home of more than a few independently run burger joints specializing in buffalo. Haven’t seen any Thai places. But more appropriately, host to the Badlands – a vast stretch of rugged natural Western beauty . . . the kind of deceptive beauty responsible for the slow dry deaths of more than a few cowboys, pioneers, hapless Native Americans, and any number of handsome and totally serviceable horses back in the day. Of that I’m 100% certain. Don’t need a textbook or Google site to confirm what appears very much obvious. But that’s all right. Even the buzzards and four-legged predators need variety in their diets to stave off the boredom of the everyday.

Kind of like this road trip. This two-day, 22+ hour odyssey necessary to properly break-in this here gas-guzzling, wonderfully capacious (fully-stocked oversized cooler, multiple full-sized suitcases, two lamps and shades headed for Aunt Marie’s, laptops, book bags, a selection of dry snacks, CD’s and DVD’s, camera, iPhones, purses, blankets, pillows, 3 bottles of sparkling Rose, not to mention the four grown bodies and accompanying egos with all their requirements manning the thing!) 1995 gently-used GMC Yukon. A journey necessary to convey us from point A, Murfreesboro, Tennessee, to point B, Gillette, Wyoming. Most likely one of the final family road trips – already short one kid though she checks in via text – for this maturing Valdez Bunch. So, necessary in that regard, too.

Staring down the last 4 hours of this trek, it is fair to say that boredom may indeed stir in the breasts of my two fruit-of-the-womb (yeah, I’ve used that a time or two, but it’s a splendid phrase which screams to be exercised with some frequency) sprawled in the back seat of aforementioned cottage-on-wheels. But, I guarantee it is NOT of the everyday ordinary variety. Can they create a dot-to-dot with windshield bug splats at home? I think NOT! And, punctuations of glee, impromptu wrestling, assorted candies and salties, Facebook status postings, and semi-truck honk solicitations, have filled the in-betweens quite nicely.

I also guarantee that our olfactory senses have been mightily challenged by the negative workings of travel food on the digestive system of one in our midst within the enclosed space. (No names, but it ISN’T me!) There’s no escape. No way to flee, gasping, arms flapping wildly as the offender is cursed back to his grandmama. (Is there a clue here?) Holding one’s breath has limited effectiveness. Especially with rapid and multiple silent incidents. Ah, add that to the modes of modern deaths on the Badlands. Who knows what corrosive effect the gaseous substance might have on the transmission? Another steed down. It has been the subject of mild outrage – oxymoron? nope! not if one has three teen-types – for some in our ranks. No pun intended. It’s got me to wondering if high school debate has ever entertained this as a topic. From my experience, kids take to the subject like a fly to doggie doo. (Another stinkiness constantly cropping – I did say ‘crop’ – up in my existence.) The sensory enhancement of odor only adds to the overall enjoyment of the two-sided discussion.

My mother will be so proud of my wasted paragraph-ode to human gas. Sorry, ma. But they say ‘write what you know’ and in this gastrointestinally-challenged family, for better or worse . . . well you know! (Oh, brother, now another half paragraph.)

I do believe I’ve killed (a theme in this entry) another hour in the writing. You’ve maybe knocked off a few brain cells reading this. And, my bladder is dying a slow death to the lack of gas stations in the immediate area. My concentration, if that is indeed what this poly-syllabic string of words can be considered, is shot.

Besides, the Badlands Trading Post has a soft-serve ice cream logo on their door. Mama needs some for her tum-tum.

Check Out These Talented Dreamers

(Before I begin tonight's entry, let me make an addendum to last night's entry: for the record, there is another entire sub-section under the blog heading outside of personal and news: many use blogs to promote their business, cause, or passion.  I did say I was under the influence of something other than my own clear head!)

Note: Highlighted words in blog are actual links.
__________________________________________

I joined my first writing group a few months back -- a writers workshop.  A friend of mine has floated various scribe-oriented activities to my inbox over the past year or so, encouraging me to kindly get off my duff and git' to gittin,' for Pete's sake!  Talking about writing a book, or ten or twenty, is not the same as writing the book(s).  Simple enough concept.  My habit has been to peruse the e-mails she lobs my way with something akin to one part interest, three parts dread, and delete the sucker as quickly as my hot little fingers can do so.

For whatever reason, this one last-minute message about a woman known to my friend through educational circles who was hosting a workshop out of her home struck me.  For two days, I read and re-read the forwarded invitation.  And, then, I picked up the phone and called this congenial person who delightedly welcomed me to the fold.  From the very first meeting, I was hooked.  How had I denied myself the good solid company of other earnest and passionate writers for the entirety of my life?!

Though seven is the actual number of our core group, it has dwindled down to a regular gathering of four women most Thursday nights from 5:30PM to 7:30PM.  Of the three least seen, one is a dedicated single mother to a teenage son who wrote a rough draft book for kids in a month through an online writing challenge called "NaNoWriMo" a.k.a. National Novel Writing Month.  Another joined Toastmasters and was there to discover if she had what it took to write as she harbored a head full of family tales itching to come out and play with the page.  The third, an 8th grade student for a few more days, pens her stories in multiple notebooks in a steady stream of words, words, and more words; she'll be published sooner than later, I'm betting!

The rest of us are as varied as the first bunch.  Our fearless leader is a professional editor, a published writer, a musician, and a teacher . . . and a wellspring of support, inspiration, and encouragement.  Currently, she is working on two books -- a work of fiction and a biographical account of her father's life.
The second in our Brain Trust joined up to prove to her friend that she was NOT a writer.  Ahem!  Don't it chafe something fierce when friends turn out to be right?  And, you've got to hear her orate; she's a Toastmaster member, too -- practiced, amusing in her delivery, and superbly natural for the role.  There's me, of course.  Finally pushed to choose a project and START my engines!  I've chosen to capture the essence of my relationship with my youngest brother, Gary.  He's endured 17+ years of incarcerated living before finally being diagnosed with mental illness.  His hard work has just begun in a California state hospital.

Our last, but definitely not least, member is a novelist with completed works under her belt -- Stephanie Cardel.  Not only is she a writer, but her college-age daughter doth also possess and exercise the gift!  Presently, Stephanie (I'm allowed to call her Steph but I'm not sure you can, yet) seeks representation for her finished young adult fiction novels.  One is part of a trilogy under the genre of "magical realism."  Of the seven of us, she is pursuing the elusive dream of publication that we all dare to entertain in our confident moments on the writing trail.  Generously, she shares what she has experienced through this sometimes grueling process.  I've learned a great deal from her.  I plan on bringing a host of friends to her first book-signing.  In her 'spare time,' she and her daughter run an oustanding and informative website which reviews children's books, ages 7 and up, called "Check Out These Books" (link).  Any of you with kids, who yearn to encourage their love of reading, this is THE site for you.  Please check it out.  They are voracious readers.  They KNOW their stuff, inside and out.  Also, she can be found on Facebook at Check Out These Books Fan Page.  Become and fan and tell her Gloria sent you!

Oh, and buy her books once she becomes a bestseller.  Now that I mention it, look for ALL of us on the bookshelves and audio collections in the years to come.  I'll pass along the authors' names.

That's B-L-O-G

What IS a blog?  Really.  Until hearing about the origin of "Julie and Julia" (or is it vice-versa?), my interest in blogs was limited.  Severely.  Turning 40, and the host of interesting developments in my life around that year, led me to start my own blog to kickstart my dormant writing genes.

I have a friend who surfs the net for myriad blogs of interest.  She suffers from an artistic leaning, so the sites she discovers are often quirky AND beautiful.  I admire her knack for finding some real gems.  Surely there are a great many others who do much the same.  But why?  What is the draw?  Where is the payoff?  How do they pull us into their web of personality, personal, and persona?

If we throw out the blogs which stem from a media source, and thus regurgitate news o' the day for the most part, what is left is an amalgam of entries documenting an individual and their satellite people and the weather patterns of their days and nights.  It seems self-centered.  This idea stuck in my craw and had me wondering if I am selfish or seeking attention or some such self-serving concept. 

Now, I don't mind being on the receiving end of attention, but I have no desire to steal anyone else's thunder or keep the sun shining solely on my spot of earth.  As far as selfish, not to any high degree, though I refused to share more than a sample bite of my pomegranate ice cream bar with my son tonight.  (He WAS scarfing down an Oreo Klondike ice cream sandwich whilst begging for some of my frozen confection.)  And, yes, I yearn to spread the seeds of my word in the minds of readers everywhere, but to their benefit, too . . . not just mine own.  The blogs I choose to subscribe to are all varied but they share one significant commonality: they reveal a piece of someone.  I like revelation.  It's useful.  It's necessary.  It's GOOD for you.

I'm thinking -- as best I can given the state of my brain in this Claritin-D induced haze of awareness -- a blog is what the creator makes of it.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  This one scintillating.  That one introspective.  All a bit of escapism which may or may not benefit the gazer on the other side of the screen.  Most will never warrant the transition from computer screen to big screen, though I have seen at least one which bears further scrutiny in that department.  I know I'd watch a movie about a Chinese man who leaves his family each weekend to rescue potential suicide victims from one of China's biggest bridges.

Why do YOU read blogs? 

ATNFTP

"WFD?" is the question around our house.  Usually sent in by text or Facebook message these days.  An afternoon phone call for the past 21 years.  "What's for dinner?"  The words carry the potential to throw me for a loop at times.  The meal of my choosing does not always please all palates.  Exclamations of "Ew!" and "That again?" may be lobbed from the peanut gallery.  Pregnant pauses on the other end of the line from my significant other do not bode well for my menu.  Not to mention that everything is not mapped out for the week most days, and an unexpected turn in daily activities has the power to alter whatever I thought I had planned.  Food.  Food will be served for our evening repast.  Guaranteed to fill the stomach, provide nourishment, and quell hunger pangs.  As I am not a short order cook, there will be no individualized plates for individuals.  Jazz it up with condiments or imagination if need be.  Gulp it down with a well-full of water.  Volunteer to cook tomorrow night.

Come and get it!

Tonight we grazed.  I'm totally owning my Pringles-and-prized-Pomegranate-ice-cream-bar-dinner as I firmly believe the alliterative aspects of my meal obliterate fat grams and excessive caloric content.  Every last delectable bite of creamy tangy goodness to be discovered beneath that thick dark chocolate exterior.  Each curvy thin crunch of dehydrated and compressed potato saltiness.  For the better half of the day, my thoughts wandered continually back to those frozen treats hidden in the rear of the freezer basket beneath the frozen blueberries.  I sweated my tushy off to earn the right to sidle up to that hunk o' chilly sweetness.

Now, about the Pringles, both reduced-fat, Original and Sour Cream n' Onion.  After our church picnic, I rounded up those leftover chips, telling the sweet older mother of one of my fellow parishioners and friends that they would be saved for our road trip to Wyoming at the end of this week.  Truly, that was the intention.  But what was I to do when both my husband AND my son desired the contents of the familiar cardboard tubes?  What else!  Share.  I estimate the containers at 3/4 of the way full; further, I estimate my share to have been 1/2 of a full container when one adds 3/4 + 3/4 and comes up with 1 1/2.  That means I only inhaled 1/3 of what was originally taking up space in my pantry.  You got all that?  I'm telling you what: you need to sharpen your math skills?  Keep track of what and how you eat.

On other fronts, my standing 8:30AM call from my younger brother, Gary, turned into a wandering wonder on how I would handle the death of my 14 1/2 year-old Husky-mix dog, Panda.  Nothing morbid, really, just curious conjecture.  He says I talk to her or about her quite regularly during the course of our often three times a day conversations.  I probably take her presence for granted as I mill about, asking her to scoot her boot or move away from the sink or clothes dryer or back door.  Each morning, I try to awaken before the heat of the day is upon us so that her mile walk is comfortable.  She gets a daily dose of canola oil and  glucosamine/flaxmeal powder in her breakfast kibble to help combat the effects of her arthritis and keep her graying coat healthy.  Panda is a familiar fixture.  She relies on me, and I care for her.  I will be at a loss when she takes her final nap.  "You know?  I'll even miss picking up her poo in those plastic bags I have to carry everywhere!" I told Gary.  It keeps me humble.  Hard to feel to proud or cool, walking down the street with the telltale dangling sack o' doggy deposit on your wrist, hoping all the while that someone has forgotten to pull their trashcan in.  It's my doody, er, duty.

Well, that's all the news fit to print this evening.  It's been an overall fine weekend.  Work and play.  Food and family.  The Lord is faithfully providing on all fronts.  Pastor Ron continues to be animated and passionate in his bid for Christ's misson in our little church.  The kids helped out and us adults reciprocated by allowing them their down time with friends.  I've got my Dell laptop and my iPhone . . . and I can use them in tandem if I want to.  We've got a road trip and family vacation coming up in a matter of days.  My brother is safe and regaining his life.  We've got it better than 98% of the world.  I'll never forget that.

You'd be well to do the same, dear reader.

All You Winners Step Up and Claim Your Prize

I've spent my writing time and energies tonight on the other blog, folks.  However, I want to throw this out there.  Those of you who read the blogs and win the weekly question competition (a hotly contested and intensely tight race, week after week) have the auspicious right to select a topic, ANY topic you so desire, and hand it over to moi as fodder for one of my entries.  I won't wait.  I'll get right on it.  The Thomas Jefferson entry is a perfect case in point.  Melissa Bowlin was the first to answer the question correctly a couple of weeks back.  Yesterday she presented me with her subject.  Last night I posted the end result. 

Now, hard telling how I will choose to extrapolate and manipulate and tweak the body of words around your selection, but isn't that half the fun of it?  And, it is very good practice for me.  I could use all of the new synaptic connections in the ol' gray matter as possible.  Stimulate my thinking.  Inspire me to new avenues of thinking.  Wrest me from my comfort zone. 

C'mon.  I double-dog DARE ya!  Any of you past winners who have yet to turn in a topic . . . hop to it.  It's more fun than a jar of lima beans.  Though, Gayla, if you really want 'em, I'll fill up a Mason for you.

Shut Up and Walk!

Thomas Jefferson was considered the “silent member” of the Continental Congress back when he drafted the Declaration of Independence. Eloquent and masterful in his command of the written word, he was something less than a stellar public speaker. Considering the effect his writing had on the course of America’s history -- our very inception, really -- it would appear that silence truly is a virtue. Or at the very least, a highly useful skill.

I like it. I LIKE IT, A LOT!

Wouldn’t it be lovely if the influence of one of our founding fathers, our third President, could trickle down into today’s brash culture? A little less talk and a lot more action through the very real power of the pen – representing education and the freedom, responsibility, and authority which accompanies such pursuits.

There’s a whole lotta talk out there. Massive amounts of public speaking on an overdose scale. News jockeys presenting our facts ala the personal opinion forum. Thoughts come in to the brain, and they’re almost instantly regurgitated in a slightly altered but barely digested form. Much of what I hear leads me to conjecture that any writing put down before the talk is sketchy, barely formed, and most definitely not of the eloquent and masterfully commanding nature.

But it could be.

Presidents and leaders have speech writers. These people check facts, examine the subject matter with circumspection, and basically build in damage control. Call it spin if you like, but at least they consider cause and effect outside of the ego and apart from the id. They know words have power. They understand that oft times the pen is mightier than the sword . . . and more sensible than the mouth.

Good writers have a tendency to read aloud what they have written to check for continuity and flow. Recall your memorization of our founding document and feel how it rolls off the tongue, replete with sense and sensibility. Putting that habit into play with regularity might just alter the face of modern debate in religion, politics, and a host of other hot topics. Imagine telling our kids to write it down, check it over, then get back to me!

Might, I said. I’m guessing Mr. Jefferson had ears to hear something other than his own voice; he discerned what was beneath the words. It just may be that ol’ T.J. was one of a kind. A mold cast and then broken for eternity. If that is the case, there’s another area of common ground to which I can literally gravitate. Oh, and I’m totally habituated!

“Walking is the best possible exercise. Habituate yourself to walk very fast.”
  -- Thomas Jefferson

I Got Nuthin'!

My brain is being held hostage by sinus pressure!  Help!  Useful thoughts appear to be hung up in my gray matter, blocked by the influx of histamines and the resultant build-up of particulates and mucosa.  Rather than seep down the back of my throat and dribble from my nostrils, the marauding mass in my head stays put, barely affected by my daily use of the Neti pot (for those not in the know, a wee teapot-looking device which delivers a saline solution to the sinuses via the nostrils -- amusing to witness the ministration), handily mimicking a small pile of bricks where my head should be.

A fairly good excuse to cover up my lack of inspiration for a subject tonight, wouldn't you agree?  "A touch of writer's block" sounds so cliche.  Allergies have been in need of a useful purpose in light of their usual antagonistic role in the human world.  They needed a champion.  Glad I could be of service. 

It gets a bit lonely out here in cyberspace.  Posting each day.  Sending hundreds of words and combinations of words into an untouchable world that so many of us still find very real and very necessary to our days and nights.  Blogging has a texture different than that of a journal or a letter.  It's all at once a writing to oneself and to a body of readers.  A blogger could develop a split-personality over the whole thing . . . or at least a splitting headache.  (I'll admit to the headache.)

Folks, today the slate is blank.  It's not that there's a lack of subject matter.  No, if anything THERE'S TOO MUCH!  I can't see the tree for the endless vista of forest before me.  Quick, somebody gimme' some stilts!  I can't see the bird for the swooping flock overhead.  Hurry, hand me the cat!  I can't see the ant for the line of  followers grabbin' that rubber tree plant.  Psst, gotta can of Raid?!

Wow!  That there is pitiful material.  I'm almost ashamed to allow it to venture forth and meet your eyes.  But, then again, there is the matter of disciplining oneself to just get it out on the page, virtual or otherwise.  It can't all be amusing and inspiring.  Every once and a while, it just IS. 

We'll just call this the crumpled piece of paper that hit the side of the trash can and bounced onto the floor. 
 

Deja You

It's dinnertime in the Valdez household.  Today that's a very loose affair.  On days such as this, when I've toiled for hours in the garden and lost complete track of the world around me (besides writing, this is the only activity which is capable of affecting me so), we have a standard go-to meal: nachos.  Where there's chips, cheese, and salsa, there's a decent way to the stomach.  My brother-in-law teases me.  He once said that every time he stopped in for a visit, we were having nachos.  Of course, we see him roughly once a month.  Maybe.

Now that I think on it, only my husband actually compiled a plate.  My son opted for cereal.  My teen daughter was invited to eat with the family she was to babysit.  My adult-child and her boyfriend purchased their own fare -- some variety of frozen breaded Tyson chicken byproduct, er product, and Kraft shells and Velveeta cheese. (UGH!)  Per my habits when trying to avoid unbaked chips and full-fat cheese, I opted for grazing on a few healthier here n' theres.

Hmm.  Well, snap out of the boredom inspired by our bland dinner experience. See if you can squirm your way, albeit briefly if science TV has informed my husband and my daughter's boyfriend correctly, through a wormhole and exist in THE FOURTH DIMENSION for a quick second.  You know about the Fourth Dimension, right?  If you do, please lay it out clearly for me.  For some odd reason, my husband has added this anomaly to his short list of fascinating unknowns, keeping company with the existence of aliens and the JFK conspiracy theory.  And, he finds it to be the perfect subject for dinner conversation.

Evidently, informed rumor has it that if you've ever felt that sense of deja vu, then you know the Fourth Dimension.  Ah!  Of course.  That makes perfect sense.  According to my history with "Whoa, that's happened before now!" I must maintain a small condo in this higher level of existence. If that's the case, I sure wish I could figure out how to spend a bit more time over there.  But, I'm much too busy trying to cope with the realities of this three-dimensional life!

I'm pleased, though, that my propensity for pondering the present allows my husband the freedom to consider theories on possibilities which have very little impact on the here and now.  After all, in light of his references to the Wright Brothers and Einstein and the world-is-round-folks, who's to say a curious guy like Jimmy Valdez won't one day profoundly change the way we live by discovering a permanent wormhole into deja vu over nachos and chit-chat.

And, I can say I knew him when.  My brilliant everyday man -- patron saint of the Fourth Dimension.

T-Peed Off

Before I wax on about my topic o' the night, let me just say I'm tickled that my husband has actually been reading my blog.  And, throwing out cleverly inserted, seemingly random references from my entries into our daily conversation.  The moment it hits me, I light up on the inside.  Thanks, Mim!

So, onto a far more serious subject.  Truly, this deserves all the attention I can muster on this keyboard.

Why toilet-papering?  Most of you probably know what I'm talking about here.  Charmin streamers careening through the night air, hitting the highest branches of the best looking tree in the landscape.  Trailing cascades of seemingly endless white squares, draped amongst the leaves and berries and limbs of holly and hackberry, rose and redbud, euonymous and elm.  Discarded paperboard rolls mingling in the lawn, ghosts of their former selves.  All for . . . for . . . for what?!

In the cases I've witnessed, including our own random brush with this juvenile vandalism (which does not mean adults don't partake), the marauders don't return to the scene to witness the clean-up.  What's the point?  Personally, I believe the responsible parties should volunteer to be the clean-up crew.  Whistle while you work.  While you stretch, sweat, swear, and squint your way through the impossible task.  And, once all of the detritus has been collected, they should further be required to utilize the squeezably soft product for its intended purpose until it is gone.  Any clinging thorns, leaves, insect carcasses, or dirt can be considered a badge of, hmmm, what?  Honor?  Hubris?  Humiliation!

During my morning walk today, I speed-strolled through a developing neighborhood not far from my home.  While a large teardrop of a cul-de-sac is partially filled with very large homes at equally grand prices, two others are starkly empty.  Not a house in sight.  Anywhere.  One of of these streets, it doesn't even have it's own street sign at this point, was a handsome oak tree of many years situated quite close to the curb.  While I've admired it's beauty before now, today I was struck by the strings of - yup, you guessed it -- toilet paper dangling from its lower branches.  At its roots was an enormous wadded pile of the stuff, at least two rolls worth, totally emptied in one spot with a few tails wandering into the roadway.

So . . . what?  Now you have to go somewhere isolated and train for the event?  Get a few practice tosses in?  Figure out whether Quilted Northern or Wal-Mart brand has the best trajectory?  Time the unrolling for efficiency's sake?

I'm never going to 'get' it.  I'm a fan of toilet paper.  It sure beats leaves or the left hand.  It's great stuff in moderation and handled in a private sitting.  Can't we just leave it at that?

Yo, Adrian!

So, a show of hands, folks.  Who here will admit to that familiar tightness in the throat and watering of the eyes when you catch the training and fight scenes in first and last "Rocky" movies?  I've seen them all.  Followed the saga of the Italian Stallion over the course of his cinematic life and my real life.  A couple were downright corny, including his fight with the Russian -- Sly Stallone was a bit more concerned about inserting his then girlfriend, Brigitte Nielsen, into his flicks then he was in content -- and the storyline where he mentors the young street fighter who then turns on him for a bigger and better deal only to end up brawling in the city streets at night.

But the brilliance of the original Oscar-winning film and the tying of loose ends in the final film, both served up with the instantly recognizable theme song, 'Gonna Fly Now,' and that triumphant run up the 72 steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, gets to me.  While Stallone's acting chops continue to find their power in his punches and pectorals as opposed to any change in his methodology, his belief in overcoming adversity remains true blue throughout the boxing saga. 

My husband has a knack for catching classic movies at that critical moment where everything comes to a head and the viewer is unable to look away or click away.  "The Shawshank Redemption," "A Few Good Men," and, yes, any of the "Rocky" flicks, seem to be on a constant rotation, station to station, week to week, day and night. 

This afternoon I was sucked into the old school training session of the "Rocky Balboa" finale.  That was it.  I teared up as he ran with his little dog.  (Was that a sweatshirt on his four-legged friend?)  I held my breath as he hefted the metal barrel over his head.  I worried as he strained under the weight bar that his veins might burst.  And, I surreptitiously wiped tears from the corners of my eyes, peeking over at the couch to make sure my husband had not seen this, as memories of Rocky's dead wife (you know who she is!) spurred our ageing hero through nine tortuous rounds against his young in-need-of-a-character-lesson opponent.  Per my usual, I couldn't help wondering why his face always has to resemble hamburger at the end of every movie?

It's all over now.  The fade-out scene of a taped hand held in the grip of an adoring fan rolled out the credits.  I attempted my nap, cuddled with that TV-surfing husband of mine on the narrow couch, but failed miserably.  Still, I felt as if I had conquered something.  Me and Mr. Balboa.  Together on a humid Tennessee afternoon.  Together through our 42-inch flat screen.  Together on a rough road of knockdowns and rope-climbing returns to a standing position.

Like he says, it's not how many times you fall down but how many time you can be hit, over and over, and still get back up, still keep moving forward.  When a thing is true, it's just true.  Rocky Balboa just has a knack for making it sound simple to believe and simple to accept.

Rocky don't lie.

I Dig It

Hey there!  It's me.  Again.  Squeezing in just under the midnight wire.  Pretty slick, huh?

Don't blink or you'll miss what's left of this day.  Three minutes and counting.  I'm nothing if not consistent in my habitual behavior.  There I am, posing for the one of two pictures out of two hundred that I snapped off today during the "Down The Garden Path" tour in Nashville, Tennessee to sponsor research and recovery for lupus.  (Visit Lupus Foundation of America to find out more.)  There's my touring partner of several years and still going strong, my mother, standing in the opening of the garden wall and gate I have picked for my baby brother to lay and trowel for me.  I will inform him this very week.  If ever you have the chance to meander through the yards and grounds -- even back porches, patios, and pools -- of perfect strangers and toss a few bucks into a 'cause bucket,' GO FOR IT!  The experience is inspiring and wholly entertaining.  And the owners are generous, as any good gardener worth his or her salt is: they share their passion to spread the message.

My own back yard is a work in progress.  A collection of successes and failures and in-betweens.  The Japanese Painted Fern beneath the shade of our century-plus old elm tree infuses me with calm and delight each time I set my eye on it.  Last year, it just about broke my heart when my overly ambitious son backed the riding lawnmower over the plant and rendered it practically unrecognizable.  I did forgive him but just!

My life is full.  That may be a classic understatement.  But each time I dare to set foot on one of these adventures in gardening, my spring fever heats up and my green thumb begins to sprout!  From shovel to soil, from compost to clematis, from rock to robin, each and every element of the natural world from which emerge flora and fauna stirs my soul.  Literally.  To toil in the elements and witness the reward of vine, leaf, and fruit, year in and year out, is a gift I never tire in receiving. 

Perhaps, once the kids are all off to college, and my first book or two is written and selling well, and people in need tire of my brand of love and help, I will discover a hidden deposit of time.  If so, my voice mail will perpetually inform all callers that I'm out back . . .

. . . finally painting the planter's table; incorporating those bricks into the bed for the climbing hydrangea; building those raised herb beds I've always yearned for; relocating my array of shade-loving hydrangeas; taking a chisel to my pile of stones and creating a few yard sculptures; designing a small water feature; commandeering my brother as he engineers the brick walls of my secret prayer garden; and, standing back and absorbing the beauty and the love of one of my favorite passions. 

You are invited. 

Ending, Doing, Starting Anew

Well, it's Friday, folks.  In California and Colorado at least.  Wyoming and Texas, too.  (Don't point out the states and regions I neglected to mention; I have loved ones who quickly come to mind in these states, thus the honorable mention.)  I've managed to again ride over the line of midnight with my entry.  Big surprise!  Huge!  Not!

I'm sure the rest of you are like me and the majority of the world.  A week full of doings, hurtling you at top speed toward the end of the week, throwing you atop the weekend heap in an exhausted state of humanity.  Our lives and the challenges we face are at once engaging, difficult, and something of import to behold.  At least, that is my hope for you.  Work, growth, purpose: it's ALL good as my brother is fond of saying.   (Let the five of them hash that out.)

A significant segment of this state will continue to dig out from under the debris of the 100-Year-Flood which wiped out many a household and business just two short weeks ago.  Rain is projected in varying degrees for the next several days.  I'm praying hard that it will fall as needed and nothing further!  I'll see a bit of the recovery effort for myself as I venture into Nashville with my 72 year-old mother for our 3rd annual tour of the "Down The Garden Path" fundraising event for lupus.  7 gorgeous gardens in phenomenal configurations will delight and dazzle -- one had to drop off the tour due to flood damage.  Our time to wander about in this way is limited as her feet and other ageing areas affect her ability to endure and enjoy for hours on end in the outdoor setting.  I'm taking what I can get while I can get it.

You readers do the same.  Whether the end of your week and start of a new weekend holds momentous events -- like that of my oldest friend who is embarking upon a gift of an Alaskan Cruise, complete with a few days in Seattle, Washington, with her husband for their anniversary -- or the more simple pleasures -- visiting your grown child and her husband in their new home --  or possibly activities of an altruistic nature -- aiding in the flood clean-up through your church or organization -- go at it whole hog.  Sop up every bit of gravy with an entire slice of bread or biscuit, you know!?  Leave nothing on the plate.

So, off with you.  Say good-bye to whatever heaviness or seriousness or business you had to carry across this past week's finish line.  Open your arms wide to the exploration of a Saturday and Sunday partnership.  Do it now.  Do it quickly.  Monday is just around the corner.

Let me know how it goes.    

Why Push-Ups?

Push-ups are my go-to exercise.  Full-on, properly executed, not girlie-girl form.  I can drop and give you 20 + 1 several times over.  Every other day I'm hitting 126 (number divisible by three are my thing and would require their own entry to explain) spread over the course of the 24-hours: morning, afternoon, and night.   They work large muscle groups in a short amount of time with great results.  When there's no time for anything else, squeezing them in encourages endorphins and a sense of instant accomplishment.  Special equipment or workout clothes or gyms . . . none of them are required.  Gas station, rest room, kitchen, living room, hotels, motels, yes, even the Holiday Inn -- they are all appropriate venues for this gravity-fighting move. 

My push-up compulsion began way back in the 5th grade.  We lived in Salem, Oregon.  In P.E. class, the push-up and sit-up competition was in full swing.  Well, it was really more of a fitness test but I was competing against myself  . . . and, if truth be told, Cindy Kowolski.  Where I was a mousy brunette of average height and possessed a slightly heavier build, Cindy was blond, petite, firm, and very strong.  She performed every physical action with speed and exuded effortless athletic grace.  I was in awe of her ability and envious of her body as my self-loathing toward my own body had taken root.  And, I yearned to be better than her in the fitness contest.  Always, I was a close second and had to exert tremendous effort to be thus placed.  She ran like the wind, too, whereas I ran like I was winded.   If I could just beat her at her own game, bragging rights and self-satisfaction would be mine.

What I recall is a series of mental snapshots.  The two of us as neck and neck as we could be, given our disparity in builds, crunching our way through sit-ups and groaning with each push-up, me just a count or two behind.  To be fair, I did have to travel further with my added height than did she.  That's what I told myself for years after the fact: she was shorter and thus closer to the ground, so she didn't have to work as hard.  So, really, I was the stronger girl.  I lost that day.  It was a crushing blow.  But we shook hands and even played dodgeball together later that week.  Life does go on in public school.

I decided then that I would one day be able to pump out 42 push-ups at one time. 

Well, I have.  Now, I generally stick with sets of 21 to 24 because of elbow problems I developed after adding military-style push-ups to my regime.  It's a point of pride for me that I stuck with them all these years because I really don't like them.  I was even RESTRICTED from doing push-ups and sit-ups for a time because my mom worried they might make me too boyish and I was a tad bit compulsive about them.


But, I like what they do for me.  I've given up on beating Cindy Kowolski.  Have you seen the guns on Kelly Rippa?  Plus, she said to a live audience of which I was a part that she could probably beat anyone in a push-up contest.  Man!  What's with these petite blond strong-types anyway?  Someone has to take them down a notch.

And I'm willing to try one more time.  Oh, Kelly?! 

Checklist

Open my eyes to a new day on a less-than-stellar night's sleep.  Check.

Get dressed; brush teeth; update Facebook via iPhone; rub Burt's Bees coconut foot rub on feet; open all blinds and shades. Check.

Husband's oatmeal; feed bottomless pit of a cat; drop off kids at school for dad because he must leave early for work today; whiz from one drugstore to the next hoping to find an open pharmacy at 8AM in order to rectify the absence of Claritin-D from my husband's collection of allergy-fighting remedies after neglecting to hunt it down for the last two days and thus brought about the reluctant ingestion of 2 Benadryl capsules which left him loopy and barely functioning by morning but somehow blocked him from sleep until well after midnight -- he did not make it to work early.  CHECK.

Cram a Wasa cracker with almond butter down my gullet in order to ingest my own allergy meds; toss a load of laundry in the washer; call youngest brother and see how his night passed at the intake ward of the state psychiatric hospital after it went fully co-ed yesterday . . . he was exceptionally chipper and lighthearted as he spoke of the willowy doe-eyed young gal who decided to latch onto him for company and advice; quickly clean face with Oil of Olay wipe and smear sunscreen on face, neck, ears and chest; slip in blue crystal studs to match my shorts and socks (?!); guzzle another glass of H2O as I grab dog leash, poop bag, check for house key, and meet neighbor for walk as I quickly pick Bermuda grass from flower bed.  Check.

Dog gets her mile in; back home to feed her and utilize the facilities; grab more water; reconnect w/ neighbor for 2 miles more after eating her garden strawberries; discuss my blog of  the day before about the man in China watching the long bridge for suicide attempts; take flower-of-the-day pic for Facebook update; wonder about possibility of our own road trip to gather iris rhizomes from her grandma in Florida; solve all family and world problems for the umpteen time in our friendship of six years; part for the day; push-ups.  Check.

Boil eggs for salad; sort mail and recycle; buy online plane ticket for son; text and call childhood best friend several times about said ticket and impending trip to her house in Wyoming; help mother-in-law procure a ride to Wyoming to meet us; push-ups; order personal tape player online for baby brother; check Facebook and e-mail; hang up on two junk calls; prepare salad; run upstairs to locate box for my grandma's 90th birthday present; give up on coaxing greedy cat from storage room; rotate laundry; think about eating; take call from mother-in-law while texting daughter and husband and friend-in-need in New Mexico; welcome eldest child home for late lunch; inhale my salad along with seven whole-grain pretzels dipped in yogurt with flaxmeal; drink water; take calcium supplement; good-bye to daughter; check TV for background noise program; push-ups; opt for new podcast on iPhone while packaging present for mail; grab brother's sunglasses to mail to social worker at hospital.  Check.

Post office; bank; local bakery for sample of brown bread with butter and honey; pick up kids from school; briefly chastise son for breach of permission protocol; jaunt to Starbucks for 1/2-Off Frappuccino day for all; advise mom by phone as to connection for her keyboard; deliver Frap to working daughter; return home with grumpy teen girl, ebulliently effusive teen boy, grinning friend of teen boy; drink water; boss boy before allowing him to go play elsewhere; push-ups; ponder dinner as pizza night is tomorrow; decide to write blog first; update Facebook; load of laundry.  Check.

Now, off to make dinner knowing I'm pushing the clock; drink water; ensure kids leave for youth; shower; appointment for trim of floofy short new do; return home to eat dinner and hang with weary but non-sneezy, dry-sinuses husband; shop for ever-growing pile of graduation cards; laundry; push-ups; glass of water; kids return from church youth; fuzzy area of evening activity; Facebook update; call to brother; few rounds of iPhone app Scrabble; toilette; possibly bedtime.  Check.

Create a written record of my daily events as I can never recall them when harried husband queries after the events of my day and I respond in similar harried manner that I wish he could read my mind.  He can just read my blog.  (I do use the restroom but thought I'd save space.)  CHECK.

Why Bunco?

The ladies of Jamison Place met at my home last night for our monthly Bunco party.  Our group started five years ago with twelve regular members.  Over the years the membership has fluctuated.  I'm one of only three original members left.  Until recently, I never missed.  Right now, there are nine of us, including my eldest daughter; my teenage daughter often subs when we are short. 

But only short in terms of playing the game, which consists of three tables of four players.  For the sake of gabbing over food and drink, and collecting prizes at the end of the gathering, even a trio will work just fine.  As I didn't join this activity for the game to begin with, I'm never disappointed when we don't make it to the dice and score keeping segment of the night.  And, when we meet at my place, the chances of leaving the table of food and conversation in favor of rolling numbered cubes and tracking wins versus losses are pretty slim.

I'm in it to foster relationships with the women of my neighborhood.  Keeping those lines open, sharing a bit of myself and learning a bit more about them, swapping kid and spouse stories, all over a cocktail or two, coupled with all manner of edibles, including dizzying desserts, makes for a more cohesive sense of community.  Not only are there a few options for borrowing a cup of milk or a few eggs, not to mention coming in to the occasional spare cantaloupe plant, but there are people willing to employ your children as house/dog/children sitters.  People willing to get on a rotation to provide food and/or company for a sick neighbor and her family.  People willing to water your yard and garden when you're gone on vacation.  People willing to call and say, "Hey, there's a strange man walking around the perimeter of your house right now!" just in case he wasn't the property assessor who scheduled an appointment earlier in the week.

And, I'm willing to reciprocate in like currency.

You get my drift.

I take a little time to invest in my neighbors once a month in a lighthearted manner and the returns are limitless on all sides.  The oohs and aahs I receive over my individual dessert plates, a rosy ofdraspberry sorbet set in a pool of sunshiny lemon curd, an orange wafer and a rolled lemon cookie on the side, with blackberries, orange zest, lemon verbena to finish it off, are pure bonus!

My Maternal Repast

Happy Mother's Day!  It was a stellar one for me, all around.

There was the morning walk, where I had myself a much needed heart-to-heart with the Lord about a couple of rather large areas in need of excavation in my life, against of backdrop of blue skies and cool morning breezes in tall treetops where the rat-a-tatting of a downy woodpecker could be heard.  My oldest child, scheduled to work all day, presented me with a lovely card of soft greens and browns which fit me to a 'T'; yesterday she surprised me with 'Early Girl' and 'Super Cherry 100's' tomato plants as I'd yet to find time to do my annual garden shopping.

Next came the visit to my Church at Cross Point family after a three-week absence for sundry reasons where I reconnected with a good friend I'd not seen in a rather long spell: I do believe we have urgent plans to get together ASAP.  Then it was on to my own mother's place with my own two younger children for some Taco Bell/Starbucks bonding time (her small town has neither place, both of which are favorites, so this was a special delivery).  One hard taco fresco, one soft chicken ranchero fresco, and a tall nonfat misto with hazelnut, extra hot, please!  My daughter and I had to slurp through a chock-full-of-healthful-goodness bowl of my mom's chicken soup -- this stuff is replete with healthiosity, veggies and flavor abounding!  It makes the tummy smile.  Mom sent me on my way with a hug and three healthy starter plants of aloe, shamrock, and African violet.  Score!

Finally, to top off that lovely three-layer cake of good feeling, I enjoyed the cherry on top drive to, and adventure at, Nana's and Larry's farm.  Nana is my neighbor's mom.  She is an avid country cook, warm and casual hostess, grandmother extraordinaire, and along with her husband, she lives on a pastoral piece of property in the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee which can't be beat with a big ol' stick.  There's a roomy barn, a pond with its own ducks and a dock and small boat with oars for paddling about, and a comfy house atop the hill at the end of the gently winding driveway.  Cows, goats, and braying donkeys can be seen and heard on all sides.  The annual vegetable patch is well on its way; tomatoes and squashes are a'comin'!  Here, happy dogs with tongues lolling and fur coats damp from wrestling on the banks of the pond live to chase the multitude of mousing cats . . . and the 'mule' which roams about the farm with all the energy its drivers can muster.  (Not an animal at all, this golf-cart/mini-truck-like vehicle is a favorite for both kids and adults in equal measure.  It zooms and zips and stutters about with playful exuberance.  We mothers like to give the "Slow it down!" shout-outs every now and again.)

After snapping shots of my 'avid fisherteen' -- she bagged a 4-inch crappie which I believe is the exact same slippery little sucker one of the little boys caught about five minutes after she released it -- in her curvy short dress and snazzy sandals, dark hair extensions exaggerating the already plentiful curls on her head, I moved up the hill to take my rightful place at the dinner table.  It was here that I weighted my plate with baked beans, corn casserole, mac n' cheese, green bean casserole, oh goodness, um, ham and pulled pork, er, yeah, and potato salad along with a small dinner roll.  I think I snacked on a piece of cheese and a bit more pork while waiting for my turn at the microwave.  (We arrived after mealtime.)  Hey, I worked up quite an appetite on the drive over, taking in the countryside while my teenager executed her chauffeurial (it's a word now!) duties with great aplomb.

Before we returned to the big city life, my kids roamed about on the mule while I roamed about searching for cans and deciphering the meaning of life with my neighbor.  Her husband regaled us all with a few barnyard imitations which bounced off the hills and echoed throughout the acreage.  I topped of my tight bellyful of carbs and meat -- did I mention the tasty porky burps I had for an hour after that? -- with a generous slice of creamy lemon meringue pie in a graham cracker crust.  Thanking Nana and Larry for their open house and welcoming ways, we pulled out of the driveway with two smallish extra passengers in tow.  All the way home, I could hear their rambunctious giggling as my son teased out their youthful energy with silly words, perennial favorites like 'booger burger' and 'tomato toes,' and funny pictures of them sucking their tomato toes and crossing their eyes on my iPhone.

As the last rays of sunshine fell below the hackberry trees, I noted with great pleasure that my husband had completed the second half of the backyard path he'd started yesterday, laying the flat stones in the gravel and adjusting them level.  This was especially wonderful as this project actually began last summer and went on hold when winter hit.  Did I mention it was me who started this labor- and time-intensive endeavor?

Now, as the clock hits ten in the PM, I sit here, half laying if truth be told, with my perky pink laptop, doing what I love best.  Or pretty darned close. 

What could be better?  I mean, besides the porky lemon belch which just entered the airspace of my quiet bedroom.

Oh! Varied

Officially (as official as a personal blog of relative obscurity can be) I've missed posting today's blog entry because today is really tomorrow but I want to pretend I'm posting yesterday's posting as if it is today and NOT tomorrow.  Clear as a Mississippi Mud Pie, eh?

Five hours at the local emergency room has left me lighter by 200 big ones.  Dollars, that is!  My daughter was experiencing moderate pain of an unfamiliar and lingering kind in her lower right quadrant.  After ruling out the other possible suspects we thought doctors might investigate, such as bladder, kidney, and ovary, a trip to a health professional's office seemed the right thing to do.  Especially once the mother of a friend, who just happens to be a nurse, concurred with our preliminary findings.

Unfortunately, there is this little thing called 'referred pain.'  That means a growth out of check with the organs and blood vessels in one area of the body can travel routes via nerve endings and such and create pain in an entirely different part of the body.  In this case, a hemorrhagic ovarian cyst twice the size of the ovary in which it's housed  was the culprit.  And, it didn't care to refer itself too awfully far.

Needle stick and blood draw.  Cup o' urine.  The orange iodine-contrast liquid.  Blips and bleeps.  The 'hot shot' moments before the CAT scan.  A rare sudden-onset side effect.  A mild allergic reaction which brought about a liquid Benadryl boost which took my young adult daughter by surprise and caused a brief panic attack.  A bag and a half of saline solution and several copious bladder voidings later.  And a confirmed diagnosis for a condition not able to be treated.  It seemed like such a waste of insurance though we were glad to at least have a cause.  I had to check myself when I began thinking that at least a surgical procedure would have made all of this worth it, and my girl would feel relief at the end.

It figures.  Three out of five members in the Valdez household would agree that ovaries garner more than their fair share of unwanted attention.  Two out of five would agree with the three out of five.  Three females and two males.  Guys and girls.

And not a one of us had to fork over $200 to find that out.  Ugh!

Permission To Take Over In Her Absence

Maybe a month ago my mom called me.  Not unusual.  She had a specific reason for this call.  Not unusual either.  The subject matter was introspective and serious with an edge of humor underlying the entirety.  Also not so very unusual.  It was, however, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of call between an ageing mother and her responsible adult daughter.

In a nutshell, I was given implicit and explicit instructions to mother her as the years go by.

At 72, mom has had plenty of time to witness the unfolding of years, decade by decade, in the generations which came before her.  This includes her own very active and dynamic mother, my grandma, who turns 90 this very month.  She also resides in, and part-time manages at, an apartment complex populated with primarily elderly residents. 

A string of recent incidents in her building, coupled with a tense driving experience with her mother at the helm during a visit earlier this year, spurred my mom into ruminating over her own situation and the multiple ways in which she could possibly change in the coming season of her waning life.

"I want you to promise to bring any odd behaviors to my attention.  You have my permission to do so, even if I am stubborn or disagree with you," she said in all seriousness.  "So-and-so in apartment # such-and-such was lifting her television onto a chair and she 98 years-old!"  She even promised to sign a contract stating as much to prove she brought this up, in case she ever tried to protest my recollection of this momentous call.  We chuckled, for sure, but we both knew it for what it was: the parent will one day become the child and the child will usurp the role of parent.

For now, mom's acumen is sharp and her memory clear enough to prevent fires in her living space.  Sure, she forgets the teapot on the stove now and again.  And, her stories have a tendency to ramble once in awhile.  But I'm thirty-two years her junior and have flipped those particular switches more than a time or two myself!  (Reminds me of the story of one woman in her building who pushed her refrigerator in front of her apartment door to keep out the riff-raff -- her door opens to an inside hallway in a small two-story building with a locked main entrance -- and insisted if a blaze ever occurred, she could tie her sheets together and shimmy out the window.  She's on the second floor.  Oh, it's the same lady of 98 years I mentioned earlier.)

There will come a day -- and it had better knock loudly -- when I will have to ask for the keys to her champagne-hued Park Avenue sedan and listen patiently as she regales me with recycled tales she does not remember telling just a few moments before.

It's the least I can do for her. 

And if I'm being honest, the picture of her possibly attempting a window escape with her crisp bed linens strung together in a homemade rope is a wee bit humorous.  Especially since she lives on the first floor.

In-House Theft

My son offered me $3 to rent my sky blue Nike sport socks this morning.  It seems they matched the Polo shirt he planned on donning for his afternoon visit to his girlfriend's house where he hoped to 'hang out' (what combination of actions might that entail between two enamored 14 year-olds?) and swim under the supervision of the mom and younger brother.  After the requisite maternal lecture on how his rapidly enlarging size 10+ shoe racks would sully and stretch my prized walking socks, I relented.  He could borrow them -- this ONE time -- and keep his dollars.

A later disagreement over mowing the lawn per my instructions led to a cancellation of his little field trip with his fair Fraulein.  We parted ways concerning the alteration of the truth.  Thus, my socks were granted a reprieve.  For today.

But the issue of interest here is that he asked at all.  After all, if you are under 21 and living in our house, there is a one-sided understanding that what's ours is really yours.  For free.  At any time. Without need of something as outdated as permission.  In fact, once you utilize the item in whatever abusive manner you see fit, you simply toss said item in with the detritus of your bedroom or bathroom and allow it to disappear.  Further, you will promptly lose all conscious memory of ever having had the item in your possession for any length of time.

Indeed, your amnesiac state may keep you from recalling the piece of personal property ever took up space in the home you are allowed to enjoy with free room and board under the gracious allowance of your parents.  Parents who are understandably confused to discover the _________ (fill in blank with any of the following on, but not limited to, this list: shampoo, razors, brush, hair gel, toothpaste, underwear, t-shirts, shoes, earrings, iPod, CD's, pillow, blanket, favorite pen, gum, dollars and cents, restaurant leftovers hidden in the darkest deepest corner of the fridge, the last 'I-have-dibs-on-this' piece of last night's dessert, bicycle, car keys, belly button lint, magazine, iTunes card, ink in the printer, Victoria's Secret Free Undies offer, BOGO Hastings movie rental coupon, stamp, and -- YES -- socks) inexplicably absent from it's everyday resting place.

In retaliation, I initiated a campaign of hide n' seek.  But in my first race out of the gate, I stalled.  Misplacing my eldest daughter's shampoo and conditioner in my shower and awaiting her frantic last-minute towel-wrapped search worked exactly once.  I noticed the second time around the containers remained on the ledge for over a week.  My products were untouched.  So what was she using?  Had she seriously not washed her long tresses in the past seven days?!  Nope.  Turns out she found empties which weren't quite as empty as she thought.  Wow!  No need to walk the extra thirty steps or so to retrieve them from my 'expansive' bed n' bath suite.

I still think I've hit on a good idea.  The rare good idea.  It just needs tweaking.  I need to develop that carelessly casual attitude required of all expert shoplifters, er, home borrowers.  Shampoo yesterday . . . cell phones tomorrow?

Watered Down

So, it appears the early bird gets the flight.  My husband (Jimmy) flew out of Nashville for Las Vegas this morning.  We left the homestead at 6:30AM and made our way to BNA via a circuitous route, taking secondary highways and byways to arrive at our destination.  No problem.  No flooding.  But dark clouds and the threat of rain and wind hung in the air along the horizon.  We wasted no time jettisoning his luggage, hugging in quick fashion, and parting for our respective second-half-of-the-mornings trips.

Though a lightning show delayed the plane for an hour or so, Jimmy was able to fly the friendly, or recalcitrant as the case seems to be, skies.  In fact, there was no reply to my recent text query about whether or not his flight had landed, so I'm guessing he's yet en route.  Perhaps he's humming 'Viva, Las Vegas,' happy for the escape from the soggy wetland that is now Tennessee.

My return home should have required 45 minutes of my time.  However, an appalling combination of fatigue, lack of attention, and ignorance of roadways outside of my town, doubled those digits.  Grrr.

Nothing appeared familiar.  When did all of those FOR LEASE warehouse-type buildings materialize?  Why did the Hwy 109 South sign not point to Gallatin as I thought Jimmy had instructed it would?  I didn't remember seeing that huge high school facility on the side of the road?  Of course, I was interacting with my iPhone to pass the time and stay awake -- my nose buried in the posts and statuses (stati?) of my Facebook family.  That could account for why I thought we had gone one way on 840 when, in reality, we had turned in the opposite and less familiar direction!  No wonder the Broad Street/70S exit seemed to arrive before the I-24 exit: it did arrive first!

Finally, finally, finally, after a wrong turn and a long correction followed up with a phone call to my grounded husband at every one of my three main intersections from the airport to home, I pulled the easy-driving though gas-guzzling Yukon into the confines of our tight two-car garage.  My slumbering son still as deeply out of it as he was when we left the house.

Now, parts of the Interstate 40 highway we used this morning are under water.  There are cancellations and long waits at the airport.  I managed to avoid rains and hail; now significant parts of the state are experiencing torrential downpours and submerged streets.  The first big storm in our area has hit during the time it has taken me to arrive at this paragraph.

I still haven't showered.  Now I can't!  Crud.  But I've learned two things.  First, my penchant for seeing the morning just as the sun's rays hit the day are right on.  Jimmy never would have made a noon flight.  Morning is the better part of the twenty-four hour period.  Second, I'm too reliant upon MapQuest and GoogleMaps.  I used to carry an atlas everywhere I went, and I familiarized myself with the route.  I'm sticking that Rand McNally oversize atlas peeking out at me from the book rack in the corner of the living room into the Yukon the moment I get off this couch.

Hang in there Tennessee.  Help is on the way . . . one citizen helping another at a time.  Just like last year during the tornado.  God please be with us.

Prom-enade

High school prom day.  Also bad weather day.  Translation: tornado warnings and the second highest recorded rainfall we've had since they started measuring precipitation at the Nashville airport.  We're experiencing the worst flooding since the 1970's.  An incredible day all around. 

Prom, with it's late group dinner date via a Hummer limo ride to a local sushi restaurant and steakhouse here in town, along with the after-prom parent-sanctioned party that celebrates until 5AM, most likely followed by a breakfast outing, will be an event with staying power.  The storms are expected to exacerbate the flooding for the next 36 hours.  In the morning, my husband may or may not make his way to the airport and on to parts much warmer, dryer, and decidedly a bit wilder in that infamous well-lit Nevada desert town full of one-armed bandits and extravagant hotel complexes.

My kitchen table and island are covered with the contents of our small pantry.  Believe you me, once a dog, three grown children, my husband, myself, and our friendly visiting hair stylist all squeeze in there, along with our personal records and purses and phones -- not to mention that overbearing cloud of prom hair on my daughter's head -- one realizes just how limited the space is.  I've got the crick in my shoulder to prove it!

Everyone was lamenting the fact that I had completed a P-90X workout and NOT had time to shower away the olfactory evidence.  Even me.  (Note to self: add 'shower' to the list of actions to complete in advance of expected tornado warnings; right up there with bicycle helmets for shrugging off falling canned goods, gathering personal records for safe keeping with those of us in hiding, and keeping Ashley's weather radio close.)

It had to be an experience for our guest.  We are a verbal bunch and the stress of the warnings, bringing to mind last year's terrible tornado, had my girls in a bit of an uproar.  One acted out her fear of tornadoes in general; the other exuded irritation that prom might be canceled AND  loudly expressed her anger with her reactive sister.  The brother poked fun at his sisters with a few well-placed efforts at mimicry.  The dad went on and on about how warnings were simply a heads-up that one MIGHT wish to prepare for possible entry into said pantry.  I, the mom and wife, prepared my spot in the pantry and hung out with the dog.  Drank a mineral water.  Chewed a few taffy pieces from Savannah.  During the sardine moments, when bodies were pressed against one another in uncomfortable ways and everyone hoped no one would experience gas (did you SEE my earlier Facebook post?), I couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling over.  It was all rather amusing.  Comical, in fact.  I understood the seriousness of the possible outcome.

But I understood the humor in it, too.  Prom dresses and tornadoes?  Too classic.  Never to be forgotten.

Give me a few lemons, and I'll get right on that lemonade!