Brother Kevin

I'm sitting at this here keyboard, remembering how pleased I felt when both my brother, Kevin, and his wife, Julie, told me that Jimmy and I had done a wonderful job with our children.  "They're the kind of kids you like being around," said Kevin.  Julie went further with a qualifier, "Trust me.  I don't say that lightly.  As a teacher, I've seen enough kids to know what I'm talking about!"  As a mother of three, two yet teens, my doubts concerning my parenting skills come into play every now and again -- I'm not above accepting a well-needed compliment on a job possibly well done.  And, I'm enough of a little sister to still want to impress my big brother.    

Now, I haven't seen Kevin in fourteen years or so.  In fact, the last time we shared space we were both at our Grandma Opal's house in California, keeping a family-and-friend vigil of sorts because our great-grandmother, Roxy, was dying of cancer.  Her hospital-style bed filled the entire space of the small TV room just off the kitchen area.  Our sister, Laurel, ran interference between guests and the patient.  Even in her frail state, Grandma Roxy kept her hair set in the high altitude pin-curled updo which was her signature look.  And the fight hadn't left her by a lo-ong shot.

My oldest brother is the owner of a naturally booming tenor; his indoor voice would alarm Barney and Friends.  He receives a fair amount of teasing and flack about it but, you know, he doesn't go out of his way to fill the air with his dominating sound waves: in the words of Lady Gaga, he was "born that way."  So, he's talking at the kitchen table with someone waiting to have a last visit with our matriarch.  Grandma Roxy is trying to listen to the kind words of folks standing at her bedside.  Suddenly, we all hear this authoritative shout in a surprisingly strong voice, "Kevin!  You need to be quiet.  I can't even hear what [these people] are trying to say to me!"  The room falls quiet as it sinks in that our terminally ailing elder has just chastised her healthy adult great-grandson.

He downgraded to a whisper.

That was my most current memory of Kevin, the eldest of our mother's eight children.  As for my kids and husband, the visit to Kevin's and Julie's country place in California -- where horses and domesticated fowl shared outdoor living space AND where Zachary wobbled into his very first steps -- was their most recent recollection.  Zachary will be 16 this August; Kevin has lived in Nevada for the past twelve years.  It's been awhile.

That makes his visit in Middle Tennessee a truly big deal.  What bumps it into extraordinary is that his reason for coming here had nothing to do with me.  Maybe a full year ago, his two grown daughters purchased four tickets to an annual horsemanship event which happens to take place in Murfreesboro.  They were a gift for their equestrian mother.  Evidently, three highly respected 'natural' trainers were making a rare appearance together.  A very big deal.  A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a horse lover.

Kevin mentioned that he knew I lived SOMEWHERE in Tennessee.  I'm friends with his entire family on Facebook, but only his oldest daughter actually utilizes its social aspects.  For no reason other than being raised separately and the distance of age and miles, Kevin and I, and consequently our families, are not that close.  That would soon change.  A few queries were volleyed between me and my niece and my sister-in-law, and it was quite a surprise for them to realize that their venue was a mile from my home!  Me, too.  I immediately rolled out the welcome mat and offered our home to them.  They accepted.  And on Thursday of this past week, they rolled into our neighborhood in their airport rental car, ready for whatever might transpire.

After filling their bellies to burgeoning with homemade enchiladas and the remainder of those yummy coconut-lemon cupcakes, we set about really making them feel at home with an old-fashioned, first-of-the-season, pantry-emptying Tornado Warning.  Talk about your instant bonding!  It was a humdinger of a first evening.  Good stuff, Maynard!

Our second day opened with a sociable morning of chit-chat, coffee, and breakfast before everyone embarked upon their predetermined rounds.  My delightful niece surprised me with a box of Red Vines in the afternoon because she recalled my Facebook posts over the past year or so about this most tender and delicious of licorice classics.  What she actually did was leave the candy on the kitchen counter during their break from the show.  I wasn't home.  But when I returned, with Grandma Sharon in tow, my radar went haywire over the the mysterious Red Vines and their origin.  No one would fess up.  I didn't dare open it.  I moved it.  Scooted it.  Kept it under my watchful eye.  Finally, I decided my Ashley was teasing me.  She HAD to have bought them for me!  I gobbled down two whips before receiving her confused text message about my line of questions concerning concerning the sweets.  Worried I had wrongfully consumed candy belonging to one of my guests, I hid it on the fireplace mantle, away from me and my son!  Imagine my delight when my niece finally returned and fessed up to leaving it there for me.  Awww.

That second night was a wild and wooly adventure with the 'Salad Bowl' game.  Just imagine a three-layered amped-up version of Charades and you've got it!  The video clips I recorded are hilarious.  And a bit lengthy.  That'll be an editing project for another rainy day.  Our mom looked-on and laughed.  She shtayed the night.  All of the kids, including Sarah's boyfriend, got in on the action.  The television never came on once.  No extreme weather.  Just extreme fun and a very comfortable level of interaction between us all.  For me, seeing my brother in the recliner the next morning, with my mom on her couch bed next to him, was a good moment.  I amused them with my chatty morning persona for a bit before running off for those replete-with-cinnamosity cinnamon rolls from our local bakery.  They were a hit.

I snapped pictures at every turn.  Every hug.  Every opportunity.  Julie's sister was the fourth ticket holder and guest.  A splendid aunt to my 'long lost' twenty-seven year-old niece.  She told me this morning, before they headed back to the Nashville airport for the return flight home, "I wasn't planning on wearing ANY makeup for this trip . . . but then I remembered you, downstairs, with that camera, and I put it on!"

Saturday night was Tennessee BBQ night.  The local grease pit, The Slick Pig, closed before our company could escape the departing traffic from their event, so we waited for a table at a local sit-down chain restaurant by the name of Jim n' Nick's.  Our crowded corner table of eight had itself a real good time.  And there were eight very full bellies.  Again.  (Ashley had to work her hostess night shift elsewhere.)  It was after this dinner, on our way home in their new-car-smelling rental, that the subject of our sweet kids came up.  Once home, Jimmy broke out the acoustic guitar.  My brother's family sang several worship songs (they lead the worship music service at their church) while Jimmy and my niece took turns strumming.  This was followed by a round of Red Vine snacking and throwing.  At one memorable point, I caught -- WITH MY MOUTH, THANK YOU -- a section of Red Vine which Zachary first threw in the air and bounced off his face.  Where was my camera THEN?!

Sunday.  Our final full day.  Cowboy church for Kevin and family.  Church at Cross Point for the Valdez Bunch.  Also, my own version of Superbowl Sunday: the Oscars.  I whipped up a creamy fattening batch of baked mac n' cheese because I knew the guest auntie was fond of this all-American starch classic.  I chopped and cut veggies and fruit.  I set out the smoked wings my daughter picked up from that greasy BBQ joint before it closed on Saturday.  My husband begged for blueberry pie.  "NO!" was my emphatic reply.  My brother begged for blueberry pie, too.  "Call Sarah and ask her to stop by the grocery store!" was my obvious response.  Save for Best Actress and Best Film, I'm clueless as to the other awards or who wore what gown.  I even missed the clever opening vignette which is an annual highlight for me!

But I am now privy to a great deal concerning the who and what of my brother.  And his family.  And his life.  My children pointed out similarities in our personalities.  They noticed facial resemblances between their Uncle Mark and this Uncle Kevin guy.  Sarah graduated from calling them "those people" BEFORE they arrived, to asking if "Uncle Kevin and everyone got away okay" AFTER they left.  His low-key spouse is the necessary yin to his yang, much like it is with myself and my mate.  She is her own person.  And they, too, have raised some pretty good kids, if the one who tagged along is any indication.  Sheila is her name.  An intelligent, sociable, hoot-and-a-holler of a gal.  Everyone, including Auntie Lee Ann, has been doused in Gloria-hugs.  I've made promises I intend to keep in regards to crossing the Nevada border for the sake of staying in THEIR home and meeting my other niece.

Stormy weather which would later spawn yet another tornado warning, escorted them out of my neighborhood as I stood on the soggy lawn, in the rain, waving.  Maybe a touch sad but primarily happy for this 'chance' reunion which I don't believe was chance for one hot minute.  We aren't in Oz.  A violent windstorm didn't blow them in.  In my circle of faith, we call it "a God thing!"

So, with all of that being said, I'm sitting here at the Mac, tapping away on this sleek compact keyboard, thinking about those well-adjusted kids of mine.  The ones in the kitchen right now.  The ones whose bellowing indoor voices I can hear as they travel the length of the stairs and into this study.  Sarah is washing dishes.  Zachary is teasing her in a dangerous and desperate bid for some attention.  Ashley and her boyfriend are trying to watch Hillary Swank get her face bashed in under Clint Eastwood's tutelage in the living room. Kevin and Julie are missing the display of good manners and sensitivity.  But I'll record it here for them.

Sarah: "ZACHARY-Y-Y!!!Get OUT of here!  You are SO annoying!  Go-o!  Nobody WANTS you in here!"  Dishes clank.  The boy laughs loudly.  No distinct words.
Ashley: "MO-O-OM!  We can't HEAR our movie!  He shouldn't be IN here!  It's too loud!  Ooooh-h!"
Zachary:  "It's My house, too.  I can be downstairs.  You guys don't OWN the downstairs!"
Me:  "You KNOW what?!  Zip it!  All of you!  Right now.  Or I'm gonna cram each one of you well-raised rotten apples into one of those pre-priced postal boxes and SHIP you off to Uncle Kevin and Aunt Julie!  Phew!  Well, what did you expect?  We'd been storing it up for four days!

Observations

Observing, while unobserved, those unaware.  People watching.  Human eyeball distractions.  An oft practiced past-time of mine.  Libraries, airports, ball games and wrestling matches, even grocery stores.  Ooh, and Starbucks.  Men, women, children.  Employees.  College students.  Pre-schoolers.  Toddlers.  Octogenarians.  En masse.  Solo.  Duos.  Standing or sitting.  Smoking a cigarette or pumping gas.  Mothers who are forced to discipline their children in parking lots; fathers caught gazing far too long at the Hooters waitress.  Little boys chasing little girls around the playground, behind the swing set, and across the merry-go-round.

MOM AND SARAH -- WHOLLY UNAWARE

When driving, by all means, especially those compulsive individuals who simply can't wait for the privacy of their own home to dig deep for their nasal obstructions.  (If it's not crustily painful or emerging from the bat cave and and ready to take flight, you should really tie your hands down and back away from such nasty practices in public.  I can SEE you behind the wheel!  While it's grossly amusing, I'd rather see you rock out to your radio.  Unless your drive through my town is your first and last, the chances are good that we will cross paths in the future.  If you offer your hand in greeting, don't be surprised at my rudeness when I yank my hand away.)  Did I ever tell you about the time I spotted the dude in the car right next to mine snorting cocaine on a CD case with a rolled bill while we waited at a stoplight?  Can you say, "Hello, 911?"  He didn't warn us so we could take an alternate route, far away from his illegal stupidity, did he?  He did provide a real-time case study for my curious progeny.  No photographic examples of these.  Bummer.

Watching my kids while they watch TV or visit with their friends or simply sleep.  Every once in a while, they catch me.  Call me out.  Especially the observant middle one.  Sometimes it bugs her.  I can't help myself.  Can't stop myself.  They are fascinating subjects.  Brown eyes.  Sculpted brows.  Distinctive noses.  Thick heads of wavy dark hair.  Brimming with humor and life.  They carry the sum of these past two decades.  They reflect a shining aspect of myself back on me.  It's quite hard to look away from all of that.  The middle one will simply have to deal with her irritation concerning my maternal ogling.  

   

Church is another fine venue for human observation.  The pastor is an obvious one.  No-brainer.  Musicians on the stage.  What they do with their hands, eyes, chins.  (Yes, chins.  Lead with 'em.  Lift them to the heavens.  Drag them to the chest.)  Fellow parishioners roosting in their familiar chairs.  Everyone seems to gravitate toward the same seating week in and week out.  I'm a front row gal.  Neighbors are another avenue of interest.  I know my good neighbors on the left quite well.  Busy and habitual folks.  Always on their way to somewhere with a blue-eyed blond boy, or three, in tow.  Hard workers.  Great grillers.  fast friends.  Then there's the couple with the hostile German shepherd that they can barely contain with the industrial-strength coil of rope to which she's attached.  I just heard them go by on their nightly 11PM walk: the dog barks as it passes the house.  She bit my son's buddy when he rang the doorbell of her owner's house last summer.  No one feels safe anymore.  Not a good scene.

CAUGHT IN THE ACT OF NEIGHBORLY PEEKING

(KIDS AT CHURCH -- DOUBLE WHAMMY!)

The Earth Divas are a joy to visually peruse.  The elegant one.  Long-limbed and perpetually stylish.  She transforms a simple blouse and jeans!  The exuberant artist.  A giddy giggle which ties my belly in knots with responsive laughter.  An eye for color as function and fun that constantly impresses me.  The deadpan gal.  Tackles it all head-on.  With unabashed frankness.  The driest of wits.  Practical from birth.  All of them a feast for my eyes.

And that's merely the tip of an enormously satisfying and never-ending iceberg.  I didn't mention my husband.  Or Laurie Geiser.  Or my mother.  Or my brother.  The vastness of the animal kingdom extends beyond homo sapiens.  Birds.  I practically weep over a great blue heron sighting.  My cat.  He enhances my affection for all things orange.  Tomato hornworms.  They turn my stomach, but so plump and juicy when they ooze green blood beneath my feet. 

BIRDIE BUFFET ALA YUKON HOOD?

Pulling back for the panoramic sweep, trees, tall, short, blooming, dying.  Mountains which end sharply against the plains.  Rising oceans surging against sandy shores rife with kelp, sea glass, broken shells.  Skies in hues of blues.  Cerulean meets steel-gray meets scudding puffs of water mist.  Give me a chance and I'd observe the planets.  Contemplating their odds in a cosmic round of pool against the slate of the universe.

THE UNFURLING BARK OF OUR RIVER BIRCH

The objects of creation parading across the screen of my life.  If only I could push the 'pause' button every now and again.

I wonder who I distract?

  

My Week in Words and Pictures

It's been quite a week for me.  On Sunday, we said farewell to Pastor Ron and his family at Church @ Cross Point.  Our small numbers, both in members and monetarily, could not support him as a full-time minister any longer.  It was one of those situations where it was simply time for change.  For everyone.  And my faith in Christ assures me that this is expected and okay.  In fact, rejoicing is the order of the day.  But the very human part of my heart falters at letting go of good people and releasing them back into the larger stream of shared humanity.  I'm better for knowing them.  Each and every one.  His wife, by the way, can replicate several farm animals with a startling degree of mimicry.  Oh, the hidden talents of a pastor's wife; they are a special breed of woman, to be sure.

PASTOR RON EXPRESSING A HOLY OPINION OVER LUNCH

HIS GREAT WIFE AND ELDEST DAUGHTER

My kids roped me in to watching the Grammy Awards.  Overall, I thought it was one of the better produced award shows that I've viewed in years.  They might want to hold onto that production crew.  Or better yet, send them over to the Globe Awards -- they need the help!  I found myself singing and snapping my fingers and acting life a goofball: being both entertained AND the entertainer.  One song in particular stood out.  I'd heard it on the radio once when my son was driving; it's not one that would grab airtime on NPR.  Some guy by the name of Cee Lo Green belted out a colorful number called "Forget You" with a surprise guest spot by Gwyneth Paltrow.  I was ready to hop on my iPhone, click on iTunes, and download it right then and there.  What I failed to understand at the time (this is where my lack of hip-ness, though not HIPS, comes into play) was that the original explicit version of the song carries the title "F*@$ You!" My kids clued me in.  I suddenly understood the previously cryptic references Jamie Foxx made as he introduced the singer.  Yup, I'm not slow at all.  Folks, I couldn't keep up with pop music even if I wanted to because the myriad versions, including ring tones and American Idol renditions, confound my stressed brain.

HARD TO FORGET THIS!!!

But I did buy the clean version.  I practically danced down the street during my walk with the dog this morning!

I started my anti-depressant pill regimen.  For those of you who haven't read my entry addressing this decision in my other blog, "The Reluctant Suburbanite," it's been a difficult couple of years.  Though I tried my darnedest to work through a growing depression with diet, exercise, friends, blogging, and prayer, I reached a point where I knew I needed something beyond the scope of my efforts.  So, for the first week, a half-dose each day was ordered by my doc.  Today, I began the full dose.  Fatigue may be the main side effect for now: I napped for THREE hours on the couch this afternoon.  That is unheard of.  (Sarah thoroughly cleaned her bedroom during those same three hours and it looks it.  THAT'S unheard of.  Check and see if the sky is still attached to the heavens.)  There was a strange little episode with my eyes earlier in the week but that seems to have faded.  I'll keep you posted on the benefits.  I do believe I'm experiencing those in minor ways already.

A CHEMICAL ASSIST

On Thursday and Friday, my late morning and early afternoon hours were filled with volunteering at the TSSAA state wrestling championships just outside of Franklin.  And though the calls for help are sometimes a bit much in my opinion, when added to the always-growing TO-DO list of life, I had a blast!  I met a friendly older woman named Pat and a spry older gentleman, Howard, on Thursday.  Both are regular TSSAA big event workers/volunteers.  Both of them possessed a quality about them that pulled me right in.  On Friday, I came bearing fresh-baked goods from our local bakery to share with my new friends.   My ongoing conversations with them revealed that they are a married couple.  I was surprised and thrilled.  They have volunteered for TSSAA for fifteen years.  In their off-time, they cook and deliver for Meals On Wheels.  They also manage an eleven acre spread in the country, have a stable of wonderful friends (including a chef who journeys to their home each year to prepare a sumptuous birthday feast for Pat and any friends and family she invites) and are doting grandparents.  They met at fourteen and married at seventeen right out of high school.  I want to be them in twenty five years!  We even exchanged numbers: they liked me as much as I liked them.  Though my shift ended at 1:30, I remained just to be in the presence of their company.  I hated to leave them!

HOWARD AND PAT

I also made the acquaintance of a state trooper who volunteers to patrol these large-scale events during his days off from patrolling the highways and byways.  We swapped opinions on iPhones, though he owns the new Verizon-coverage iPhone.  I'm an ATT girl.  There's a bit of a divide there.  Already.  We agreed on the many merits of the Otter Box cases, however.  He has a super-dee-dooper deluxe heavy-duty military version that I now covet.  We also share March wedding anniversaries; his wife feels that an iPod is in order per a gift.  I told him that I fully support her choice.  "Oh, I'll just BET you do!" he quipped back.  He's a tall gregarious black man who wears reading glasses and spends half of his time looking over the tops of them to see the screen of his phone or the words on the newspaper.  I'm betting he's in his early 50's based on tidbits from our casual chit-chat over the course of two days.  At one point in Friday's shift, Howard (aforementioned new pal) whispered to me that Harold (the state trooper) was a very good and modest man who would never tell a person what he did in his capacity as a protector of the people.  It turns out that he is (or WAS as the case must be) the bodyguard for Coach Fisher of the Tennessee Titans NFL team.  That's kind of nifty!

OFFICER HAROLD GOODINGS (sans spectacles)

I added a new blog to my watch-list courtesy of one more individual I ran into at this event.  "Suburban Turmoil" is the blog.  Here's the link:http://suburbanturmoil.blogspot.com/   Check it out.  It's good.  Makes mine look like a freckle on its rump, but that's okay.  My pride will survive.  I didn't have a lot of it to begin with.  Hah!  Anyhoo, her husband is a local television reporter for Nashville-based WSMV, Dennis Ferrier.  He came rushing in through the double doors of the foyer, saying he was late and where did he need to go.  I thought he was another harried father who happened to have that you-look-so-familiar-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-why-right-now look to him.  But when he mentioned PRESS and I took in the size of the camera in the hands of his companion, I realized he was that news guy, you know, what's-his-name!  Until he was leaving the tournament an hour later, I thought nothing more about it.  But seeing him across the ticket tables, headed for the exit, I muttered aloud something about wishing I could get his picture.  Harold, the state trooper, marched me over.  I asked.  Dennis obliged.  Harold snapped the shot.  When Dennis asked what I planned on doing with a shot of his mug, I mentioned it would most likely find its way into my blog.  He asked the name.  I gave it; he turned me on to his wife's blog.  The fact that our titles say much about where we live and how we deal, and feel, was NOT lost on me.

WHO CAN RESIST THIS?!!

OTHER PARENT VOLUNTEERS FROM OUR HIGH SCHOOL: AREN'T THEY CUTE?!

A VIEW TO THE VENUE: MAYBE ZACHARY WILL ONE DAY WRESTLE HERE

DENNIS FERRIER (R), MISTER CAMERAMAN(L) and YOURS TRULY

What My Living Room Says About Me

This morning Bob Vila popped onto the television screen in a commercial for flooring.  No surprise there.  He said that a room is a reflection of me (the owner, decorator, housekeeper, I surmise).  Then, he blathered on about how a beautiful floor is the foundation of the room.  Blah, blah, blah.

But it got me to thinking.  (It got me to run instantly to my laptop and record my thoughts before they vacated the premises.)  What do MY rooms say about me?  Considering there are numerous rooms in the house, three of which are inhabited by my messy offspring, and two are restrooms utilized by these swine masquerading as older children, it might be helpful to narrow that down to one room.  Say . . . the living  room.

Hmmm.  The Spanish moss green walls and jewel-tone blue accessories say I prefer color to a neutral palette.  They also say, "Guess what?  We need painting.  Again!"  Um, the brown leather couch and easy chair, along with the dark cherry wood entertainment center reveal my affection for natural textures.  (The worn easy chair, with its matching eruptions of stuffing on either side of the foot rest, let a person know we use things until they fall apart . . . and we own a ruffian of a feline who can't keep his outdoor fighting claws to himself.)  It's readily apparent that I admire the artistic works of my beloved relatives: the enlarged prints of Colorado mountain scenes taken by my Uncle Zan that adorn the wall behind our sizable Samsung flatscreen -- which screams "MY HUSBAND BOUGHT THIS!"  --  and the seascape framed painting created by my Grandma Opal hanging over the fireplace are dead giveaways.

Digging a bit deeper, beyond the furnishings, it appears that I wash a fair amount of clothing, delicates and cotton by the looks, that should never, ever, EVER see the inside of a dryer; but I think the tiered metal drying-rack stationed in front of the aforementioned fireplace reflects and balances the other metal elements in the open room -- for instance, the doorknobs.  Feng shui, MY way!  Neat rows of DVD's state my admiration for Julia Roberts and good drama. The weights, Thighmaster, and Bosu ball in the corner say, "My husband's music studio is too small to double as an exercise room.  Welcome to my workout studio."  (There's that husband character again!)  A pile of large floor pillows in the corner suggests I don't mind possible bed bug or mini-mite infestations because they've been in use for well over ten years!

The surfaces of the stacked coffee table books, and the coffee and end tables themselves, reveal my well-reasoned thesis that DUST HAPPENS, why fight it?  And the carpet simply declares, "Surely you recall that this blogger mentioned earlier that she must lay claim to three messy children.  Those children have friends.  And they all wear shoes and conveniently forget the 'no-shoe rule.'  And they sneak food in here.  Please, take up a collection so she can replace my spotted compacted self with those gorgeous durable hardwood floors that Bob Vila says will best reflect her personality to any and all who enter!"


Thanks, Bob, for nudging me to get in touch with who I am.  I imagine my company over the past year already has.

Walker No More!

Busy week! A trio of doctor appointments for my mom with me as the designated chauffeur; Monday and Tuesday outings with a highlight of Starbucks on both days.  Culminating in her 73rd birthday night dinner with the family.  Tempura shrimp, kept company with Hollandaise-drizzled asparagus and tender baked sweet potatoes.  Chased down with whole grain cranberry-chocolate-oat bars for mom's healthy sweet tooth and Marie Callendar's peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream for the refined sugar dessert crowd.

There's simply nothing better than laughter and chatter at the dinner table.  Ice rattling in the glasses.  Silverware clinking against emptied plates.  Kids engaged and interacting with the adults.  Me ordering the antsy boy to quit tipping his chair.  Even the wild and random subject matter -- serial killers and sexual predators!?  Don't ask.  I couldn't tell you how we got there!

Without question, it's a unanimous decision concerning the best birthday present a gal could ever ask for this time around.  That timely third doc visit was with Mr. Orthopedic Surgeon.  His exam resulted in a status downgrade of the ol' seated rolling walker.  He asked mom to rise and walk. "Just get up and walk?" I wondered a tad disbelieving.  I think I may have inquired out loud.  And she did.  Walk, I mean.  Though I had my camera at the ready, the shock of seeing her suddenly shift from two months of absolutely no weight on that knee to steadily hobbling the short length of the exam room stilled my usually itchy trigger finger.  I kept waiting for trumpets to sound, noisemakers to go off, people to joyously shout.  A soundtrack to close out the exhausting passing of eight weeks seemed to be in order.  Fitting to the momentous occasion.  But all there was to hear was the soft landing of her feet on the carpeted floor.

That was Tuesday.  Mom worked her legs the rest of that day and into the evening.  She was understandably sore on Wednesday.  And again, I neglected my shutter-clicking duties.  I can't explain it except that perhaps I was operating in a mild state of shock at the abrupt transition on the heels of everything she recently endured.  But I can clearly see her baby steps and relieved countenance in my head if you want to crawl on in and have a seat for a quick recap.  Besides being thrilled for mom and the closing of this painful chapter in her medical history, there is a deep and abiding relief within me concerning that dreaded seated rollator.  If I never witness my mother do the one-legged backward scoot on that thing over another sidewalk crack, door threshold, or uneven carpet, you can bet I'll be the happiest daughter in the mother-daughter universe.  Even this week, pulling her into and out of the car, warning her of raised entries and rough terrain, I cringed several times, catching my breath and bracing for a possible miscalculation.  Knocking her on her head emotionally scarred me for life.  (Not to mention my knee!)

I'll be sure to take video footage when next I see her.  We've had yet another round of the fluffy frozen white stuff here in Middle Tennessee, coupled with unusually cold temperatures and resulting in TWO more snow days for the kids, and I'm thinking mom in snowshoes would have been entertaining.  But that's probably stretching it a bit.  Instead, I'll warm myself with thoughts of her leg gaining strength with the passing of each day.

We won't discuss her necessary back surgery until she's 'therapized' this here situation.  One thing at a time, folks.  One thing at a time.

**For clarification and to quell possible reader concern: the walker is still in use as an aid for walking -- those knees are yet regaining their previous strength -- as was the original intent of its manufacturing.  The title was for dramatic effect and reflects my hopeful nature concerning the immediate future.  

Bowled and OVER!

It's all over.  The great NFL match-up between the Steelers and the Packers.  Packers won!  Yippee yahoo.   I guess.  I'm happy for the winners.  A bit sad for the losers.  Bummed that their paychecks have never mistakenly been written out to me and mailed to Murfreesboro.  I think the last time I actually watched the Packers through an entire game was back in the late 90's when they lost their helmets to the Denver Broncos.  The glory days for my husband and his entire extended family.  They continue to hang on by their orange and blue fingertips to the hope that the ghost of back-to-back-Superbowl-victories John Elway will infuse the entire team line-up -- including the handsome Tebow fellow -- and rekindle the winning flame.

And I continue to believe in pretty pink flying pigs.  Sooooo-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!

There are a few reigning reasons that I harbor any sort of affection for Superbowl Sunday.  Here they are.

The birds were plump, warm, fed, and cooing.  I shared in that minor miracle of nature.

My grumpy Yiddish L-Baby (see previous blog entry) had to do himself a few outdoor chores to earn his play time.  Now my senior dog won't bloat herself rooting around in all of that old, spilled, mildewy bird seed.

Somehow, a joint going by the name of "The Slick Pig" has garnered my complete foodie attention when it comes to the smoked wings!  These particular birds were once plump, fed me, and, thankfully, were NOT cooing.

The commercials!!!  Though they've gained such fame in the past decade that it has become rather challenging to develop material that is hilarious and fresh without coming across as 'trying too hard" there were still several winners in the group.  Among them, a tour de force by "Doritos."  Being fully in the belly of the PMS whale, I was highly suggestible and licked a few fingertips of my own!

Baked brie, snugly wrapped in puff pastry, topped with fruit preserves and chopped walnuts.  SCORE!

Anything watched from the vantage point of Sarah's famous top-knot is instantly glamorized!

I tried several times to catch our resident ex-cheerleader in action . . . 

. . . still trying . . . 

. . . TOUCHDOWN-N-N!!!  

The boy camped out on the floor with a full belly and a much improved mood from earlier in the day.

Hanging out with Jimbo, though, alas, he was on a work-related phone/computer call from 12:30PM until after 9PM.  Now THAT'S what you call teamwork and sportsmanship!  Good play, sunshine!

Vegetables, orange soda, and TOGETHERNESS!!!

We attempted to capture my general mood for the night's festivities . . . my Happy Dance . . . 

 . . . my Goofy Grin . . . 

. . . my "I Know My Apron is Filthy and the Lighting is Bad, but I Made it Through Another Superbowl Sunday,  Until Next Year and Good Night, Folks!" Smile.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Busy morning.  Tripped over the dog and bumped my chin in the chilly morning.  Washed my hair.  Donned my new $35 Lucky jeans from Ross (usually $80) and my $10 gray sweater -- please see headless model below.  Got the kids to and from the doc.  Had my oatmeal with flax.  Pumped out a few push-ups.  Ready for my day.

My fitting room opinion shot.

My pantry and cupboards have undergone a thorough inventory of contents.  I'm headed to Nashville for my once-every-cupla-months pilgrimage to 'Whole Foods' and 'Trader Joe's.'  It's still hard to believe that one of the higher ups within these companies doesn't comprehend the market niche they could snag right here in the 'Boro!  But I'm ready for bins of medium-grain basmati rice and steel-cut oats, organic sugar and sea salt, red lentils and French lentils, flax seed and whole wheat pastry flour.  Organic butter.  Expelled-pressed canola oil.  Raw almond butter.  Real amber maple syrup.  Raw walnuts and almonds.  Oooh, and the dazzling array of gourmet cheeses from around the world!?  Is there a Manchego with my name on it?  Perhaps there will be smoked salmon on Superbowl Sunday?  And I simply must stock up on almond milk -- much cheaper than Kroger.  Let me at those aisles and sample kiosks!!!

The kids swept through their early dermatology appointments and sashayed out with their prescriptions, complicated instruction sheet, and bagful of goodies, er, samples.  I, on the other hand, limped out with the two specialist co-pay receipts and glycolic acid face wash purchase . . . and the prescriptions yet to be turned in.  My wallet is limping, too.  Compound fracture!  The nurse for the skin doctor happens to be a friend of ours; Sarah babysits regularly for her toddler son.  Having never observed this lovely lady in a work setting, I must herald her superior professional skills to the blogging world!  She had texted my daughter as we were leaving for the appointment to request Saturday sitting services, unaware of our impending arrival.  Her surprised smile was most welcoming.  And she said the kids could go on a 'field trip' one afternoon there at the clinic and see just what procedure people undergo from a lifetime of tanning.  Oh, what a swell parent of a teenager she'll make when that baby boy of hers grows up and out.

Speaking of baby boys, my son read the blog entry I wrote in his honor.  His honor, I declare, and he was not a happy teen.  That must be the key.  I'm an adult.  He's a hormonal 9th grader,  prone to embarrassment and misinterpretation of facts.  Where I saw a sweet story about his tribulations with face breakouts and cute speechisms, he saw ACNE and L-BABY!  He threatened to start his own blog and reveal the undesirable details of my life.  I told him it would hardly be effective as I do that my own self!  I further stated that I had worded the incidents carefully and with great affection.  This was greeted with crossed arms, his own elephantine sigh, and eye rolling.  "Oh, I'll word everything for YOU carefully, too!"  Yikes!  I can't promise I won't write about him again, but I can attempt to tread likely around buzz words and sensitive subjects.  So much for that entry on jock straps.  (Just kidding, Zachary!)

Well, me and my travel mug of 'Get-A-Grip' PMS tea had better head out.  Thanks to 'The Republic of Tea' there will be yet one more hormonal roller-coaster week through which my marriage remains intact.  Through which my children retain their major limbs and breathing privileges.  An efficient blend of rooibos, chicory, and licorice will work their magic on my innards and thus mediate the export of thought into verbiage.  Inner reaction into external action.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Ta-ta for now, dear readers.

My Yiddish "L" Baby

Zachary James Alexander Val-james.  THAT was how my son, now fifteen, used to pronounce his name when asked to give the entire length and breadth of it.  The maze of wee child's active brain.  'tis an amusing and beautiful thing.  Another of his engaging speechisms that he's been unable to fully shake involves his pronunciation of the letter "L."  We've attempted to dissect the anatomy of his verbal form and noted that he places the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth instead of behind his top front teeth.  Thus, every time he comes across this letter, the sound is somewhat swallowed and faintly guttural, causing one to speculate that there might be a Yiddish-speaking relative somewhere in his genetic woodpile.  Sarah christened him the "L" baby many years ago.  It's endearing.  He refuses to correct it -- evidently he has arrived at the conclusion that the rest of us, you, me, everyone in between, except maybe Barbara Walters, enunciate erroneously.

This boy of ours, the one who arrived as a complete surprise, because we elected not to find out if the baby in my womb carried the Y chromosome, and brought tears to my usually stoic husband's eyes, is rife with character, ripe with teen angst, rippling with lithe lean boy muscle, and riddled with the emotional make-up of his dear sainted mother.  Okay.  Okay.  Though he does find me to be quite dear, he presently rejoices in reminding me of how un-saintly I actually am.  (Ironically, the girls used to ridicule me in their maternally-disciplined moments and accuse me of being a nun.  I'd explain that #1: I'm not Catholic, and #2: they know my history and have seen my barely closeted skeletons!)  Not to mention that I've fallen from one who knew all things in his adolescence to one who knows nothing as he teeters on the cusp of manhood.  (Mothers of little boys who place you at the center of their wee universes, this will happen to you.  I've spoken with other sainted moms about the conundrum.  One pious parent actually informed me to allow any child who believes his mother knows everything to continue to believe that for as long as possible.  DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell him any differently.  A case of  a-little-too-late for me.  Thanks!  BIG sigh.  HUGE.  ELEPHANTINE.)

Tonight, while handing me hangers for his dad's slacks and jeans, Zachary struck up a conversation on the nature of his face.  A handsome face I absolutely, unequivocally, wholeheartedly adore.  Especially when it's sleeping.  Or grinning.  Or devouring two banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches on whole wheat bread.  Pointing to his cheekbones, angled planes which echo the American Indian lineage he inherited from my father's side, he informed me that his face is more like mine.  We have "lines."  I said we had a more pronounced bone structure.  He nodded and seemed to peer more intently at our reflection in the dresser mirror on the other side of my laundry-laden bed.  "My head is bigger than yours," declared this observant boy, "but women's heads are generally smaller than men's heads.  That's a good thing."  That rather tickled me.

The preferred breakfast and snack.

I'd post a picture of the two of us standing together, large and small heads contrasted, but he declined the photo session invite.  "Are you kidding?!  I don't want any pictures of my face looking like this!"  The poor kid is enduring a cystic acne breakout which has erupted along the middle of his forehead.  Wrestling and smashing his face against those germy mats hasn't been helpful to his condition.  He's now allowing his once #3 buzz-cut to grow in order to camouflage the invading purulent forces.  At church tonight for his youth group, he ran into a 5 year-old boy from one of the Hispanic families who were meeting for their own mid-week services.  Looking up at my only son's countenance, this innocent child quickly assessed what he saw and stated, "Oh, you have chicken pox!"  Ouch!  When he relayed the scenario to his oldest sister, she guffawed.  I quickly explained that she was laughing with him while sympathizing with his misfortune before he decided to put her in a half-Nelson.  Without skipping a beat, he forced one of his famous bear hugs on her and sniffed her head, declaring, "Your hair smells like daffodils!"

I love my boy.  Lots of people love him.  Old and young.  Male and female.  Athletic and geeky.  Overall, he's a well-adjusted kid with a good heart and enough energy to power our entire house if we could ever figure out the scientific equation for harnessing it!

Here are a few pictures I can share.  Including one of our other 'boy.'

Feasting on dad's BBQ babybacks!

The closest thing our boy will ever have to a brother.

The game hand!

Blurred Reality