On The Subject of Lateness, AFTER The Fact

I’m back in the air, folks, eager to return to my little family in Tennessee with my ‘too-many-good-times-in-Colorado-to-count’ stories firmly tucked in my mind.  And countless emotions secured deeply in my heart. 

In fact, a few too many good times almost led to an unplanned extra night in the land of sunshine, purple mountains majesty and crisp dry air.  (Did I fail to mention fruited plans and spacious skies?)  Yes, my friends, the gal who has slowly morphed into ‘the one who is late for almost everything’ over the past year or so can now claim (would that be with pride?) that she HAS been late for everything. 

After a jam-packed morning of exercise, packing, puppy-tending, beautifying and errand running, the Sweigard Sisters detoured into downtown Pueblo to hit up the Solar Roast Café (even their DECAF is flavor-packed with no hint as to its lesser jazzed identity) for one more Hero City experience together before the road trip north which would soon separate us.  Unable to decide on just one drink, I wisely opted to order a small soy latte in both hot and iced, so as to compare the two: double-fisting coffees . . . a satisfying first.  I sipped my way fully through the polarized coffee treats -- committed fan of the great bean that I now am!  Sister Rebekah was possibly equal parts impressed and astonished at my accomplishment?

We stopped off in Colorado Springs on a tight schedule, eager to hit a couple nifty second-hand and antique shops, and looking forward to a quick lunch with Sister Laurie-Laurel.  Somewhere between the bargain shopping -- pink suede boots (Rebekah); a 70’s era lighter shaped like a deck of cards (me for my son – the queen of hearts slides back, revealing the ace of spades and igniting the flame) – and the midday belly bonanza of goodness with our beautiful older sis – spicy curry soup replete with fresh veggies and rice noodles, followed by our second round of gelato on this visit of ours – the clock moved into that 4^th dimension that my husband swears exists (thus accounting for déjà vu, he claims).  And we realized we had become time-challenged.

Translation: for the first time ever, Sister Gloria was about to be late for a flight.  In fact, Sister Gloria just might MISS her first flight.

For whatever reason – perhaps the 4^th dimension IS to blame – I found myself remarkably unconcerned with my tardiness and all of its possible implications.  Traffic all along I-25 North seemed to drag below the speed limit with an intentional motive.  This plussed me not.  Instead of needlessly worrying, I plucked my sister’s college textbook on interpersonal communication from the back of the SUV and proceeded to read to her the chapter on perceptions and locus and schemata of some sort or another.  Our first time doing homework together!

After a quick unload, plans to make this togetherness an annual thing, and hugs at the Southwest departure doors, I skedaddled through the semi-long line, cutting ahead of one kindly family but finding myself unable to cut past the senior citizen in front of me (though her flight was 20 minutes later, she needed a wheelchair and assistance).  The extras packed in my one check-in bag had me thinking I would lose any edge I had at the weigh-in.  Nope!  Right on the dot of the 50-pound allowance!  Hallelujah.  The woman at the counter answered my question regarding my chances of making my 5:20PM flight when it was presently 4:45PM, “Honestly?  You won’t make it.”  Her next response about stand-by flights spurred me into hyper-drive, complete with sweaty palms and pits, “And the next one out to Nashille doesn’t leave until-l . . . um, tomorrow morning.” 

Let me tell you what!  A life time of push-ups and speed-walks paid off with 15 minutes to spare.  Thank goodness I wore comfortable flats!  I ran like nobody’s business, heavy computer/book bag in my left hand, bulging purse in my right, dodging small children and zooming around my fellow meandering travelers.  My polite but speedy explanations worked to get me past every person in the security maze.  “Just push ahead.  You need to get out of here.  Be assertive, woman, don’t be nice!” one feminist passenger kindly urged me.  There were no warning beeps from my dangling earrings as I hurriedly entered the body scanner.  A gazelle-like dash down the stairs to the train headed for gates A, B and C put me at the doors just as they whooshed open.  After the gestational period of the African elephant seemed to pass, those same doors whooshed open again.   I executed a super-speedy sprint up the double-stairwells to terminal C, taking them two at a time, jogged the three gates in to my gate, and finally halted.  A bit breathless.  Beads of sweat collecting at my hairline.  A crumpled ticket in hand, with its B-15 place in line a distant memory.  Or WAS it?

Lo and behold, it was 5:05PM and the B’s were just lining up!  I had beat the odds.  And logged another new experience under my belt in the dizzying process.  One I don’t plan on ever repeating.  “Down, unpleasant adrenaline rush, DOWN I say!”

Now, as this plane nears Nashville, the only first I’m even remotely interested in experiencing at the end of this blessed journey involves weighing the same on my bathroom scale now as I did when I left.

And based on all that dark chocolate and gelatos the Sweigard Sisters found hidden in quaint restaurants and specialty shops throughout their many adventures, methinks that improbable!  I'd like to think I brought a bit of Colorado back with me.  

   

Thoughts From An Airplane

I’m on Southwest Flight out of Nashville, Tennessee headed for Denver, Colorado.  In fact, this plane should hit the tarmac in approximately 30 minutes.  This will be the first time in eight years that I’ve been alone with my little sister, free of chaperones, hospital surroundings and courtrooms.  That makes this trip unique in more than ONE way.  Already!

I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve made it to bed the night before a flight without sailing way-y-y over into the post-midnight, bleary-eyed, guaranteed-to-feel-gritty-and-amped-all-day waters: that was just last night.  Of all the things I am most proud of where my responsible adult behavior is concerned, that will hold a Top 5 spot for the rest of my life.  No joke!

Usually, my OCD anal-retentive nature kicks into high gear and the manic me steers the ship against all practical currents and straight into the rocks on some distant shore not ever intended for docking.  And I plop right down in the midst of the wreckage as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a grown woman to count out Q-tips – 2 per day with extras for runaway mascara; roll extra pairs of undies in case of bloat or pantie lines; grind flax seed – because those 2 tablespoons a day on the road keep the system moving along, if you know what I mean;  pot plants because they look root bound and might possibly wither before I return; clean out the fridge;  squeeze in 21 extra push-ups; pack a carry on and purse for a possible emergency “Let’s Make A Deal” appearance – dental floss, tweezers, paper clip, safety pin, nail file, Band-Aid, flash drive, magazine, novel, notebook, chargers, laptop; and type detailed lists on what should be done for the sick dog, the healthy dog, the ornery cat and my plants, on a daily basis . . . at 2 in the bloody morning!

On top of all that ridiculosity (yes, even in the midst of my travel rituals, I realize the incongruity of it all, because crashing a ship DOES have an impact!), are the early AM flights which require a 4:30 alarm just to save the thirty or forty bucks difference between 6:05 and 10:20 morning departures.

This time around, I chose that 10:20 take-off on the advice of my husband.  This time around, I decided I could put off packing the toiletries and weighing my bag until morning, because I recalled all those many concerned voices of friends and family who kindly and frequently remind me that my constant fatigue and pushing through my days could actually mean I NEEDED those hours of sleep I habitually deny my body.  This time around, I figured someone else could be that girl who worried so much about forgetting something that she did everything on the list and more . . . and still forgot something!  This time around, I thought that maybe, ju-u-ust MAYBE, travel prep could be relegated to a status less significant than the actual trip itself.

This time around, I wanted the ship to actually get the chance to fully sail.

I like it.  I like it a lot.

I leave behind Hank the Wonder Pup and those dirty paws he so eagerly placed on my jumper when he decided he wanted to be a jumper, too.  Fabio the orange kitty showed up on the window sill looking quite worse for the wear – missing the tip of his left ear, face smeared with still-red blood and remnants of once flying fur all over him – and my concerned Miss Ashley promptly cleaned him up and scheduled a mid-morning vet appointment: 2 weeks of antibiotics and indoor restriction, folks.  Again! 

Zachary hugged me long and hard before driving off into the high school horizon; Sarah called to wish me a safe and relaxed trip.  I enjoyed a rare morning commute with the hubby and am lovingly wearing a spilled spot of his stout sunrise-recipe coffee on my pristine white tank top.  The security routine at the airport ran swiftly and smoothly.  Same thing in the Starbucks line, “Hello, my little soy latte friend!”   I met a woman and her husband returning from Rwanda, the trip of their lifetime, where they met the teenage girl they’ve been sponsoring for years.  And as I’m taking in the patchwork farmland of Colorado far below – “I’m almost in Denver, Sister Rebekah!”  -- I’m tickled to have lucked upon a seat next to a woman flying with her doped-up wee Yorkie in its handy little pet carrier, tucked securely beneath the seat in front of her. 

My bladder needs voiding but I’m pulling a Hank (he holds it for hours when he’s not in his own back yard – don’t worry, I merely desire a toilet where the flushing sucks the contents into the sewer instead of a storage tank).  Until then, I’m not worried about much.  For once.

Maybe I’ll crack open that danged novel I’ve tried to tackle since Christmas of last year.  Or maybe not.

  

Sunday Night Tid Bits

My mother is reading to me from her bedroom -- interesting snippets from an auto-biography recently released by the actress who played the daughter, Erin, on that family-oriented hit series, "The Waltons."  The lights are out here in the living room and adjoining kitchen area.  The elements for a comfortable sleep have been arranged just so on the couch for my overnight stay.  White noise from a fan and the fridge and the AC unit beneath mom's bedroom window have all conspired to lull me into necessary PM unconsciousness.  My late afternoon and evening  hours were pleasant and mellow.  Just what the doctor ordered.  Tomorrow, the doctor has ordered another spinal injection for mom.  I'll be her chauffeur for the day.

No doubt, Hank the Wonder Pup misses his main mistress momma but has received the proper dosage of attention from Mistress Ashley.  In fact, in a humorous aside (perhaps you had to be there) Ashley attempted to bathe Hank in his little banged-up yard swimming pool and was halfway through her efforts when the soaped-up pup slipped through her hands and ran circles around the yard and away from the hose and its handler.  She called her dad as we were returning home from church, wondering how far away we were and asking for HIS help.  I didn't know what was up, initially, but I believe she had hoped to surprise me with a squeaky clean, fresh smelling, no-more-grey-ring-around-his-collar dog.  A very sweet gesture!  Later, I learned that she thought we were still in our training classes; she wanted him to look handsome for his girlfriend, Rosie, and she had an interest in accompanying mom and mutt.  But, alas, he graduated -- as did I, I'm thinking -- on Sunday last.

When I realized what was transpiring in the back yard, my daughter dragging a stubborn Hank back to the pool but making no progress, my husband standing at the ready with hose sprayer in hand, still dressed in his casual Sunday attire, I knew my expertise would be necessary to complete this job.  One quick change and five minutes of crooning and training orders later -- "Good stand, Hank, good stay, boy!" -- we had ourselves a triumphantly bright and shining white dog with a clear caramel ribbon running along his spine.  Shake, shake, shake.  A brisk rubdown with a towel.  The requisite roll in the grass.  And my precocious young pet was ready for a resumption of action!  Thanks, Ashley, for doing the lion's share of that challenging task for your mother.  It doesn't go unnoticed.

You see there!  Honestly, writing about that counter-swiping pup was not my intention when I logged into Blogger.com.  I promise you it wasn't!  There's this whole story about helping folks not simply when it's convenient and pleasing to the self but when it's needed and necessary for the one requiring assistance that I wanted to relay.  But my eyes are crossing now.  The head is bobbing.  Morning doth quickly approach.  And the sooner I surrender to slumber, the sooner I can partake of what mom informed me is 'the absolute best hot chocolate' she has ever, that's EVER, had.  This honorable daughter desires to second that motion for her mom.  It's what all the good daughters are doing now!

I leave you with a promise to return with more interesting fare AND a few pictures of recent frolics and adventures In The Life Of.


Sarah caught a decent shot of her ma during a morning walk in
Chattanooga last weekend.

You know the hubby and Sarah.  This is Bria, one of her roomies and new good friends at college -- neat young woman.  We are so pleased that they have clicked.

 3 outta 4 Earth Divas and their dogs recomment "Sit And Stay" training classes for more well-behaved animals and better-trained owners!

 My goofball son, Ghengis Zach, finding creative uses for the stairway spindles.

Hank the Wonder Pup demonstrating the proper way to disembowel a doggie bed.
  

 A lovely variety of grass -- Oat Grass? -- which grows on the Green Way.
It's one of my favorites.

Mom making the rounds of her bird feeders: this one was alive with multitudes of cardinals moments before we crashed the scene!

Oh, those nutty squirrels preparing for the cold snap!

These ladies waited outside a dental-medical clinic in Nashville very early on a Saturday morning for TWO hours, along with another hour inside, to be among the sixteen clients who are guaranteed services at a reduced rate for the uninsured.  Every one of these women had severe toothaches requiring extraction.  I brought my friend, the gal under the sleeping bag, and admired her tenacity in the face of such need.  Others arrived late, knowing the rules, and expected to be seen with the early risers.  But fair is fair, folks!

Yours truly displaying the proper form for enjoying a yeasty soft pretzel in a large busy mall.

Mountains Out Of Molehills

My mom once restricted me from washing my face.  At that time, I was a high school sophomore in Anchorage, Alaska.  Separation from my beloved washcloth evoked within me an anguish which existed at an unadulterated level that only a teenager could feel and sustain over such an event.  Anguish, I tell ya!  But I must confess that this unusual disciplinary action had it's roots in pretty solid habitual soil.  You see, I was, and still am though to a far lesser degree, a compulsive picker of often miniscule skin eruptions which felt to my highly sensitive fingertips like enormous growths.  In my mind, I imagined a subcutaneous pool of peurile content in need of eviction from my face or arm or leg.  This vision plagued me, wrecked my concentration for anything else, as the thought of these untapped reservoirs of infection residing just below the surface filled me with the burning need to release them!  And I applied myself to this managerial task with a ferocious concentration bordering on obsessive.

 This particular instance involved that small rectangular region located just below the bottom lip and above the chin where the pores appear larger when the tongue is pressed behind the area, thus stretching out the skin.  For breakout-prone individuals, this can be a breeding ground for problematic blackheads.  For me, it existed merely -- or not so merely -- as an opportunity for hallucinating, for creating sustainable mirages of exaggerated size, for faultily visualizing acne in need of a firm lather, rinse, and scrub-the-heck-outta-it session.  Now, if you take a gander at your own little rectangle of skin in the aforementioned area, you'll quickly note that the difference between the pores there and in the surrounding skin does not immediately connote an outbreak of pimples but simply a genetic assigment of cells.  It won't wash away.  And no amount of circular scrubbing will bring about a sudden continuity of pore structure.  Now, what nonstop washing WILL do is cause irritation and redness, followed by bleeding and an unsightly scab much worse than what one OCD teen girl thought she initially saw.

Hence, a parentally ordered "break" from facial cleansing.  Definitely a stellar moment in my childhood.  Ranks right up there with the full-on chin-hickey-from-a-cup incident back in the 4th grade during my time in Salem, Oregon.  But that's another story.

I still become fixated on random tiny bumps here and there on my face and body of a certain age.  (42 in November.)  It is not a prerequisite that they be visible to the naked eye.  Remember, I have my fingertips to probe and worry over a spot.  Along my hairline.  Anywhere on my face.  The neck.  The backs of my thighs (not a favorite area anyway).  And the undersides of my arm.  Though I'm often conscious of my picking and actuually plan some sessions, complete with cotton balls and rubbing alcohol and safety pins, many of my nail-scraping and finger-pinching episodes escape my consciousness right up until a family member intervenes.  Usually my husband or my eldest daughter.  Often, by the time an intervention occurs, the practically invisible offender has been worked into an actual visible offense to everyone's eyes.  I'll admit to a soothing ritual of face and neck examination just before bedtime which illicits queries from the bedroom as to what I'm doing, "Quit picking your face and come to bed!"  to which I halfheartedly grumble some sort of affirmative response before returning to my up-close peering and inspection.  That this practice is both unhealthy for the skin and scarring has not escaped me.  I'm a gal with some smarts.  But also a gal with a few compulsions.  Just like the rest of you, I'll bet.  Or I would if I was the betting kind.

Hello, my name is Gloria.  And I'm a compulsive picker.  Not a picker and a grinner, mind you.  Just a picker.  If you witness me with bent arm and crooked fingers, an intent mask of focus on my face, and a puddle of blood and skin somewhere in the mix, stop me.  Break out the duct tape and those baby mittens that we mommies used to keep our infants from scratching themselves with their finely sharp baby nails.  Apply pressure to the wound.  Notify my husband.  And distract me with food.  That usually works.

Don't ask me how this strange and mundane topic emerged victor as tonight's subject for the blog. 

Because I don't know.  It might be the angry welt just to the left and back of my angled bob which can't possibly heal when a certain individual keeps peeling the newly formed crust from its surface.  Grrrr!   

A Hairy Dilemma

Today, my generally even-keel husband of 22 years let loose with a hearty dose of frustration before heading off to work.  He had every right to feel what he felt.  And to verbalize what he felt.  In fact, as probably a good many communicative spouses wish of their less communicative partners, I've begged him to trust me and feel completely free to "let her rip" when the urge hits and the circumstances dictate.  It's not as if I haven't many times surrendered to the utter freedom to launch into an emotional barrage fresh off a night's sleep with thoughts as clear as the morning sunshine piercing the transom window in our dining room.  Trust me when I say my freedom of expression is rather more wordy and lung-powered than his.

His revelation was less than surprising.  Basically, though he likes our animals, specifically the dogs, a great deal, he can't stand all of the hair and dander they leave behind.  On the carpet -- which even a vacuum can't fully clean -- and in our automobiles and embedded within the fibers of our clothing.  Space by space, he feels as if every area and haven of his is being systematically stripped away.  Like he can't even enjoy his home and his things.  And that was that.  He'd said his piece.  And I absorbed it in silence.  For once.  He shut the door to his truck and backed at a moderate pace out of the driveway; I closed the door to our garage with Hank the Wonder Pup in tow and walked a moderate pace into our kitchen.

Though he may divulged himself of a weight from his shoulders, I had taken on a weight, and was decidedly stoop shouldered because of this.

My first thoughts were emotional.  I felt threatened: would I now have to get rid of my lovely white doggie to keep our marriage on an even keel?  HE agreed to my yearning to bring Hank into our home.  HE was the one who said we should take Panda, our 15 year-old Husky-mix, off of our friend's hands because she was beautiful.  And just WHO kept her beautiful and healthy?  How many times had he allowed Hank onto the couch or chair or even into our bedroom without any urging from me?  Why was it that I had to do the compromising?  How come I had to let yet another part of me go to keep the peace?  Hadn't I adjusted my thoughts concerning the boat, er, Yukon that I now steer around town, often with Hank as a willing passenger?  Those thoughts and probably a dozen or so more streamed through my consciousness . . . and then I slowed it all down, pushing those contentious voices down, dulling their noise to a rustling whisper.  So many scattered leaves on the floor of my mind.

I needed to problem solve.  Realistically.  Quickly.  It was clear to me that I wanted them both in my life.  HAD to have them both in my heart and home.  My humorous handsome husband and my handy-dandy Hanky Panky!  Both of them had managed to connect with the girl in me, either in real time or by sleight of memory's hand, and keep the woman I am from coming undone at the seams by virtue of their charm and patience with me.  Both of them had seen me at my best and my worst and kept coming back with love in their eyes.  Both of them also took turns annoying me with their habits and stubbornness.  Both of them shared popcorn and belly rubs and quiet nights with me.  Both of them are my present comfort and joy and solid place in the midst of the myriad changes which just keep on coming down the proverbial pike.  A-a-a-and both of them will still be around when my children completely up and leave the nest: An event for which I profess an intellectual understanding but a limited emotional acceptance, surprisingly enough to discover.

So, I did the only things I could do.  I vacuumed and dusted and swept the major common rooms of the house, noting as I hustled and bustled along that the broom required replacing and the Oreck Deluxe needed it's annual servicing.  Referring to the information I had stored in my iPhone last week after catching an infomercial on the tellie, I hopped online and ordered THREE Pet Rider protection liners for our cars.  They're also including a surprise FREE gift.  I wonder what it is?!  I also reminded myself that my husband had stated that he did, indeed, like our pets.  His actions around our furry menagerie prove that statement to be factual.  Further, he had actually let me know how he was feeling about a specific issue that was bugging him without any prompting (which in husband's Thesaurus might read as: bitching, browbeating, forcing-his-hand, griping, haranguing, harassing, muttering, nagging, prodding, questioning, suggesting, threatening, whimpering, whining, yelling).  How could I find fault with that when it was my very heart's desire that he do so on a regular basis?  It's rather hard to fix a thing if I don't even realize that it's broken.

It wasn't very long before my iPhone screen lit up with an incoming text from the man who drove through inclement weather on the heels of one of our infamous tornado warnings to meet me at an antique store in the little town of Woodbury to pick up a small bundle of canine cuteness.  This same man who spent a generous portion of this pup's first night in our home on the couch, comforting a scared white fur ball, while I remained behind to care for my mother post-surgery, this man wrote to apologize for his scant morning outburst about his adverse feelings about dog hair in undesirable places.  He didn't need to do that.  But he did.

Never have I been happier to have handled a vacuum in my entire domestic existence.