Pick and Choose (Intended for 11/30/12)

Man!  When my schedule circles the hours like so many airplanes backed up on Christmas Eve, I'm hard pressed to pick and choose.  I want to accomplish it ALL within the space of 24 hours.  Like this morning, for instance.  As of yesterday, my plan was to head across town with my husband for his eye exam at 9:30am -- my prescription sunglasses need adjusting, so two birds, one stone, plus we can bask in one another's company -- and then swoop into the little donut shop across the main road to finally try their apple fritters.  (This past year, I've developed a THING for apple fritters.  Though I try not to imbibe regularly, I average about one a month.  Sometimes more.  Sometimes less.  Glazed donuts don't invoke intense cravings.  I can say 'nope' to a cinnamon bun or cream-filled.  But I've been known to wake up with apple fritter on the brain.)  Because the early bird catches the apple fritter first, an early call to request that the pastry-wranglers hold aside two under the name of Gloria Valdez would preface my outing with the hubby.

Once we had downed our greasily guilty sugar-coated pleasure, with the prerequisite mug of steaming coffee (of course!), I would return home to Hankie Mutt and my walking shoes for an outing in the slowly warming sunshine of this late November morning.  Try and keep that fritter from finding a permanent place on my figure!  This would be followed by a lovely lunch date with my oldest, Ashley, and the charming daughter-in-law of Earth Diva Gayla, one pretty and dryly amusing Jacqueline, at a popular coffee shop with great atmosphere and cold-brewed soy lattes, JoZoara's.

 JOZOARA'S COLD-BREW SOY LATTE IS EVERY BIT AS GOOD AS IT LOOKS!

THREE EARTH DIVAS + A JACQUELINE
(ASHLEY LEFT BEFORE THE PHOTO SHOOT) 

MUSHROOM BARLEY SOUP -- YUMMO!

Then, I would check on the great white hope of Marilyn Court, a.k.a. Hankie Mutt, before heading to Franklin for the viewing/wake of good friend who lost his year-and-a-half-long battle with terminal pancreatic cancer.  He was also Jimmy's ex-boss.  And his wife is a precious pal of mine.  The viewing here allows Tennessee friends to say goodbye before his final viewing and burial in New Jersey.  This really is a subject for another blog entry; it deserves its own space.  Suffice it to say here that with his wife's long-suffering stubborn help, he far outlasted the prognostications of the physicians, making it through Christmas of last year, his daughter's college graduation this past spring, and numerous family visits and trips over the summer and fall.  My family was extremely blessed to enjoy several wonderful meals prepared by our friend, his name is Phil, over the past few months.  Gourmet in content and scope.  His way of showing love.  I recall mentioning that he might enjoy catering to outsiders and his reply said it all, "Gloria, I can only cook like this for those I love.  That's when I enjoy it."  Considering the repasts he specifically planned for us, I was, and am, sincerely touched.  During our last visit, he said that we were their best Tennessee friends.  I could have cried.  But I didn't.

 NOVEMBER 2011: PHIL LOOKING GREAT AFTER REBOUNDING FROM ONE OF HIS MANY ROUNDS OF CHEMO.  

 THIS PARTICULAR MEAL WAS KINGLY IN SCOPE!

HIS KIDS SAID THEIR DAD PULLED OUT ALL THE STOPS, 

PREPARING HIS EASTER, THANKSGIVING & CHRISTMAS DISHES ALL AT ONCE.

A MEMORABLE VISIT OF MIND, HEART AND PALATE!

But all of those plans shifted . . . beginning last night when my son slammed a boy into the mat during a wrestling bout.  His head hit at the same time as his opponent's body.  For a couple of seconds, everything went black and he released his hold.  From then on, he seemed out of gas and out of moves.  A bit later, HE was slammed and landed headfirst -- though this wasn't clear from my vantage point.  That evidently clinched the deal.  He lost the match.  I watched as he rather clumsily walked over to shake hands with the competitor's coach before lurching to his own side of the mat.  All I could think was his bad shoulder was hurt; he was dehydrated; he probably didn't eat.  But when he later explained how everything in his field of vision was wavy, or seemed 'delayed,' I realized we might have a concussion on our hands.  His coach pulled him from the rest of his matches.  We arrived home around 10pm.  He finally managed to drift off to sleep around 3:30am; he asked me to sleep with him, which I was glad to do so I could monitor him. I kept him home from school today to continue my monitoring.  Plus, the pain in his head rather inhibits the ability to sit in a loud and brightly lit room, trying to concentrate on lessons.

 THE FATEFUL MATCH

OUT OF COMMISSION 

So, already, late night and maternal concerns had encroached upon my morning.  All before I woke up to my morning news feed on Facebook.  (hee)

*********   *********   *********  

[I'm posting this AS IS . . . which would be in an unfinished state.  Called away, I'm sure, because the dog needed attention or some called for a last-minute favor.  Of course, I never returned!  I started this two weeks ago, on a Friday morning while sitting at my laptop with the "sunlamp" glaring and coffee in hand.  My husband did, indeed, make his appointment AND returned home with two apple fritters the size of salad plates!  We split one of those bad boys; the other was devoured the next day.  My son continued to suffer with his headache through the weekend; we dropped in on our family doc and she sat him out of wrestling for two weeks; I spent another two nights sleeping in the same room . . . even had a panicky moment -- rare for me -- whereby I awakened and saw him sprawled on his pallet bed on the living room floor, still and cold to the touch.  I shook him vigorously, yelling his name: when he finally awakened, dispelling the illusion of death which had settled over my eyes, he yelled RIGHT back!]    

THE CONCUSSED AND HIS SIDEKICK.

SALAD PLATES, I KID YOU NOT!

I RECALLED THE DISTRACTION!!!  BUT A WELCOME ONE.
BABYSITTING FOR FRIENDS IS GRANDCHILD PRACTICE!

Woe ISN'T Me

Hidey ho, blog readers!  I knew a spot of time had passed since my last entry.  However, realizing that TWO weeks marks my last official writing somewhat saddens me.  I've thought often of my topics, numerous times throughout each day, but my jam-packed physical and mental calendar have kept me from logging on and pounding out my sentences and pasting those amusing, oft times lovely, photos.

At the moment, I've bellied up to our kitchen island, sun lamp to my left, 10,000 LUX-worth of bright white light beaming into the rods and cones of my sun-starved eyes, working in conjunction with my anti-depressant to dispel a significant portion of this moderate depression which has colored my past month or two.  Not that my entries always reflect that.  I'm not a gloom-and-doom girl.  I want to cheer you all, uplift and educate and occasionally inspire you to think outside the box.  Not bring you down with the emotional and chemical battles I find myself fighting in my brain.  But I should probably share more of that as one or two of you may find yourselves in a similar rocking boat.

The good news here is that I love my life.  Not the financial stresses which may soon be exacerbated by the looming jagged cliffs which our politicos might have us all jumping over like lemmings; nor the chafing constraints of a modern suburbanite who longs for acreage, chickens and a pond brimming with wading birds of all species; and certainly not the lingering issues with which I struggle concerning food and weight and self-image.  However -- and this is an ENORMOUS caveat -- the people in my immediate circle, and those in the rippling waves which emanate from the epicenter of my flawed human existence, create a safe and comfortable cushion in which I can fall each and every day.  I am so cocooned in love, acceptance and admiration that it really is impossible to complain without feeling guilty about it.

Beauty and humor lurk everywhere.  Behind random people and Facebook posts and Hankie Mutt.  I adore the sky and earth and creation in between.  As amateur as I am with the application, photography helps me to focus, literally and internally, on these moments.  I capture them.  Remind myself and others of what is out there for the taking, for the internalizing, for the enjoying.  Then, when those down days hit me upside the head, those 'deposits in my bank' can be withdrawn without leaving me in the red.  I can function, even if it feels robotic or forced, knowing that this, too, shall pass.  Awareness is key.  Planning for it -- depression -- is vitally important.  Letting those who live with me know that a cloud bank has settled in so as to diffuse the power of the gathering storm.  Of course, I exercise and usually (though I've done a rather piss-poor job as of late) eat as healthy a regular diet as is possible to combat the physical aspects.  I don't allow myself to sleep all day or isolate from friends.  Attending my little Church at Cross Point keeps me floating along, reminding me of my very real faith and the journey of transformation and healing it has allowed me to take.

Looking back upon the landscape of my childhood and young adulthood, I can now clearly see where I maintained a semblance of normalcy under the mantle of mild to moderate depression.  Through familial lines, both maternal and paternal, the predilection for irritability as a symptom stands out.  Even in my siblings that is present.  There are other examples which don't need stating here.  But it must be stressed  that a family history of mental and emotional patterns is every bit as salient as a medical history.  Our bodies and minds do not operate independently of one another.  They were made to walk hand-in-hand with mind-boggling compatibility.  So when they lose that connection, it stands to reason that the the individual will mirror that disconnect through some sort of manifestation, however obvious or subtle that may be.  The chance of fixing, or at least mending, this rift decreases significantly without the facts.  The more complete the picture, the higher the odds of returning light to the shadowy corners.

For me, part of that process has involved realizing that my anti-depressant lost its efficacy.  For the second time.  Last year, when I crested the summit of 'feeling the most like who I felt I was meant to be' around the end of summer, my mood begin to slowly slide down the backside of the mountain as fall approached.  It scared me to contemplate upping my dose of the mild SSRI, citalopram (the generic version of Celexa), so I tapered off and eventually quit.  I was probably my most overwhelmed during last year's Christmas season; a season which generally causes me quite a bit of stress anyway.  I gave up on Christmas cards, except for a few, and my biscotti-making.  And way-y-y over did presents and stocking stuffers.  Decision-making in the midst of a heavy fog bank is as blind an effort as it sounds.

By late spring of this year, I returned to my doctor, surrendering to the fact that me and my family liked Gloria on citalopram far better than Gloria OFF of it.  My serotonin levels could not adequately manage themselves and were begging for HELP!!!  Again, within two weeks I began to sense that positive realignment of the ME within.  And those around me who spent regular time in close proximity, including my Earth Divas, could divine the difference.  I was greatly encouraged.  However, as is to be expected with these medications, by late summer I once again lost that strategic toehold on mood mountain.  This time, unlike in the previous year, I resigned myself to upping my dose -- after much research -- and added 10 milligrams to my prescribed 20 milligrams.  Yes, the irritability and emotional outbursts subsided, but no amount of coffee or walking could get me to focus on a string of simple daily tasks.  My energy was flat.  My brain could find no inspiration in words or ideas.  Barely two weeks in I had to drop those extra 10 milligrams before dishes and dust bunnies and drudgery overtook my home.

Back to the research.  I charted the steady with the low and a clear pattern of emotional descent was visible during PMS, coupled with the new development of irregular hot flashes!  If I'm experiencing choppy seas, this chunk of days before my period always absorbs and regurgitates the shock and awe of it all.  Effexor emerged as a clear front runner for this particular issue, especially in treating hot flashes.  My doctor agreed.  She, too, noticed a pattern in my charts: a lessening of mood and function around winter.  A series of questions revealed how bummed out I felt when the sun sets: as if the day suddenly became heavier upon my shoulders.  I've always hated the night and heaped serious love upon the dawn.  Along with my new prescription (because Effexor is an SNRI, I would not have to first wean off of citalopram and then re-start a new pill: Effexor works on serotonin levels, along with norepinephrine and melatonin levels), I was given a possible diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder and told to try a 'light therapy' lamp.  Online searches assured me that I wouldn't have to shell out hundreds of hard-earned family dollars for this product.  I found a well-written article by an individual who actually suffered a psychotic episode due to her SAD.  She had waded through the myriad sun lamps available and figured out which ones worked best.  I ordered a full-spectrum white light unit and a portable blue light unit.  There are differing schools of thought as to which light is most effective in terms of therapy, but generally speaking they are both useful.  The main danger is to avoid poorly manufactured products which generate any amount of ultraviolet light.  Light therapy lamps are NOT made to tan your skin.  The two types of lamps are NOT interchangeable.

So that's where I am folks.  Yesterday was my first experience with the lamp because I've had special company and didn't open the box until my schedule returned to normal.  (As normal as it ever really gets!)  Tonight I double my dose of venlafaxine (generic for Effexor); that's how it is prescribed.  I'm not yet sure if it's working.  Two weeks into the med and I'm feeling rather down, blah and anxious.  I am aware that the month of December evokes stress within me: we are definitely redefining Christmas this year.  And my neighbor and husband reminded me that having full-on fun company in the house for a week and then having them abruptly depart can be rough.  Especially for one like me who remains at home.  I'm quite irritable.  Especially late afternoon into night.  I may need the higher dose.  No worries.  I'm tracking any and all side effects.  And I think a dose of Earth Divaery, whatever headcount I can round up, would be incredibly mood-lifting.

Well, you've most likely overdosed on all of that information.  How about I take a walk, chase Hank around the yard and eat some dark chocolate . . . you go find yourself a good comedy!

Here's an instant smile for you: pups at the family trough!
(My sister's dog had a litter of 10: the white on on the right is Hank's new partner come late December, little Gracie.  Zachary's dog.)

    



 

Aaarrghh!

Few non-torture-specific physical irritants are worse than forgetting one has applied mascara to one's eyelashes and, thus, rubbing those eyes with a vigor which quickly reminds one that said mascara IS now not only on the eyeLASHES but also IN the eyeBALL!  Aarrrrghh!  Hold on . . . got it.  That was annoying.

And therein lies the rub!  No pun intended but punted just the same.  November.  The month of my birth.  Hence, my post-forty practice of celebrating Birthday Month (though to be fair that extends to all in my nuclear family).  But this eleventh month of the year has been less sacred and celebratory and more a string on Mondays . . . an seemingly endless succession of days which were evidently not informed as to their proper identities, save for the actual two Mondays which did come and go with their stereotypical gusto.  I can hardly be angry with November.  In facts, I think November may actually be angry with us, as in the U.S.  Those first six days of the month, unceremoniously shoving their way through the door along with Thanksgiving gratitude countdowns and elaborate salivating-worthy meals heaped high with festive sides and luscious pies, were loud and vainly proud.  And fearful.  And rife with polarizing clamor and enough rhetoric to raise the level of the Pacific ocean a good foot!  On most days, I'm in love with the human race and desire to serve my fellow men and women, but it can be most difficult to LIKE people during Presidential Election years.  Perhaps a swarm of stickers like mine should have been handed out in January: "Sir.  Ma'am.  Put your vote where your mouth is.  Thank you.  Move along with your life.  Prepare for Armageddon if you must but please be gracious while you do so.  The starving and dying in the Third World countries can hear you!"  

Reapplying my OWN sticker now.



Let's move on.  Shall we?  I'd like to keep this entry light.  THAT wasn't so very light.  Speaking of light, the reflected light on the hood of this SUV all at one mirrors the suburban setting AND tells the story of an adventurous feline.  Oh, the things to be discovered on the morning walk.

After an energetic weekend afternoon in the yard with my husband, spent tearing down vine and clipping away at overgrown shrubbery, I dropped my gloves and clipper to answer my phone.  Of course, I found a reason to compose a shot with my Hipstamatic camera app on my iPhone.  But I forgot the film I chose could randomly insert an eclectic frame.  That doesn't fit.  However, the saturated color is swell.  I wasn't done yet, though.  

 THIS turned out to be the winning shot in my book. Pale frame.  Faded color.  Everything intimately entangled.  THAT, my friends, is autumn surrendering to winter.  'tis a thing of loveliness.

'tis a thing of handsomeness and spousal patience . . . 

In Middle Tennessee, a land beholden to deciduous abundance in both species and numbers, the windfall of leaf-fall IN the fall provides a feast for the eyes AND for the rake.  Or whatever fancy lawn-riding gadgetry the man o' the house may drive out of the garage and on to the fading turf.  I gathered several bags from this pile of maple leaves at a neighbor's house to spread along the sidewalk leading to our front door for Halloween: the trick-or-treaters must traipse through the crackling future- composted-matter to beg for their sweets.

The ornamental pear trees which are as ubiquitous a tree as you'll ever hope to see around these parts drop handsome heralds of seasonal change.  I have to stop myself from collecting EVERY great specimen I happen across!

I can't blame the democratic process for EVERYTHING this month, though.  In all honesty, a significant portion of my unrest can be traced to two things: 1) the efficacy of my anti-depressant has decreased and upping the dose, while alleviating my anxiety, also alleviated my ability to function as a human being in charge of a home and family; and, 2) my female form has made a unilateral decision to tentatively step foot over the threshold of menopause, possibly PRE-menopause, with several well-placed hot flash episodes and hormonal activity SO off the hook that I wake up with a very sincere apology to my husband on my lips for everything I will say during the course of the day.  Same to my son and daughter.  They've all been targets . . . and being a fast mover has had very little effect on the impact of my grouch factor.  My appetite has been considerable.  And after spending the summer tightening up and trimming down with a ten-pound weight lost, my sudden ability to strip the siding off the back of our house, dip it in homemade salsa and devour, rather scares me. 

To my credit, I've taken action to correct what is within my power to correct here.  FaceTiming with the young married in Germany lightens my heart considerably.  A visit with my doc last Friday resulted in a diagnosis of SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, which went off like a dirty bomb in my brain.  A V-8 moment!  Amazon took my order for TWO well-researched light-therapy lamps: one white-light sitting unit and one blue-light mobile unit.  Further, we decided to switch anti-depressants.  I'm moving from Celexa to Effexor.  I know I need it.  My friends and family notice a different when the levels are steady.  I notice the difference.  I'm simply a better version of myself.  More relaxed.  Less internally agitated.  Able to hop of the internal hamster wheel and trade up to a rocking chair on the back porch.  Coffee in hand.  

Along with all of that, I keep my wittiness about me.  And find the humor in everything possible.

Today's 'funniest moment prize' has to go out to The Dollar Store over on Old Fort Parkway.  Where nestled amongst the batteries and lighters and other important SELF tests, once can pick up a bargain-priced drug test for marijuana!  Keep it in the glove box for those road trips to Colorado.  You'll need to see if you inhaled in the state once you leave and enter federal stomping grounds: a.k.a. every other state in the union, save for Washington.

As my head begins it's late-night bobbing-and-weaving act, I'll leave you with this.  Five of the ten, TEN, puppies which my sister's dog, Bella, whelped last Monday.  That makes them almost ten days old.  Through the miracle that is FaceTime, I watched the white pup, a female, make her debut on the world stage.  She's the eldest of the bunch.  My son and I became rather emotionally attached to her and convinced my husband that Hankie Mutt would make good use of a young playmate.  Further, Panda won't be around for much longer.  Which prompted my husband to blurt out, "Yeah!  About that!  WHEN is going to die?  Every time I turn around, she's making a comeback.  At this rate, she may live another five years!"  (He really wasn't being insensitive to our old girl.  He's quite compassionate toward her.  It's simply the fact that she's been on death's door a good many times over the past year.)

Bella got rather carried away in her grooming of the white pup and accidentally bit the tiny tips of her baby's ears while cleaning the blood and afterbirth from it.  Poor little dear!  We have already named her.  In memory of my niece, Zachary's precious little cousin, Grace, the pretty white pup will be Gracie.

I think Hank may meet his petite match.  Come December, we'll see.

Adieu.  Adieu.  To ya and ya and ya-a.

Ice packs, mellow mutts, and gratitude on a Sunday morning

I'm writing this from my iPhone as I sit on my couch. Pillows behind me, two ice packs surrounding my left shoulder. There's a hot cup of coffee in my left hand. And a warm handsome dog curled up next to me. A curious kitty wanders the house, making her funny little noises, Grumbly little sounds -- somewhere between a purr and an animal song. (You can figure that one out; I'm still trying to. Cats produce some very interesting sounds to say the least.)

The first morning of daylight savings time. Rising up to light outside is quite gratifying. It's not easy to want to get up and face your day when darkness still surrounds the entire of everything. I find that a headful of plans and a desire to be productive does not always agree with what my body feels. I may need to hire an intermediary to counsel us on finding common ground.

It's quiet. The house. The neighborhood. Even objects seem to radiate a lack of noise. The living room chair, with its brown duct tape holding up the corners where our now dead cat, Fabio, used to scratch to satisfy the itch in his long nails. My children sleep. My husband sleeps. Even the regular rumble of the refrigerator and the washing machine seems muted this morning. Cleaning the kitchen, the clanging dishes coming out of the dishwasher, the screech of metal pans against metal bowls, these sounds of industry seemed to die as soon as they departed the objects and rose into the air.

I notice that even that sounds within my own mind seems softer, kinder, not nearly as potent as usually they are. As if somehow this gift of an additional hour into life is being recognized in this year of hurry and hectic; a year where the endless yammering of the Presidential election race causes even small children to cry and wish for peace on the other side of this Tuesday's election. Well, little girl, I don't know about peace but maybe just a little bit more normalcy. Whatever that means in this era of technology and pundits.

Out my kitchen window this morning, I watched my neighbor two houses down as she raced outside in a bikini top and shorts, two little blonde headed children in tow -- her boys are practically grown, with one in college and one in high school, so I wonder who these two little ones are -- and I think what I saw was her taking the top off the hot tub. And then, one by one, she carefully lifted each child up and into the tub. At one point her husband rushed out. He stood there and it he appeared to be merely an onlooker, enjoying the scene. (If I was him I probably would, too. His wife is a very attractive woman.) It's probably 37° or 40° outside. Overcast and gray. A mild breeze sifting the leaves on the ground and stirring air that was touched by rain just last night. Their little pool party, perhaps something promised in the dead of night when the children wouldn't sleep, seemed an appropriate way to usher in the fall season and this gift of an extra hour of daylight. It made me smile. A quiet smile. A smile that started on my lips and burrowed down into the center of me. A smile that I almost wanted to walk down the street and share with them. But I kept it to myself. And basked in the warmth that it created.

As is my joyful habit, I then reached down and leaned over my white dog, the dog who adores a vigorous rump scratching each morning, and I pulled him close to my robed chest -- the years-old robe that my husband and son swear stinks, and it does emit a rather interesting odor along the chest section which, coincidentally, is also the part which rubs against a lab-fragrant Hankie Mutt when I embrace him each morning -- and loved on him, whispering sweet nothings into his floppy, soft, silky ears.

I don't know what it is, folks. There's something special about this morning. Something mellow. I like to think it's not just me who feels it but perhaps the entire neighborhood, the entire city, the entire state, or could I be so grand as to imagine the entire country: the stillness before the storm. What storm that might be, whether for me, my family, my neighbors, my town, this wonderfully green and friendly state, or this nation fraught with tumult and left and right and wrong, I don't know.

What I do know is that on this morning, this soft powdery gray Sunday morning, the approaching storms matter little. If I'm unable to enjoy the calm before, then I will be unable to handle the chaos on the other side. So I leave the contemplation of those things which have not yet arrived for a Monday morning.

Until that morning, have yourself a mellow Sunday. Visit a friend. Embrace a child. Eschew technology for a bit. Drink a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows on top or warm your belly with a mug of tea and cookie or two. Walk the dog. Walk with your spouse. Paint your toenails. Clip your toenails. Freeze your extra hour of precious time and bask in each second.

Slow down. That's what people always tell me.

16 Pounds of WHAT?!!!

Yeesh! How long does it take for one little ol' reluctant suburbanite to pump out a single blog entry?  It's not like I'm swinging for the Pulitzer or something.  Just hoping to share a bit of my life with you readers and connect where common ground exists.  If I get you laughing or crying or thinking, or better yet, some combination thereof, then that's gravy over homemade buttery biscuits.

But I logged on to Blogger over an hour ago.  Uploaded pictures from my sister's incredible Canon Rebel DSLR camera.  Attempted, several times over, to upload photos from Girlfriend II into my iPhotos on this here Mac, but it appears that a) a problem exists with the interface between my two beloved Apple products, or b) I'm wholly inept at troubleshooting computer problems.  For sure, selection 'b' figures in there at LEAST a good 69%.  (Um, YES, I did pick that number because of its divisibility by the number 3 . . . and with this being my birthday month and all, 1969 IS the year of my entry into this world.)

So, where was I?  Oh.  Yes.  Pictures.  In such a procedure, once the upload is completed, then comes viewing the shots on this gorgeous expansive-expensive monitor, along with a foray into editing.  At some point, I nod off, in and out . . . and in and out . . . of wakefulness.  The house is entirely too quiet.  What with Hank snoring on the couch; Panda deep into her elderly dog dozing; my ailing husband sound asleep in our cozy bed; and, Quill-kitty snuggled in the corner chair of my writing room.  No TV or guitar or stereo filling the air waves.  One daughter in Germany with her husband of 7 1/2 months; my other girl out with her boyfriend of 4 years, playing darts and doubtless enjoying a few cold ones; and, my boy at wrestling camp at his high school, probably passed out in physically exhausted sleep after an afternoon and evening of intensive boot-camp-style practice, with another day of the same tomorrow at 6am.  It's entirely too easy for my own fatigue to creep in past my defenses of 'intent to write and post' and settle into my mildly arthritic fingers and this irritating funky left shoulder.

I managed to shake myself out of the intrusive stupor with help from Quill, who arched her flexible self into consciousness and padded across my desk for a scratch-fest before heading to her litter box.  Then it was the downloading of the JPG images sent from my phone to e-mail that tripped me up.  One of the socially relevant headlines on the MSN homepage heralded Kirstie Alley's revelation of her one true love-of-her-life: of course I had to quickly click on that.  Turns out it was John Travolta.  I was pretty neutral about the news.  Hurricane Sandy's mounting damage tolls in both human life and property had a more profound impact on me.

Which leads me -- in a rather awkward segue that I'll blame on foggy 11:30pm brain -- to the picture series o' the night.  You'll see the connection in a hot minute.  Hang in there.

It's been a big week for my son and tens of other SHS boys hoping to join the wrestling team.  Because of the large turnout this year, the kids must try out.  Cuts will be made.  So, after school tryouts have been in progress from 3:15pm to 6pm every night, culminating in the overnight I mentioned earlier.  Those boys are burning calories at an enviable rate and sweating buckets to boot.  The boy has already lost 7 pounds that I didn't think he could spare.  I've done my motherly best to ensure he's not denying himself necessary nutrition in the process -- a difficult task when my only son has a mental block against taking ANY advice I have for him.  How could I possibly know anything about sports nutrition or exercise?  Hmmm.

As booster club VP, it falls upon me to aid in the planning and execution of supplementing such events with food and service, along with the other officers and parent volunteers.  Tonight, I pre-cooked 16 pounds of spaghetti per orders from our galvanizing president for a simple meatball/pasta/salad/ drink meal for the hungry candidates (we realized that was about 10 pounds more than we needed).  Still, those 2 hours spent filling huge pots, salting the water, boiling, stirring, lifting, draining, rinsing, hand-tossing with olive oil, repeat times two, were enjoyable.  I had the system DOWN to a cooking science by the final noodle.  And not one steam burn to show for it.  A toddler could have taken a bath of sorts in the mass of boiled and cooled semolina strings I hauled to the school cafeteria!



If anyone ever asks you if you've ever seen 16 pounds of spaghetti, you can now honestly answer in the affirmative.  Glad I could help you scratch that off your bucket list.

This has absolutely nothing at all to do with the wrestling camp but it IS my Zacker-Macker.  Check out that muscle-and-masa combination!  (For those of you not in the know, 'masa' refers to the tortilla dough in the bowl: he's preparing homemade tortillas with his grandma's recipe for his Uncle Phil's 40th birthday dinner.)

This couple is from New Jersey.  Their little family has been in the 'Boro for a little over a month.  They just missed the storm of the century in their home state.  Most of their family lives up there.  Fortunately, though loss of power and other inconveniences have been a problem, no one lost their home or property or life.  I think they have mixed feelings about being away from the epicenter as communication with their loved ones is still spotty.  They dove right in to volunteering for our wrestling club, coming from a region of the country where wrestling is as important, or more so, than football.  That rather large stainless steel crock pot was full of homemade meatballs courtesy of this mom!!!

 
Some of these boys are cutting weight while others are trying to maintain their present physique.  Us noodle servers accommodated as best our tongs would allow!  It's difficult for this mama to watch her son use portion control when I know he's grumbly in the tumbly.  I promised him a huge dinner at his favorite steak joint AND an entire blackberry cobbler with ice cream at the end of his season.

This close-knit group of boys moves this team mother's heart like no other sport in which Zachary has participated.  Even tired and hungry, they're joking and friendly and respectful.  Not to mention grateful for the hands which provided their evening meal.  

I'm pretty sure, more than fairly certain, that this man has something to do with the positive attitude of his team.  Coach Ramsey cares for the boys and as much as he'd love to see them win, win, WIN, he's even more concerned about their propensity to become productive citizens.  He's a teacher first, AP History, and a coach second.  Refreshing, I tell ya!

A week of intense practices, with an entire night and next day yet to go, has these boys taking advantage of whatever rest they can squeeze in to their scheduled evening.

You KNOW you're tired when you can sleep on school cafeteria tables and seats!!!

I'm tired all over again just remembering their final workout before dinner . . . UGH!!!

After a rousing round of wrestling 'chess,' the boys huddled up in anticipation of a meal and respite.

Why-y-y, yes-s-s, that IS my son in the Santa boxers.  And he calls ME strange?!

I couldn't resist capturing this grin.  And what a head of hair.  Fresh from the shower and ready for round two, banana energy in tow, not tired one bit . . . or so he said.  His face seems to concur.

I saw my son's face go from expressionless to grinning when I walked up and started snapping of iPhone shots of his coach with an ice pack on his foot.  I believe coach was asking Zachary something along the lines of, "Your mom takes pictures of everything, doesn't she?"

Tomorrow morning I'll return to the cafeteria to dole out pancakes and bacon and eggs and juice to our fearless wrestlers.  I can hardly wait to check out the air quality of the room after an enclosed night with 30+ perspiring teenage boys . . .

 
How could I leave you without one last shot: this here is three generations of Valdez men, enjoying one another's company on the occasion of my brother-in-law's 40th birthday.  That's him on the left.  Zachary, of course.  Big Jim, the patriarch.  And my handsome hubby on the right.  Good guys, all.

A Month In Which To Write

NaNoRiMo.  That's National November Writing Month to you greenhorns.  I was a greenhorn several years back when first I heard of it in my little writing group.  One of the ladies there wanted to use the impetus to spur her into completing one of her novels.  (As opposed to a frustrated composer of words like myself, still yearning for that FIRST novel to take shape.)  The deal is to churn out 50,000 words of a completed or partial book on the page, by hand, typewriter, computer, laptop, smart phone -- recently I heard an author interviewed who said she actually wrote a rough draft of a book on her smart phone . . . it might have even been that Fifty Shades of Gray lady -- within the month of November.  I toy with the idea before tossing it out with mass of mental detritus that often builds up in my overtaxed brain; those grand ideas worthy of dreamy contemplation but lacking the proper insertion point onto my personal calendar.

And I didn't log on to Blogger to write this.  Halloween has provided me with pictures and cute little ditties about trick-or-treaters and my Grinchy other half.  I'm eager to share.  But I often drop in on one or two other blogs for inspiration and preparation before writing on my own.  One of those touched upon NaNoRiMo.  Here I am, fighting my droopy eyes and my body's natural inclination toward rest at the end of a physically busy day, unable to fulfill my promise to post three entries a week here, and I want to write a book in a month?  I must be daft.  November is traditionally a jam-packed month.  I mean, it's my birthday month to begin with.  Let's just get THAT out there.  AND I share this month with fellow Earth Diva, Valerie, who happens to share my EXACT birth date.  My sister, Rebekah, and my brother, Gary, were also released from the womb in November.  My sister often says she tried her very best to read the writing on my mother's womb wall, left behind by me for those who would follow.  I've always thought it rather clever.  And worthy of imagining in the vaguest of terms.

November also ushers in the true beginning of the holiday season.  There's cooking and shopping and cleaning and cooking and, um, er, did I say shopping?  My son's wrestling season officially begins.  In my capacity as VP of the booster club, this ensures much volunteering in my immediate future.  This year, my little sister will be joining us; sharing a holiday and allowing us to smother her with love and affection.

Perhaps I'll post what I write.  If I write.  Perhaps not.  I'm so easily distracted by my family and household duties, my obligations to organizations in need of my assistance, exercise, Hankie Mutt and friends, and friends with necessary requests, that I already tend to back-burner my writing.  Even as the words crowd the confines of my brain and clamor for release.  Honestly, I couldn't tell you what's worse: a sinus-pressure headache or a build-up of sentences and paragraphs.  Both are relentless.  Both demand habitation within the entire of my head.  In fact, while watching the CMA Awards show with my Ashley, I bemoaned my tired state, saying I should forget blogging and pursue rest.  "You need to blog.  Go blog, mom.  You'll feel better.  You always do," said she of the daughterly wisdom.  So, I'm here, reading blogs, blogging, falling asleep at the keyboard, jerking up to attention, rolling my eyes back up inside my head, pursing my lips in the highly unattractive concentration expression which brings my family to giggles every time they catch me doing so.  I can go from pretty to ugly in less than three seconds.  It's amazing.  I'm not sure when that happened, but it extends to my sleep.  My jaw goes slack, fully surrendered to gravity, my chin crumbles and seems to sink inward.  How does that old cheer go?  "U-G-L-Y.  You ain't got no alibi!!!"

Boy!  Did I digress.  And my chin is practically down to my knees.  Beyond unsightly.  My pastor will be glad to know that I do have my limits in sharing 'honest' pictures of myself.  He doesn't comprehend my willingness to post fully unflattering pictures of myself in morning hair on Facebook.  My children have uploaded a few shots of me in full pass-out road-travel slumber; I let 'em go on board.  But I will announce right here and now that there is yet enough vanity moving through my veins to keep me from posting one of those awful snooze pictures myself.

All right.  Enough, all ready.  This is ridiculous.  This, this . . . this keyboard cot for my head is not getting the job done.  There's a queen-sized pillow-top with a gently snoring husband awaiting me downstairs.  What's WRONG with this picture?!

No.  Really.  What IS wrong with this picture?

Ghoul night to you . . .

The Element of Surprise!

My husband came home the other night with a 'surprise gift for me.'  He'd been out with family and friends at The Cheesecake Factory in Nashville to celebrate our eldest child's birthday with a dinner of her choosing.  The restaurant happens to connect with The Green Hills Mall, which is a rather upscale shopping-extravaganza establishment.  One of its most popular stores happens to be The Apple Store.  Somehow, when that sweet little text from my loving spouse beeped in with it's message about a special purchase for me -- me, who was waylaid by the familiar refrain of female pain and sat on our worn leather couch with Hankie Mutt at my side and heating pad on HIGH -- my guesses never once wandered into the world of Mac and i-This and i-That.

Men.  Women.  Venus.  Mars.  Go figure.

What DID he bring home to his wife to lift her flagging spirits, you must be wondering by now?  It IS a type of metal.  And it IS silver.  And if it is turned on edge, there's even a diamond.  However, that's where all similarity to anything coming out of Tiffany's ends!  (Yeah.  It's THAT kind of a mall.)  It appears to be the latest and greatest in Mac computer mouse technology: a matte-silver metal square called a 'magic trackpad.'  A wireless multi-touch surface which matches the keyboard of our Mac set-up in design, only it's totally devoid of keys.  And it looks nothing like my little white Mac mouse; it's not made to be held in the curve of my hand.  I'm sure any techie with an affinity for Apple products would be drooling over it.  But I've checked my mouth and it appears to be drool-free.  I'm still wracking my brain, trying hard to remember when I asked for this device, but MY memory banks appear to have been wiped clean on this subject.

Last night, I received a quick lesson in the basics of magic trackpad.  I even dared to brave it to blog and post on Facebook and access e-mail.  It was exhausting.  My right hand now must retrain itself to an entirely new, and therefore foreign, piece of equipment.  All that fighting against muscle memory makes for slow going.  And slow blogging!  Aaargh.  There's a booklet which outlines several ways in which to use it with a one finger click, two finger drag, two finger pinch, three finger swipe, and even a  four finger up-swipe.  I needed two fingers to pinch the bridge of my nose by the end of my reading; and, I thought of an additional use with a specific finger in center position, too.  There may be opportunity to practice THAT one if I stay online too much longer.

I'm absolutely certain that once we upgrade our operating system, MY excitement will rise to meet the levels already present in my husband and son.  Evidently, the full potential of the magic trackpad can't be realized until the latest OS is installed.  In fact, THEY'RE so excited about it that it causes me to question whether or not this was my surprise present.  Maybe I misunderstood?  Maybe the thrill of this purchase wiped out my HUSBAND'S memory banks, thus disabling his ability to recall the what and where of my real gift?  You know . . . it could be forgotten and lonely, inadvertently discarded on the floorboards of the Ford Focus (that's the second time I've grabbed the old REAL mouse and tried to relocate the arrow) . . . awaiting discovery . . . for someone to hold it and love it and squee-e-eeze it tight.

For some odd reason, the word 'delusion' keeps floating into my tired brain.  Not sure why.  I'll just delete it when I one-finger click off this handy-dandy magic whatchamadoohickey miracle contraption.  Now, where are the keys to that car?

 

 

Come Sleep EAT With Me?

So, for those of us who fight the good fight, trying to balance sleep and exercise and eating, all in the midst of the chaos of life, there's a new enemy for a select few in our ranks.  SLEEP EATING.

Yup, you are reading that correctly.  No need to adjust your screen or scramble around for your reading spectacles.  Some people can spend their waking hours nibbling and gnawing with conscious care, pounding the pavement in their running shoes -- or walking -- only to have it all undone during their unconscious hours.

As deep as my adoration for food runs, consuming an entire carton of ice cream while standing in the light of the open freezer door or munching through a bag of potato chips at the kitchen counter OR cuddling with a box of Life cereal in bed, all with eyes wide shut and unseeing: those are nightmare scenarios.  And yet in the past week, someone very close to me has discovered she is the 'less than 1 out of every 1,000 people' who take Ambien to drift off into LaLaLand, only to succumb to a chemical trigger which not only puts them to sleep but also stimulates the appetite on a large scale; it's considered a rare side effect.  She WOULD be the one to respond to it.  If her sweetie hadn't injured his back and found himself up at night recently, her rampant snacking could have continued unchecked until the bare shelves raised their own questions!  As it was, he had to wrestle with her, losing once or twice, to stop her midnight pantry raids.  She even argued with him.  He locked the fridge.  Took a picture of her, zoned out and pigging out, to show her the next morning.  You can imagine her shock.  I think I might have been horrified.

I took it upon myself to do a bit of research on this curiosity.  That's how I stumbled upon the earlier statistic.  But what I also discovered alarmed me even further.  Sleep eaters can heap a world of hurt upon themselves.  They've turned on stoves and swallowed utensils, including knives, and all of this with no awareness of their actions; they could conceivably wake up with painful burns or internal bleeding and have no earthly idea what's happening to them.  It reminds me of an NPR-sponsored movie I recently watched, "Sleepwalk With Me."  The main character -- it's auto-biographical, with the real stand-up comic playing a thinly disguised version of himself -- begins to sleepwalk, seriously sleepwalk, after the pressure from his family to marry his longtime girlfriend becomes to much for him to consciously handle.  He freaks out after encountering a jackal in his bedroom in one memorable scene; in another incident, he ascends an award podium in a grassy field to accept his medal and then jumps off . . . only to land on his DVD player because he was atop a shelf in his living room.  But it took him fleeing a missile in his hotel room and jumping through, THROUGH, his window from the second story to spur him into action of the self-preservation kind.  Now, he takes specific medications to dull his propensity for sleepwalking.  He also zips himself into a mummy bag each night and dons mittens in order to hamper his physical movement.  Hearing him describe his thrashing about in that contraption, and then seeing it on screen, was hilarious.  But MAN, oh MAN, what could have been!

This is a heads-up if Ambien is your sleep-aid, my friends.  You may want to have someone in your household check on you to see if YOU are that less than '1 out of every 1,000.'  If you live alone, a tripwire attached to a camera might be necessary.  At the very least, weigh yourself before bedtime and after bedtime -- see if those numbers jive.  You could be sabotaging yourself unawares.

Yikes!

POSTSCRIPT:

HAPPY 23RD BIRTHDAY TO MY OLDEST BABY!
LOVE YOU, MISS ASHLEY . . . 

 

Politically Restless . . .

I'd like to entertain you with a light entry, brimming with bright and beautiful pictures of my past week.  Pictures full of friendship and color and animals.  But there's something buzzing around in my brain that simply won't let me be.

Instead of feeling the urge to party like it's 1999 . . . 

. . . my tear ducts want to water.

So, I'm hoping to unload my carry-on bag right here.  Give us all a little food for thought.  

And maybe THEN we can ALL breathe a little bit easier.  (I find that with this delightful head cold which my husband found necessary to share with me, Mucinex-D also assists in better breathing.  Let's consider this a bit of written decongestant.)  And, YES, I'm fully aware of the mixed metaphors in this paragraph.  I can do it if I wanna.  This isn't a term paper, you know!

We live in a world of opposites.  Of differences.  And at no time in our society does this fact appear more glaringly apparent than during a presidential election year.

A person without a hard and fast party affiliation -- like myself -- starts looking around and sees how very alone they are on the vast opinionated political plains.  But, instead of longing for a nice little pre-cut niche in which to fit, round peg to round hole, square peg to square hole, I breathe a sigh of relief, and at times dismay, disgust or disgruntlement.  And, I'm supposing I'm not as alone as it might at first appear.  Voters like me just don't perform cannon balls from the high dive into the deep end of the pool, eager to make the biggest, loudest, most obnoxious splash, so we're harder to locate.  Personally, what with the glut of costly negative ads on television, paid pundits jabbing and sparring with weighted verbal gloves, and now the social forums like Facebook and Twitter alight with unkind, abrasive, and often untrue, pictures and posts, presidential election season fills me with dread.  It doesn't bring out the best in most people.  And the constitution takes a beating, with folks declaring their 'right to free speech' every time something crass and downright ignorant is said or written.

It's at those times that I take a good hard look at the person next to me, so very individual, so fortunate to be an American, so patriotic if somewhat misguided in the way they are choosing to express their political leanings, and thus represent our democratic system to the rest of the watching world, and want to ask, "Do you have MY back as a fellow citizen?  Because I have YOURS."  However I vote, regardless of the thought process by which I arrive at that decision, I'm not only considering myself and the well-being of my family and circle of friends, but the well-being of the people of my nation.  The decision weighs on my conscience all the way to the booth.  I'd like to believe that a majority of voters out there in election land feel a portion of that awesome burden as well, whether Democrat or Republican, independent or other.  But when they're so intently bent on bashing the candidates (and as an aside, as a stumbling but loyal Christian, I see how it hurts the way non-Christians view our faith when WE partake of the bashing, and often more loudly and righteous than others), it muddies the waters to such an extent that any clear true motives are obscured. 

 I wonder if it is more important for people and parties to be number one, to be right, to be morally, religiously or socially superior, so much so that they've neglected to contemplate how our founding fathers approached their right to create and live in a republic, unencumbered by a monarchy, fettered solely by the discretionary views of the educated and fair-thinking populous, regardless of their affiliation.  I think we disrespect the process when we insult the office of the president, and that means whoever is holding that office, with base innuendo and cruel or flippant mockery.  There's a line between disliking the incumbents on principle and desiring alternate policies, and crowing like a bandy rooster that they're satanic or manipulating a sound-byte to make it appear they've espoused something that they clearly have not.  Whatever happened to possessing divergent perspectives and debating those perspectives as ladies and gentlemen?  Whatever happened to taking our portion of individual responsibility for how our nation is turning out, from insurance to infrastructure to economics, and NOT simply placing 100% of it on the shoulders of WHOEVER ends up precariously perched on the highest seat?  To looking at how each of us spends and lives and works, how we each represent our America on a daily basis?  Including how we post on social forums and how we discuss men and women running for office, whom we've never even met, in front of our children.  And I include myself in that equation.  Over the years, I've tried to temper my immediate visceral response to what I see and hear in all instances, including politics, by considering how I'd feel if I was connected to the person or situation.  Because, really, by three or three thousand degrees of separation . . . I am connected.          

There.  All better now.  I've said my piece. 

 Probably the most you'll ever 'hear' me say about politics.  There's enough fodder in the form of polls and shows and literature to choke the entire population of Tennessee Walking horses in our fair state.  I'm definitely not tossing my hat into THAT ring.  I'd rather wear my hat and shade myself from the heat of the next two weeks.  

And then I'll hang it up and join everyone in a collective SIGH-H-H!