The Last of 2011: 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Or IS It?

Disclaimer: The following is my brain on phlegm.  LOTS of phlegm.  And mucous.  My favorite bodily fluids kissing cousins.  My husband, loving generous soul that he is, saw fit to share his upper respiratory virus with me this past week.  It took residence with a vengeance on Saturday night.  It toyed with the idea of vacating the premises this morning, but the foot is still firmly wedged in the front door and the furniture ain't out!

The dreaded January 31st deadline has arrived.  I'm pretty loose with my writing deadlines these days.  Doesn't bode well for a possible career in my later years, does it?  But, as luck and the calendar would have it, you are in for a last minute push of a treat as I squeeze in the final 3 of my Top 10 Moments of 2011 Countdown . . . I simply can't carry this nonsense, lovely and replete with cuteness as it is, into the second month of 2012.  It becomes stale.  I'd have to dry it in the oven and use it for croutons on a Caesar salad: I'm not BIG on croutons, folks.

So, on with the big #3.  I'm fond of 3.  Things multiplied and divided by 3.  Executing push-ups in numbers divisible by 3: 15, 21, 24, 27.  Setting the microwave seconds in multiples of 3: 39 (13x3), 45 (9x5), 57 (29x3).  You see where I'm going with this.  Into distraction, that's where.  Let's return to the business at hand.

Coming in at #3 is: HANK THE WONDER PUP AND ALL HIS ROWDY ANIMAL FRIENDS!   

Yes, yes, it's true that he arrived as a cute and carefree pup, deserted by his original owners at an antique store, of all places.

Did I mention CUTE?

A beautiful white hound with caramel ears who managed to wriggle his way into the hearts of EVERY person in the family.

 Every person.

 Each person.

Each AND every person.

Obviously beginning with me!

Notice I said 'person' and not 'beast.'  The old Panda Girl was not happy that she was left out of the decision-making process which led to her scene- and bed-stealer!

He was NOT easy to dominate . . . 

(breaking out the w-i-i-de angle lens here)

And it was necessary to call in the experts.

He took a strong liking to gardening . . . 

Personal hygiene . . . 

The water . . . 

And Fabio the Prince of Cats.

Did I mention the suggestive power of his eyes?

Or that after his many vet visits he is now worth his 67 pounds of doggie flesh in GOLD?!!!

Or that he could give Chiquita a run for her money?

Or that he loves grandmas?

Or that he attracts the pretty ladies?

Or that nothing was safe from his gaping maw for a time there?!

 THIS I didn't mind . . . 

Nor did I mind THIS . . . 

But this picture frame painstakingly constructed from matchbook covers, sent to me from my baby bro when he was incarcerated for that 12-year stint, THAT I minded.  It's a darned good thing Hank wasn't around when I discovered the damages!

But all in all, he's turned out to be quite the personable companion.  

Probably because he fancies himself to actually BE a person as opposed to a canine.

I can't imagine why?!

 But his mistress knows he's ALL dog,

ALL the time.  And that's just how I like him.

Happy Birthday, Hankster: 1 year-old this month!

Panda Girl, well into her 15th year last summer,

was diagnosed with cancer.  

It was a bit of a blow to us all.

 Each one of us looked for the 'telltale signs' that would signal she was dying.

There were rough days spent on the back porch, when she seemed sick and frail . . . 

But not lately.  The old girl is holding her own . . .

and holding on.

We did, however, lose one of our own.

And I continue to miss my orange kitty, the mighty hunter of Marilyn Court and beyond.

But he'll not soon be forgotten, our princely cat.

And though Fabio's place can never be usurped,
there was a hole in need of filling . . . 

And little miss kitten-cat, Quill, is trying her best to do just that.

 There is a definite 'IT' factor to her.

 And she's warming up to Hank.

And sealed the deal with the head honcho.

So, let's do some math.  I started this entry at 8:30PM.  I was interrupted several times for prolonged periods of time each and every time.  That put me back on here at 11PM.  After searching and uploading pictures, interrupted once more by my poor on-the-mend hubby (who was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at midnight, and itchy, because it turns out the cough medicine with hydrocodone keeps him awake and it's a reactive med for him), the clock icon on the Mac reads 12:35AM.  There's NO way you can view any more pictures and there's certainly no way I can hunt for two more groups of pictures.  

I'm breaking the deadline.  So mock me.  Sue me.  Delete me from your 'blogs that I follow' list.  At this point, I'm beyond caring . . . and the phlegm is thick.

Nighty night.

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Windy After Midnight

You know what I appreciate about the tornadoes that have visited our area since I've lived in Murfreesboro?  Daylight.  They all occurred when the sun sat high in the sky: that it was obscured by stormclouds matters not.  There's something about seeing the enemy approaching, or at least the chance to assess the damage immediately upon the enemies' departure, that is comforting . . . as odd as that sounds.  But maybe not so odd when one considers how the landscape changes under cover of darkness.  Peeking out yields no hint of what is to come, what is possibly just outside the front door.  And in the wake of the attack, there is so way to adequately assess the loss, the scope of the destruction or even the lack thereof.  Darkness allows the mind to wander far beyond the gates of reality and into the avenues of maddening imagination.

This is my second night of sleeping, or camping out, in our living room with the television tuned to Channel 4 and their live doppler radar coverage of thunderstorm and tornadic activity, my eldest daughter snuggled on the couch with Hank the Wonder Pup (who is snoring with impressive force) at her feet and Panda Girl on the floor.  (Her arthritis wouldn't allow her to hop up onto our worn leather sofa even if she desired to do so.)  This is the fourth day that our pantry has disgorged much of its contents to make room for the mammalian residents of the larger home surrounding it.  This is the fourth day that my file of personal records -- birth certificates and the like -- has joined the external hard drive which holds our digital photo library in a recycled Victoria's Secret bag in the corner of the emptied pantry.  A heavy duty flashlight, purses, my laptop, Zach's Nook, the iPhone, rubber boots and car keys round out the emergency items.  The small kennel for Quill the Kitten-Cat awaits possible use as we must minimize stress in small spaces during such majorly stressful events.

I'm prepared to run over to my neighbor's house and ring the holy heck out of her doorbell if a warning for our county is announced -- she forgot her cell phone at work and has no house phone.  My husband and son are sawing their own individual logs with true Zzzzzzzzz force because they can afford the luxury of sleeping soundly and worry free.  Why not?  They've got mama staying alert and informed for them.  If all goes well, I'll eke out a nap later today.  If there is any cause to call insurance and move in with a relative, there's always coffee and adrenaline!  I have to say that I much prefer to experience a tornado, daytime or nighttime, with my family around me.  If we're gonna go, better to go together.  If we survive, ditto.  In fact, the entire time I'm busy being practical in the face of possible natural disaster, I'm also scribbling a few items onto my grocery list on the fridge.  And brushing my teeth and washing my face.  And thinking about the e-mail I need to send out on Tuesday for the wrestling event on Saturday.  Acts of faith.

I'm not paranoid or overreactive.  Any of you who have emerged on the other side of a tornado, whether you were directly affected or not, know of what I write.  Once you've seen trees snapped in two, jagged edges scratching the surface of the sky, or homes rendered unto rubble and waste, or the lifeless bodies of a mother and infant retrieved from what seems all the world like a war zone, you think it wise to over-prepare for nothing, and return the pantry to its former state of full, than to dismiss the approach of a fast-moving front and find yourself face-to-face with a rising and falling wall of furious wind. 

Earlier tonight, my son and I watched Brad Pitt and cast deliver a homerun performance in "Moneyball."  Right before the weather began to get a little testy.  While I do recommend you catch the movie before the Oscars hit, that's not why I bring it up.  The mother and child I mentioned earlier?  They left behind a husband and father.  He was separated from them by the tornado, yanked away and tossed like a rag dog on the road in front of their home, breaking his back and rendering him blessedly unconscious as his little family was destroyed.  I didn't see him after that day until a memorial ceremony one year later on the day of our Good Friday tornadoes.  He unveiled a plaque which outlined what happened the day his life was altered forever.  And I remember thinking that he reminded me of Brad Pitt.  That's all.

Well.  It appears that our area has been removed from the tornado watch area.  The rains have arrived but it that is all with which we must contend.  Phew.  I'm good with that.  It's 2AM!  The wind is now howling but howl on.  Howl on.  I'm logging off and going to try sawing my own logs.  Hank's not the only one who can snore with gusto in this house.

Or so I'm told.  So here's to the varied winds which can occur . . . after midnight. 

A Brand New Canvas

"As of today, my life is a blank canvas.  I can choose to paint it black every single day from here on out.  Or I can paint it with bright colors.  It's my choice."

A good friend of mine declared this to me this morning.  She's laboring through a difficult divorce which has totally flipped her entire domestic existence on it's head.  Her marriage of over a decade has had its share of typical issues one would expect to encounter in a household with three young boys, in-laws, a mortgage, bills, disagreements and the stress of suburban life.  Pulleys and gears which could be reworked and counseled.  Things tough at times but fixable if desired.  But in May of this year, things went from seemingly manageable to flat out impossible. 

After trying to help her husband seek therapy for a prescription drug addiction -- I'll leave you to envision what accompanies such a problem and how that ravages the family dynamic over a period of time as the addiction slowly unfolds and the addict's core behaviors are altered -- she was forced to tell him he was not welcome back into their home until he had made the necessary steps to truly deal with the monkey on his back.  He decided that it was she who had the problem, she who was the problem and she who should shoulder the blame for the shipwreck things had become.  In his mind, his wife had kicked him out of his home for no other reason than that she was a controlling vitriolic shrew of a woman.

He found himself an apartment.  Opened credit accounts with which to furnish this apartment with new furniture.  Purchased big boy toys to fill his spare time: an expensive video gaming system and a big ol' widescreen TV among them.  Filled his belly with restaurant- and fast-food fare.  Hooked up with his old party crowd from his high school days.  In essence, a family man unable to deal with his old reality created an alternate life, a life skewed by a full 180 degrees, a life which could enfold him like a coccoon, thus cushioning him from the hurt unfolding in his absence and muffling him to the cries of those who could not comprehend his choices.

At varying points, our antagonist gave lip service to the idea of reclaiming his old life.  As if stepping back onstage into a major role in a play already in progress was a perfectly reasonable way to go about things.  As if the other players and the audience should suspend their disbelief and allow him to simply reinsert himself without memorizing the lines.  As if ad libbing his way through a work of art wouldn't alter the character of the storyline.  But his wife didn't cave.  Not this time.  She insisted her husband complete the work necessary to ensure their life's production would not fold on opening night ever again.

For an addict unwilling to admit to his or her problem, it's fairly easy to see where this will end up.  When blame is levied upon every other person in the equation except for self, the brokenness can not be fixed.  It soon becomes incumbent upon the courts to sift through the paperwork and search through the 'he said, she said' and arrive upon a solution to break through the impasse of a collapsed marriage.  It isn't pretty.  But the trail of crumbs left by an addict in crisis, a jittery path of paperwork, doctors, multiple pharmacies, hidden bottles, poor performance at work, detachment from friends and family, the trail is more visible to the naked eye than the addict realizes.  And there is no court willing to jeopardize the well-being of three young children, regardless of how many tears a father cries on the stand about his desire to be a father, even if in that moment he means it. 

Because when he steps out of the courtroom and returns to the arms of his first love, that love which infuses his blood vessels and brain cells with a false sense of comfort for an elated moment in time, the selfish choices he makes, those broken promises, those blatant lies, those hundreds of dollars spent on recreation instead of family, those weekends spent at bars and sporting events with people who care nothing for the wife and active trio of blonde-headed energy he left in that big house, THOSE actions become his truth and his words.  While he finds himself a new 'friend' to ease him through these hard times, his bitchy wife is engulfed in a full-time job, an incredible blessing of higher education employment which opened up to her at just the right time and requires her to be on-point and up-front from AM to PM.  When she's completed her day of work, she picks up her boys from an after-school program or relieves the babysitter at her home, and wades into the fray of dinner and homework and baths and laundry and dog and any other number of chores and To-Do's that she once kept busy with all day and every day without the full-time job.

Needless to say, the second half of 2011 was not a pleasant passage of time for my friend.  And to be fair, it was doubtless not so comfortable for her soon to be ex-husband.  Playing emotional games and keeping up with a string of lies, fighting the truth of addiction, knowing in the back of his troubled mind that he has lost the better part of himself and is unsure just exactly when and how that happened, it's got to be exhausting.  Wearisome.  Depressing.  But he's filling those holes with artifice and recrimination.  He is a friend lost to me.  It is unfortunate but I have seen his colors, or the lack thereof, the black canvas of his present life. 

And I have watched as the woman he married and brought from back East with her gaily painted canvas, where she left her family for his, to his home state of Tennessee, I have watched and listened and witnessed, and listened again and again, as she has struggled to understand.  As she has struggled to work through the anger and disappointment and bitterness.  Sometimes with grace.  Sometimes with clumsy steps.  But always with the attitude of surviving and eventually thriving.  And I have watched his boys come to terms first with his initial absence, and then with his withdrawal from their schedules at school and in sports, though none of it was ever kept from him.  From personal experience, I know there will come a day when these boys must grapple with all that has happened since May of last year.  Each of them will at some point force a day of reckoning with their father.  And he will one day actually listen to the noise of his making and break.  Then, and only then, will he stand a snowball's chance in Hades of making amends and rebuilding those invaluable relationships with his sons.

When and if that happens, I hope he will have the inner reserve and self-worth to forgive himself . . . and to sincerely apologize to the woman who, despite her very human flaws, tried to be a good wife to him and a solid role model to his children.  Perhaps he could wear her shoes for a day or two and wonder if he could have made the same choice for his sons if his wife had fallen into a pit similar to the one in which he presently resides. 

I despise the enemy that is addiction.

But I love a new canvas with its promise of the rainbow.

My Top 10 Moments from 2011: We're Gonna Finish This Thing!

We-e-e-ll.  Now that I've brushed the chicken INTO my dog's teeth (Hank the Wonder Pup's toothpaste is poultry flavored) and brushed the chicken OUT of my teeth (leftover smoked wings from 'The Slick Pig' per last night's football-inspired menu), I figure I'd best wrap up this whole top 10 list endeavor before it fries my obsessive brain.  There's a whole host (just how much is a WHOLE host as opposed to a PARTIAL host, anyway?) of topics ping-ponging around in my skull, not so patiently waiting their turn to appear in this here blog.  But until I put this particular topic to rest, its brethren and sisters (I don't recall a female-gender equivalent and siblings seemed too easy) are left to talk amongst themselves.  In MY head, mind you!  It's become rather noisy in there.

So.  I last exhausted your eyes with a slew of pictures and captions from the minor tornado that almost wasn't.  (There was some question as to it being a microburst as opposed to an official tornado.  However, the path of tree destruction evidenced around town finally convinced the deciding powers that be.)

Coming in at #5 is . . . . drum roll, please . . . keep it coming . . . one more rat-a-tat-tat . . . OUR FAMILY TRIP TO FLORIDA last spring, courtesy of my husband's company.

#5.  Florida Trip:
Jimmy and I rode bicycles down picturesque paths and trails to nowhere . . .

Jimmy fished with his son.




And though he wasn't at home, still Jimmy waited on me . . . and looked rather cute in the process.

And evidently I looked rather cute after all that waiting, too!

Jimmy went to the beach.

Jimmy got a bit silly with his family.

Jimmy golfed.

Jimmy danced.

Jimmy bonded with his boss

(the gentleman on the far right).

Jimmy reluctantly tried a cigar.

And because Jimmy had SUCH a great time . . . 

Jimmy slept all the way home.

If this was Jimmy's blog, our trip would have been his #1 through #10!  I think he needs to take another trip to Florida.  Fortunately, we have one planned for May to celebrate the graduation of his one and only niece (on his side of the family).  Stay tuned for those adventures . . . 

Moving on to #4 in my countdown: the rare visitors to our home throughout the year.

#4.  Precious Visitations:

kicking off with the eldest of my mother's 8 children, my big brother: Kevin!  I hadn't seen him since my son, now 16 1/2, was 10 months old and first walked on Kevin's driveway.

With him was wife, Julie (a true horse woman and sweet gal), her sister (a very good sport), and my niece (and only ONE of his two daughters) Sheila.

But I'm fairly certain that right after she put the smack down on Cousin Zachary, Sheila said she'd bring her sister, Micah, here to see us!

If she forgets, I'll lure her back with promises of that good ol' Tennessee BBQ she enjoyed so much.

Because we need Micah to complete THIS picture!

Jimmy's cousin, Josephine, and her hubby, Chuck, drove here from Colorado with 4 of their 7 kids, to kick off the summer and swell our paltry family ranks on this side of the mighty Mississippi!

They took downtown Nashville by storm!

Even turning a bit native in the process . . . 

Jose is a wonderful mom, and I admire her greatly.

Chuck wrestled -- and quite well -- in high school.  He couldn't help but bond with Zachary by teaching him a few moves to start off his first year of wrestling.

One of their daughters felt an especially strong affection for my #3 on this list.

It was a rare opportunity for them to watch their cousin, Jimmy's bro, Phil Valdez, play a gig with Daryle Singletary at a Broadway venue and soak up the famed night life of Nashville.

Live and in the flesh! 

The good times rarely stopped.

Yes, the Jack Daniels Distillery Tour was checked off their list.  Their youngest boy paid strict attention to our character of a tour guide.

Before they left, Chuck and Jose prepared homemade sopapilla burgers for ALL of us.

We almost didn't let them return to Colorado!

My statuesque niece, daughter of my elder sister, stopped in for an overnight visit twice: on her way TO Florida and an on her way FROM Florida.

She's 6 feet tall.  I think I may be checking to see if I'm on my tippy toes!

Her two best buds from college were with her.



Brother John showed up in a rare solo appearance though he was so attached to his fancy-schmancy iPad, I'm not sure he was alone!?

 And YES, he did manage to get me to attend a Broncos VS Titans game!

He visited the main attractions in Chattanooga.

Swapped technology info with Jimmy.

Had himself a fine nap at his mama's place.

And left his sister and Tennessee for warmer climates out West . . . one more time.

And who can forget the unexpected birthday present of the Peterson Boys and their dad, my Uncle Zopie-Zan-Zoa? I certainly can't.  He named me . . . 

And he has some rather peculiar habits . . .

He's quite handy with power tools . . . 

He's kind to dogs . . . 

As are his sons . . . 

. . . . 

And whenever he's ready to return -- we'd love to have Wife Stacy along next time -- we're ready to be again regaled, amused and entertained!

The tension is palpable as I push you into the top 3 of my countdown.  Whatever could they be?!  WHOever could they be?  If you've stuck with me and clicked your way tirelessly through the pictures, you probably caught the overt hint as to the next contestant.  Still need a clue?  Does "white" and "wondrous" help?  How about "neuter" or "de-worm"?  Catching on now.  Wait.  One more, with a wink and a nod to Tennessee's musical heritage: Bocephus?  I'll let you off the hook.

IN THE NEXT ENTRY.  Sorry folks.  I thought I could do it but I've got a date with the couch at my mom's tonight.  And a television appointment with the first official show to kick off the Oscar season: the Golden Globes.  The clock is a'tickin'.  Forgive me.  I promise you that this painful personal homage to my 2011 is nearing an end.

Go get a drink of water and settle in for a good night's sleep before Monday slams into you!