Week in Pictures

I had an hour to pound out a blog entry tonight.  After a wonderful walk with my hubby and dogs before the heat set in.  After a trip to Starbucks, breakfast and shaving my legs.  After a long day in the hot sun of a Middle Tennessee baseball tournament Saturday: about five hours worth of sky sizzle challenging the 50+ sunscreen I slathered on me and Jimmy, not once but TWICE.  After seeking out healthy but tasty food for his fatty liver and my calorie counting and the ravenous teen baseball players seated in the back of our gas-efficient new Ford Focus.  (Still can't quite believe my husband purchased a Ford after all those Chevy-lovin' years, but I guess trucks and cars aren't quite the same thing.)  After returning home to pick strawberries for, and run around the yard with, Hankie Pankie Wonder Pup.  After a 45-minute brisk evening walk on the back of a setting sun.  After washing the dirty pans and mixing bowl in the kitchen sink.

And then my baby brother called.  Gary.  I then remembered telling him to call at 9PM so that we could order a package of toiletries and goodies from Walgreens online.  Did you know there are 92 toothbrushes from which to choose there?  And let's not delve into body wash, bar soap, toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, assorted chocolates, Jelly Bellies and Skittles!  An hour and a half later, here I am.  Short on time.  Needing a bit of long on sleep.  Though, to be perfectly honest, today has been one of my truly better days.  Physically.  Mentally.  Emotionally.  "If I could feel like this every day, or even MOST of the time, I could change the world," I crowed to Jimmy this morning, only partly in grandiose jest.  When I have a day like this, I realize just how tough those cruddy days truly are.  And I know I wasn't imagining the lack of energy or mental acuity or struggle with self-image.

That's why, after my annual physical and a frank discussion with my doctor, I made the choice to return to my anti-depressant.  But that's for another day.  As I stated earlier, folks, I'm short on time.

With that in mind, I'd like to leave you with a collection of my favorite images from this past week.  Which one do YOU like best?

 My son, the base stealer.

One of my fave things about the sport!

 Coming out swinging -- our #9!

 Stormy skies and evening lights.

 Never gets old.

 Some of them actually mean it.

 Way to watch, Zachary!  

Don't need a shave AND a haircut!

 The tournament ump had to officiate solo: diggin' his animated style!

This says it all: hot, HOT, HOT!!!

(And that was NOT our umbrella . . . grrrr.)

 The early evening tornado weather wrought beauty above.

 It's what it signifies: Sarah is HOME from college.

And the gang is ALMOST all here, save for my Army son-in-law.

 Bubbles unite one of our Church at Cross Point kids

with one of the Way of Hope homeless kids.

 This little darling had enough personality for EVERYONE!

 I'm simply impressed with our pastor's ability to match

his shirt to our everyday chairs!

 Brother to the two girls of earlier photos.

Eyes that just melt you.

 Hangin' on the power lines at Brentwood High.

I have NO idea if it signifies anything of import.

 "Ahem!  Attention.  I will now sing a melody of love."

 "Love, love, love, love, LO-O-O-VE!"

 "Well, I'm done.  Look at me.  I've ruffled my feathers."

 The cross pendant sent to me from a woman who knew me as a small child.

We reunited on Facebook.

This was once her grandmother's engagement ring.

The first cross I've ever worn.

 Since late November, this kitten-cat has worn an Elizabethan collar

to keep her from licking and biting herself into a state of raw infection.

After infinite vet bills, with blood draws and food trials, stops and starts,

and two cortisone shots later, she's been running amok sans collar

FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK!

I could simply cry in joy for her.  Really.  I have.

 Shhh.  Let sleeping dogs lie.  Pul-leeze!

 Power breakfast on my favorite orange plates.

Our amphibious patio resident.

He's not afraid of Hank the Wonder Pup.

Or my iPhone.

I rather like him.  

And I REALLY rather like this gent.

My new early AM walking partner.

I smile, ear to ear, mile to mile.

Fleshy Little Pancakes

I thought about breasts today.  And not the chicken breasts that are often sliced and diced, baked and grilled and sauteed, and otherwise kitchen-prepped into edible submission under my supervision.  No.  No.  My mind has been on those fleshy growths which protrude from most women's chests.  I say MOST women because mine border on concave, especially after feeding all three of the fruit of my womb from the milk of my body.  that's why I especially enjoy the self-deprecating humor of Kelly Ripa (Google her if you don't recognize the name -- does Regis Philbin help ring a few bells?) who is in the same boobie boat.  And why, even on days when my mammary glands aren't being lifted and laid out by clean cool hands, which don't belong to me and are NOT gloved, onto metal-and-plastic contraptions which emit radioactivity in minute portions, I think about breasts.

 The Contraption.  Use your imagination.

Sometimes I wish I had been endowed with just a smidge more than the fried egg dopplegangers which are incapable of stopping even the smallest crumbs from tumbling straight into my lap.  Part of the reason for all of my many push-ups is the lift they give to the muscles surrounding my dried-up self-contained milk jugs.  (OK.  I'll stop. I briefly channelled the guy psyche within that entertains himself by attaching all manner of ridiculous names to the beloved breast.)  Sometimes I half-heartedly consider the option of surgical enhancement.  But only just.  There's the money issue.  Even if I bought one at a time, or put them on layaway, we'd have to go without new truck tires or veterinary care or, good golly, Starbucks for a very long time!  And then there's the daily knowledge that something foreign was lodged just below the surface of skin and muscle on my frame for no other reason than to fill out a bra.  It's not like anything is wrong with my girls, other than my dissatisfaction with their proportions.  It's not like anyone has said, "You would be such an attractive person . . . if you filled out a bra like a Victoria's Secret model."  I know women who had significant structural issues with their breasts -- one pointing up and/or to the side, or a difference of several cup sizes between the two, or the obvious complications resulting from breast cancer -- and that's a whole other ball game.  My 'nature girl' mentality may be a bit too rooted in my gray matter to accommodate breast augmentation simply for the sake of societal beauty.  And that's all right.  Most days.  I never said I wasn't vain to some extent.

Leave it to the professionals.

So, in my conversation this morning with the technician in charge of exposing my breasts to radiation for the sake of detecting anything irregular in them, I asked what proved more challenging: small breasts or large breasts?  Generally speaking, she had to go with the big guns.  Some women had breasts which could cover the resting plate of the scanner bed three or four times over.  "Those must be imaged several times and pieced together like a puzzle, making sure not to miss any area in the process," she informed me, "I feel sorry for them because that's got to be so uncomfortable."  I know that's right.  Friends with breasts which could eclipse mine several tens of times over have told me so.  And had the grooves in their shoulders to prove it.  "But the ones I REALLY hate doing . . . " there was a pause here as she clicked a few things on the keyboard in front of her and then gathered together a file of my images from our little photo session, ". . . are the implants.  They can't be compressed very much and require two pictures from each angle.  And the worst thing is that no matter what, there's something inside the breast which is going to obstruct some view, however small that might be, of some part of the breast, even though we move and press and prod.  Very small cancers can be missed that way.  That can't be guaranteed.  That bothers me."  Another sound reason to abstain from my double D daydreams.  Case closed on that contemplation, if it wasn't already.

 Tech command central.

I must declare that all of the technicians, which would equal three because insurance started covering an annual mammogram when I turned 40, handle the entire imaging session affair with decorum.  That strikes me as no small feat, well, except with me maybe, when one considers that their entire job consists of hefting the breasts of strangers onto a tray and then proceeding to pancake the things into a flat unrecognizable blob of tissue, in essence preparing them for their close-up.  I snuck a peek at mine right before their mugshot was snapped: in that compressed state, they in NO way resemble anything which could be considered sexy, pert or voluptuous.  And for those of you not in the know -- most men, younger ladies without a family history, older women who just haven't had a scan for varied reasons -- typically two shots per breast, one top-to-bottom and one side-to-side, are taken . . . and in a pretty quick succession.  You are standing up the entire time.  The diagnostic center where I've gone for two years provides a discreet changing room for slipping into the medical cape, "Buttoned to the front, please."  I like the cape.  I find them to be much cuter, more stylish, and overall far superior in comfort to the standard hospital gown.  It's rather funny to note that terms like 'gown' and 'cape' are used to describe clothing which will never see a gala or dance or superhero leotard.

My heroine's cape.

The mutely lit changing room.

They even provide the ol' standard for freshening up.

For some reason, one does perspire a bit in the flattening process.

At the end of my time with the machine and the technician, I received a clean bill of breast health.  Good news.  For that, I am most grateful.  For that, I am more than willing to undergo the ol' breathe-and-squeeze treatment every year for the duration of my life.  It's not so bad.

And there's not a stirrup in sight!

(I've included a P.S of pictures.  Just because.)

A fine example of Tennessee parking ala grass.  Seen on my walk today.

This silver rocket was parked by me at Wal Mart.

My uncle would make something like this.

All The News I Can Muster Through This Headache

This past week in the news, I heard all manner of coverage on an array of topics.  Probably the most interesting was the Today Show's coverage of former Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, in her civilian life.  She's releasing a new book which chronicles her discovery of a direct family connection to the Holocaust: her parents never told her they were survivors.  Partly because the general public had a difficult time accepting that she never knew this family history, she wrote a book of the journey which led her to this revelation.  Interestingly enough, it was just before she began her famous work for President Clinton that she even learned that her parents were Jewish.  She was 59 at the time.  "Prague Winter: A Personal Story of Remembrance and War, 1937-1948" will make it's way into my personal collection.  Of this, I feel quite certain.  We can never know too much about this era in world history.


Somewhere in all of that important coverage, smaller stories were kicked about and wriggled their way into my gray matter.  One seemed a very good idea for a city that never sleeps.  There's a shop in New York City called "Insomnia Cookies" which delivers freshly baked cookies until 3AM!  I Googled them to see if they offered Oatmeal-Raisin but couldn't find any info on cookie selection.  However, it does appear that they orient themselves around universities; maybe even on campus. I counted 21 stores in places like Michigan, Pennsylvania and Ohio.   Hey, now, I know several people who'd give that a whirl . . . and a cup of milk or coffee to boot!  And let's not leave out tea and hot chocolate.  Oh, goodness.     


On the flip side, one less than stellar fact stepped into the light of TV land, which, most unfortunately, burned horrendous images onto the retinas of my imagination.  It seems the number of men getting bikini waxes is growing by leaps and bounds.  Hmmm.  I envision men leaping and bounding AWAY from the wax.  But seriously, where does it stop?  Don't men typically have an abundance of body hair from top to bottom.  It seems like that strip of hairless flesh near their crotch would only draw attention to all the hair they sport elsewhere.  I don't know.  It just doesn't gel with my version of a manly man.  I'm happy to report that those men are nowhere in my circle of family or friends.  I'd hate to inadvertently have a REAL horrendous image burned onto my ACTUAL retinas.  Ouch!


In other news, the entire gaggle of Earth Divas (or Wart Divas if one goes by the over-zealous iPhone text correction on my daughter's phone) reunited for a day in Chattanooga so as to hang out with Sarah in her college town.  We thought we would have years-worth of future visits to the UTC area to support Miss Sarah and encourage our love of food and fun exploration, but there was this little matter of a marriage just over a month ago which changed all that.  Some of us were feeling a bit off for different reasons, but whatever universal pull of light and cheer and likeness is stirred into being when the four of us step into the same space on the planet brought us all into harmony with ourselves and made for a darned good time.

 Reunited and it feels so good . . . 

 I really love this glass-bottomed foot bridge leading to the art museum.

That is, I did before taking note of the missing panel now replaced

with unbolted plywood!

 I really do think I could live in Chattanooga.

 An elevator for dinosaurs wishing to visit the museum.

 Spotted on the side of a beer delivery truck.

 Impressive old vine: wisteria or trumpet vine?

We ambled through the sculpture garden near Rembrandt's Coffee Shop.

Art must arouse some emotion to be considered good.

Well, I was quite disturbed by this one.  

 Melissa-inspired giggle outburst!

Take two: composure!

 The ever-popular M.C. hand pose.

 Harley Dude with Cigar: a portrait through car window.

Seen on the return trip.

Sun and shadow having it out on a hillside.

Fantastic!

As if that wasn't enough, last night was my turn in the neighborhood Bunco game hostessing duties.  I cooked and cleaned my little fanny off.  Well, not quite!  I wish.  I must declare that it is indeed difficult to live up to one's own reputation for putting on a heckuva shindig year in and year out.  Topping oneself starts to lose its appeal.  I just about gave up on the idea this time around, opting instead to pair up foods I've made before (for the most part) to create a taco salad/quesadilla/nacho bar.  The marinated skirt steak and chicken breast agreed to grill to perfection for me: I was most grateful as were the ladies I love to spoil with my efforts.  A black bean salsa with dried cranberries was a nice counterpoint to the shrimp-avocado dip with jalapenos, tomatoes and red onions.  And the subtle flavor notes in the ginger-lime-coconut cupcakes delivered just the right amount of sweetness to the occasion.  Sarah came home to help and consume the goodies; Ashley selected an economical sauvignon blanc that turned out to be a home run.  But at the end of the evening, it wasn't my satisfaction or the pleasure experienced by my Bunco cohorts which which topped the happy scale.  Nope.  I think it's safe to say that Hank the Wonder Pup managed to have the last happy laugh of the day!

 Our small band of ladies.  

We know how to make some noise, however!

 Remnants of a meal enjoyed.

 His nose was at the plate of meat,

periscope UP, just seconds before this shot.

He'd been tortured by the sights, smells and sounds all evening

from the confines of his kennel due to his excitement levels.

 I felt he deserved to lick the plate clean as a reward.

Until I released him, he listened to my "LEAVE IT" command.

For more than 30 seconds.  

Good boy, Hankie Mutt.

As my brother, John, once said, the luckiest day in this dog's life 

was the day when he met his mama -- ME.

I think he knows it, too!

And with that, I bid you a fond farewell.  Until next I write.  

      

Sunrise Service

I snuck away to the Alabama gulf for a few days last week.

Me and the Earth Divas, minus one. 

That was the hardest part of the entire getaway.

But we made due because that is what Gayla would have

wanted us to do!

A double tall soy latte helped me adjust to her absence: I WANT THIS SIGN.

(We left on a frosty morning: that pole was frosted and my rump quite chilly.)

The second hardest part of the trip was seeing myself in a bathing suit.

This is the most flattering of the few pics of myself that I could find.

It's blurry, take note.  And my upper thighs are obscured.

(I'm now counting calories, forcing new exercises on my gams.

And being VERY real about my very real sugar addiction.  Sigh.)

The bathing suit top was a cheapie from Target.

It kept slipping.  For two very obvious reasons.

And the strap broke after my first foray into the ocean.

But I love my Canada ball cap from my Sweigard cousin.

 The governor welcomed up to his beautiful state!

We spotted several examples of possible highway death scenarios.  

As the driver, Melissa would have taken these to the chin. 

I would have been taken out by this lumpy, bumpy, unknown entity!

Seems rather governmentally suspicious.  

Jimmy would say UFO.

 I found a new way to incorporate all that road kill with my roasted

sweet 'taters!

 And I reacquainted myself with a cow's udder.

My grandma -- rancher and dairyman that he was -- would have been proud.

(At no time was the plastic cow in danger.)

We visited Priester's Pecans.

They foresaw me in my two-piece.

HUH!

 Another form of possible highway death.

If those chains ever popped!

 This entire rack dedicated itself to ALL things pickled at a local produce store.

 ALL things pickled!

(At least the piggy did not die in vain.)

 Besides the ocean in front of the beach house,

there was the lagoon behind the beach house.

Great blue herons abounded.

I love them.  Everything about them.

I witnessed three together in flight.

And this cool cat hangin' out on the dock.

He soon had enough of my prying lens.

I marveled at his flight.

Reminds me of what prehistory might have been.

Though taken with my iPhone from a distance in low light,

this shot is a coup simply because glimpsing a great blue

ON THE BEACH is a rare and breathtaking sight for me.

Let me just look for a second.  

Wow. Wow. Wowie.

********* ********* *********

As I'm prone to practice digital imagery overdose, I think it best to stop.

For now.

Almost.

There are a few parting shots from my Sunday church service.

I woke up early, Pastor Rodney.

I made it on time.

I watched and listened intently.

And I'm sharing what I took from it.

Good morning, everyone.  Glad you could make it.

Will you please stand with me?

Join me in song.

(The ocean sure did.)

And I'm pretty sure the angels rejoiced.

I couldn't help but rejoice.

And all of man's creation was silent.

Silent in the presence of majesty and holiness.

It was only His voice in those dawning minutes.

I may have joined in here!

The sun ascending to the firmament.

Even the birds joined in.

And it was a new day in Him.