Fear of Driving?

How do we learn to get from point A to point B?  I mean in cars, going places, making plans, independent of our parents, sure in our own minds we can figure it all out, even if we miss the exit, even if the directions on MapQuest don't quite cut the mustard?  Don't we just grab hold of the spirit embedded in that by now pervasively famous Nike imperative and "Just DO It?!"

My eldest daughter took today off from work.  I think she wanted to go where the wind took her without feeling rushed or pushed or pulled.  Between her full-time secretarial job during the week and her part-time hostessing job during the weekend, her schedule has been a bit packed.  I'm proud of her for sticking with it all so admirably.  She actually walked the 1-mile route I take the dog on each morning with me; I enjoyed her company.  After a few chores and showering , we met up at Starbuck's for beverages and chit-chat.  And, then she asked for directions to a town not far from here but requiring a series of turns and exits to reach.  That's where the trouble began.

My explanation of general directions did not meet with her comfort level.  I couldn't name the exact exit  to the shopping area she wanted, but told her it was easy enough to recognize.  Furrowing her brow in worry, she said I should just go with them.  I told her I needed to write.  She could find it, I was quite sure.  She felt her boyfriend should drive because she was uncomfortable not knowing exactly how to arrive at her desired destination.  He hemmed and hawed a bit, mumbling something about her chewing him out if it all went wrong, making it clear his internal compass wasn't clear on the way to the promised land, either.

"I'll make you nervous IF I drive," I heard her announce to him.

"You make me nervous WHEN you drive," was his reply.

I sat in silence for a moment.  Mulling over this dilemma.  It sounded as if the thrust of her entire day off was about to go askew over her lack of confidence in finding this right-off-the-highway town.

"You know, there's no need to stress over this.  If you take the wrong exit, just return to the main road.  Try again.  You can get yourself where you need to be without mom or a boyfriend.  People do it all the time.  No need to rely on everyone else to tell you where you need to be.  Trust yourself to drive.  It's okay," she seemed to hear me, "Really.  Just go.  Don't panic if you get lost.  You aren't ever THAT lost."  Be encouraged, girl, I thought to myself.  C'mon!

I didn't want her to continue to accept this idea about herself.  I could see her life unrolling before her through the years, limiting her driving to wherever her boyfriend or husband thought she should or could drive, never allowing herself to try and gain the confidence to venture out on her own.  I have an uncle who used to tell his wife of many years that she didn't have what it took to drive on the highway.  Because she was already anxious about it, having only learned to drive in her late forties, she deferred to his opinion and her distrust of her abilities only grew.  What she needed was his encouragement in her growing skills as a new driver.  That's not what she got.  It was such a shame, I felt, to see a hardworking, deserving, strong woman in so many other ways, falter right at freedom's door.

But, to be honest, this isn't all about driving, is it?  It's about fear.  It's about life.  And the relationship between the two.  Fear should never be the driving factor in life.  No pun intended.  As a woman on the brink of full-fledged maturity, my wish is to see her walk out on those wobbly young adult legs and strengthen their muscles, loosen their joints, test and challenge their stride.  She gains momentum with each baby step.  Before we all know it, she'll pass through the halls of higher learning and grab on to that degree in the allied health field which will lead to a secure paycheck in the field of ultrasonography.

It all starts with her taking the wheel of that black Honda Civic, jumping onto 840, veering off at the I-65 junction, and exiting in Cool Springs at Mallory Lane.  She can watch for the signs.  Ask for help if necessary.  And grab a few items from Whole Foods for her mom.        

Miscellany Before Midnight

Note to self: don't take the iPhone to bed.  Don't log onto Facebook for a 'quick peek.'  Never, ever reply to comments by Annette or Laurie because, like pistachios and M&M's and Pringles, none of us can ever just stop at one!  (That sentence made me crave a good sugar-n-salt fix all over again.  SIGH.)

It took me more than ten minutes to select and buy OTC lubricating eye drops for use tomorrow in my husband's post-op left eye.  After comparing active ingredients, fluid ounce contents, brand names, label speak, and prices, my daughter finally put an end to it by suggesting I ask the pharmacist for her opinion.  Why didn't I think of that?  I'll tell you why . . . because my PMS brain can't think its way out of a clear plastic storage baggie with the zip-seal left open!  The smallest decision becomes an enormous mental road block with a highly confused chicken on one side, scratching in the dirt, and craving Pretzel M&M's and popcorn drizzled with warm honey.  Do you know how good fresh popcorn is with regular M&M's tossed in?  My aunt taught me that little snacking ditty.

But I digress.  You don't seem surprised!

About the Intac surgical procedure my husband is undergoing tomorrow afternoon in Nashville.  It's been a long time coming.  His left eye has bothered him for years, but his condition went undiagnosed until late in 2008 when he visited the optometry office of a friend of ours from church.  A topographic image of his eye revealed the problem.  Keratoconus is a deterioration of the structure of the cornea with gradual bulging from the normal round shape to a cone shape -- that's what he has in both eyes.  But the eye in question is significantly more affected.  He tried several types of hard contacts, to press the bulge down, but too much damage had occurred to allow this treatment to be effective.  The surgery, whereby implants which flatten the corner are inserted, will allow him to wear contacts with comfort in order to enjoy fully corrected vision.  Eventually, the right eye will follow suit.

My mother had cataract surgery in one of her eyes just a couple of weeks ago.  I was her companion for that day, the night, and the following day.  She tucked me in and cooked for me instead of vice-versa.  Her recovery went well and somewhat swiftly.  There was ONE defining moment of support whereby I was handed the opportunity to shine as her compassionate support system representative.  That was during the pre-op portion of the program.  And I failed.  Miserably.  My curiosity was so heightened that when I was called back to sit at her bed while she awaited the good doctor's final ministrations before scalpel-time (no laser), I lightheartedly remarked that her eye was about to be delicately sliced with amazing precision and it was hard to believe they didn't make all kinds of mistakes.  Turning to look at me with her one good eye, the other held an enlarged pupil swimming in numbing gel, she softly spoke, "Please don't say things like that."  Why, I could of had a V-8 at that moment!  What an idiot I was.  So insensitive.  And to my own tired and mildly fearful elderly mother. 

I watched in amazement when the doc wrote directly on her eyeball with a special marker and she didn't flinch even a wee bit.  Three tiny black marks, unmoving specks on the surface of the orb.  That action screamed for a picture, a Facebook photo update, but I had promised her not to click away.  I kept that promise.

And, I promise here tonight that I will not tell Jimmy how a small series of cuts will be made into the firm gelatinous goo of his eyeball to facilitate the insertion of foreign objects.  Instead, I'll lean in close and plant a good strong soy latte kiss on lips that will have enjoyed a Starbucks cappuccino just an hour or so before.  He's allowed to eat or drink, lightly.

To the rest of you, I blow a dreamy goodnight kiss -- bearing a scent reminiscent of lemon custard and Hawaiian pizza.  Catch it if you dare.  I'm off to bed.  For real this time. 

A Costly Reminder

Last week I came as close to a full-blown breakdown as I could get without actually falling into the bottomless pit of despair.  ATT Wireless was involved.  My entirely too busy life, whereby additions are continually made at the top without subtracting on the bottom, was to blame.  In the process of trying to keep it all going, I allowed my guard to relax in areas where normally I'm quite detail oriented.  The case in point involves record keeping.

For about three weeks, callers have informed me that the voice mail on my cell phone is full.  Back in late June, when my husband updated my phone before my California trip, there was a strange pop-up which continually harassed me from the touch screen of Girlfriend.  It asked for a password to access voice mail.  Though it was a nuisance, there was no time to mull it over or make a drawn-out call to ATT for problem shooting.  My over-tasked low-on-sleep brain did not connect the dots.

One afternoon, after an hour long phone session with my little brother in Napa -- who again reminded me that my voice mail was not accessible -- I forced myself to stop, sit, and figure out the problem.  I was missing messages.  It was a loose end.  I don't like missing messages OR loose ends!  I logged onto my online account to find the customer service number and noticed that my USED MINUTES box had a long bold RED line in it.  That was unusual.  Red is generally never a good sign with bills and the like.  So, I added that to my list of wireless issues.

When the operator answered, I hit him up with the red line question first.  It had unnerved me and was most unexpected.  And, in my perusal of the screen while waiting for someone to answer, I had come across information which raised further concerns.  His analysis was this: our group plan day minutes and rollover minutes had been exhausted for the billing period, and we were over by 1,500 minutes.  Even as my stomach sank as he broke down what that was in dollars at 40 cents per, my mind filled in the blanks with vivid strokes of realization. 

Back in April, my brother had entered the state hospital.  We began to talk by phone, multiple times a day, sometimes for hours within a day, every single day.  Prior to that, our communication was primarily through letters with one collect phone call a week.  So eager was I to help him in this jail-to-hospital transition that I gave nary a thought as to the change in minutes.

To compound matters, on our plan with four phones -- my husband has his own business line -- I am the big talker.  Everyone else texts.  For months, we had failed to consume our designated minutes and the rollover bank was full, well past 5,000 minutes.  My old habit of checking the entire bill, line by line, went out the window sometime ago; my new habit is to check the abbreviated bill, making sure the overall amount does not waver outside of the regular charges, stopping only to ensure that no one is downloading images or such that rack up extra bucks.  I took for granted the rollover minutes.

"$600, ma'am.  And any calls you've made recently won't be on there.  The new billing cycle starts in two days, so you'll want to be very careful."  It was as if lightning had struck my heart.  Right there on the house phone, in front of a perfect stranger, I sobbed uncontrollably without the power to stop.  Huge wracking cries which shook me from the inside out.  There was physical pain everywhere.  But even with all of that, I prayed simultaneously, begging the Lord to see my heart and see His way clear to help me in this.  This lasted almost the duration of our half hour call -- a true and disturbing first for me.

I apologized to the gentleman on the other end of the line, even as I continued to cry, explaining my situation, wondering out loud how I could possibly have done this irresponsible thing to my family's bottom line.  "I'm usually so careful.  This has never happened to me, to us, before.  Check our history.  You'll see.  I have to make this right.  How can I be punished for trying to help my brother after all we've been through?  There's got to be something I can do to rectify this mess.  Bring the total down.  Anything?!"

It was that proverbial last drop in the very full bucket.  I'd already put out for a bridesmaid experience gone rogue; someone knocked down our mailbox, leaving us with an almost $300 replacement fee; new shocks and tires on the truck; a broken water pump and head gasket on the Yukon; back-to-school and sports fees; the cost of repairing my platinum blonde adventure; and financial assistance we'd extended to help a few loved ones in dire need.  Three kids with fall birthdays yet to come, including a big 18 and 21.  I'd prided myself on paying for the California outing, plane ticket and rental car, out of saved miles on a credit card used expressly for that purpose.  I finagled for the best possible deals, researching online, questioning experts and friends in the know, wanting to place every dollar where it should rightly go.  And balancing the checkbook at every turn in order to keep tabs on our accounts.

So, the phone news was simply too much to absorb. 

I'm happy to report that the ATT representative doled out the correct proportions of professionalism, courtesy, and, yes, even empathy, in my little wireless drama.  He upped my plan to the next level for an additional $20 and 700 extra minutes, and prorated the minutes, knocking 700 of that 1500+ total.  His suggestion was to track our minute 'spending' for a month or two, and to use the A-List feature for the top ten non-ATT numbers we call, including the regular number payphones I call for my brother.  I could return to my old plan without penalty at any time.

After hearing me ask whether a manager or supervisor could do anything more for a loyal and excellent customer, he paused and stated that he was authorized to credit my account for up to $250.  He said that was the limit.  He was sorry that he could go no higher.  But I was relieved.  Even elated.  I thanked him profusely, praised God repeatedly, and managed to restart regular breathing patterns.

I'll fork over the remaining $160 with gratitude for the reminder to slow down and pay attention to those things I've always found important.  If I can't do that, something's gotta give.  Phew! 

Ending The Week

Phew!  Finally.  Time to write.  I actually hold my breath in those moments before user I.D. and password allow me entry onto blogger.com.  A visit to my personal sanctuary from everything and everyone around me.  I need it; not the other way around.

My trip to California allowed for the mulling over of a few changes to my status quo.  One of them being that I should take time out on the weekends, make it special, make it something to which I look forward, and spend some time with the members of my family outside of the house.  Outside of chores.  Outside of the To-Do list that dogs my heels and urges me to fill every waking hour with useful necessary tasks.  In short, have some fun.  Relax in between my walks and the supervising of laundry, dusting, mopping, mowing, weed eating, watering, organizing, and the like.  Allow for the possibility that a day trip, or possibly even an overnight trip, might manifest and urge us to pile into the Yukon.  Let there be unplanned segments to the day open to whatever may come.  Or to absolutely nothing.

It's not that those things don't sometimes happen in my world, but in my mind they are considered a hindrance to getting things done.  I tend to think of the weekends as a time to get more work done.  Often, I'm antsy, restless, wriggling in my seat if sitting, shifting from foot to foot if standing, finding actions to keep my hands busy.  I have to consciously focus on the fun aspect of a given event and force thoughts of what isn't being scratched off my mental list into a cold dark corner!  In fact, I look forward to the painful, often exhausting arrival of my female cycle to get me off of the hook from which I am almost entirely unable to disengage myself.  Biochemical processes cause everything to slow down and the choice to move forward is removed from my decision-making process.  But, sitting propped up on the couch with a heating pad on my abdomen and on my lower back and sweating from it, girded as women must be for the days' battle ahead, ingesting ibuprofen gelcaps like candies -- none of it actually translates as fun.  Or as relaxation.

One of my proudest achievements in this new frontier was my Sunday afternoon nap a few weeks back with my husband on our cuddle-sized couch.  Evidently we must have looked like we were doing it supremely right because my daughter snapped a picture on my iPhone and left it there for us to view upon waking.  Friday night, we hit the movies, gorging on popcorn and Raisinets.  We ran into two fine couples that we knew; sat with one.  Today, we hunted through the numerous coupon books we purchased from various and sundry neighbor and church kids and decided on a Buy One Get One coupon to Long John Silvers.  The food was far from fresh and tasty.  The ice for drinks fell down the chute at the rate of roughly five ice cubes every ten to fifteen seconds.  We had mildly upset tummies and heartburn several hours later.  But we can say we've been there, done that now.  Won't do it again.  We didn't WASTE money.  We ran a few errands.  Enjoyed one another's company.  Once back at home, we simply shared space.  It was perfectly lovely.

Though the final hours of my night ran amok with duties: school supply shopping, late dinner for me and my men, laundry, checkbook balancing, and preparing for the next morning, I took the time to squeeze in a bit of enjoyment.  Namely food.  Wasabi peas.  Yummo!  Manchego cheese.  Sauteed squash.  And, spray whipped cream on my finger tips just like my kids were taught!  Now, I'm ready for bed. 

Work starts tomorrow.  But, I confess to scheduling lunch with a good friend I don't see nearly enough.  Catching up with my peoples is definitely on my To-Do list.  Is it MY fault if it happens to be both fun and relaxing?

She's Headed Outside

Our elderly dog prefers to pant it out in the blistering muggy heat of a Middle Tennessee August afternoon instead of breathing free and easy in the air-conditioned coolness of our ceramic-tiled kitchen.  This preference of hers manifested within the past six months, actually increasing in desire as the weather has heated up.  Because this is not a normal life-cycle behavior for her, we attribute this new habit to her age.  My mom reminded me that some dogs prefer to seek their refuge in the great outdoors, often a distance from their home if possible, as death becomes more imminent.  Though I know that to be true, I don't believe that's the case here.  For one, she seeks out the shady cool spot between the large rocks and the oakleaf hydrangea on the north side of the house: right up against the house.  Secondly, though her hips are tight and her movements a little on the drag n' jerky side, our Husky-mix still loves to walk, often jumping and barking like a pup while she waits impatiently for me to attach the leash that I dangle in a teasing manner before her.

She's just gotten a bit funny in the head with the passing of years.  Never one to exhibit stubbornness, she now displays a decidedly stubborn bent in certain areas.  Mainly, it revolves around this need of hers to be outside.  I'll order her to 'stay.'  She gives me a look which tells me I'm about to watch my dog ignore me and do what she wants to do.  And, then she does it.  Slinking a bit and adopting a slow measured gait, she ambles away, avoiding eye contact though her head is ever so slightly bent in my direction.  Straight to the hidden interior of the dog house she goes.  I follow.  I tip the house.  She clings, trying hard not to spill forth and into my hands.  The other day, in fact, the house was all the way over, with the entrance to the ground, and when I uprighted it, she was still inside.  I win, though.  I have to win because a dog needs to listen to its owner for the sake of safety and that comes with an established hierarchy in the pack.  Usually, I have to grab her by the collar and escort her back into the house.  I make her 'sit' and 'stay.'  Then, she is allowed to return to her weathered little hound hut.  Only once she is given permission and her lead attached, back to the north side she goes.

We realized a few months back that what we at first thought was her ignoring us in all aspects of obedience turned out to be her not hearing us.  To be sure of this, we tested her in a variety of ways.  "Panda, Panda.  Wanna' go on a walk?" was the line we used, starting in a low volumes and steadily increasing with each repetition, watching for any reaction.  We tried this while she was facing us; we tried it when she was turned in the opposite direction.  Until we reached a decidedly higher level of sound than was once necessary, she simply did not react.  I was amazed at this.  Humbled and a bit humiliated by it, in fact, as I thought she was not listening to me during our walks and yanked the leash rather smartly a few times.  I also realized that her need to urinate more frequently but with less output was connected to this apparently sudden aging.  Here I walked her almost every single day since she became a member of this family, and I had missed what was right beneath my nose.

This all makes me a bit sad.  Ever since I was a little dog-loving girl, I'd wanted nothing more than to keep a dog for the entirety of its life.  To see it grow and play.  To escort it on visits to the vet -- someone on the James Herriott side of things.  To sleep with it.  Love on it.  All the way from a fluffy puppy to a graying regal elder of a dog.  I watched that dream slip away several times during my nomadic childhood with Bonnett leading the pack as my emotional favorite.  I helped her deliver her own babies when she was much too young.  Mother and puppies all had to go: my only consolation being their new home was a farm.  

But Panda, though she arrived well into her first year, has been a perfectly lovely and loving pet.  Docile.  Quick to take instruction.  She still sits and watches me until given the signal to eat, even when I perform several tasks to test her ability to resist the urge to chow down.  Though she is a licker, she is not a jumper.  And, she's been so very good with my kids.  We are her pack.  I am her beta; Jimmy's deeper voice still tucks her tail and lowers her head as she defers to his very presence, thus helping him to achieve alpha status.  However, we all know who walks her, brushes her, administers meds, and takes her to the vet.  She listens when I ramble on, talking to her, talking at her.  She is my mellow companion.  And lately, every time I check on her during her outdoor napping sessions, I find myself making sure she is still breathing.  Ensuring myself that she is yet alive.

Though everyone will miss her when she's gone, I feel fairly confident saying I will miss our blue-eyed girl the most.  Both for what she has been to us and what she represents of a girlhood now gone to me.  Until then, it's special recipe in the morning after her one-mile walk and as many afternoons in the humid heat of Murfreesboro as she can stand. 

A Lovely Use of Summer Tomatoes

Take one day's harvest of cherry tomatoes.  Set this on the kitchen island in full view of one's tomato-loving mother-in-law.  Wait.  But not for very long.

After noshing on a few right out of the bucket, she'll be struck by a lovely brainstorm and set to quick work.

To a handsome ceramic bowl full of the whole tomatoes, a generous double drizzle of olive oil is added.  A tight handful of basil leaves, snipped with the Pampered Chef herb scissors she admired so much, finds its way into the mix.  Sea salt and cracked black pepper round out the additions.

After everything is lightly tossed with a large spoon, three forks are handed round to the small crowd watching the preparations.  Everyone agrees there are no communicable illnesses to declare, and the spearing of seasoned summer goodness commences with gusto.  The small red fruit pop like compact bursts of sunshine on the palate.

Please note that the flavored olive oil which remains behind is quite tasty when sopped up with a sturdy piece of bakery Farmhouse white bread, though it is certainly all right to use whatever one has on hand. 

This procedure can be repeated with a rotation of eaters and preparers.  Any basil will work quite nicely.  Enjoy throughout the growing season.

Eating Her Way Back Home

Vaya con dios, Ollie, Olivia, Grandma, 'Ami,' Mom!  After a two-month stay in our fair city, moving back and forth between the homes of her boys, my mother-in-law returned to Colorado late this afternoon.  Nervous though she was concerning the flight, flight in general, she was a trooper all the way and landed safely at good ol' DIA.  As is customary in our household, we said our goodbyes and rehashed our good times over -- what else -- food.  Though, to be fair, food has permeated just about every moment of our days and nights.  The woman baked fragrant cinnamon rolls, shaped tender tortillas, and whipped up comforting dinners in my California-trip absence.  And let's not forget the extravagant birthday surf n' turf bonanza in her honor last month.  Or the dining out for meals both large and small, in town and in a few neighboring 'burgs: Greek, Italian, seafood, Chinese, and American.  Oh, and JoZoara's Coffee House and Starbucks.  I'm getting full.  Yet again.

But the fond farewell feasting was my subject here. 

There was the last minute homemade chicken enchilada dinner that she actually prepared for us at the request of her youngest son.  With the help of her sous chefs, of course.  Lots of talk over the chopping and dicing and clinking of silverware and plates.  Think dark and flavorful red sauce draped over corn tortillas stuffed with savory shredded poultry and red onions, intermingled with melted cheddar and Monterey Jack cheeses, topped with crisp lettuce, sour cream, avocado, and fresh salsa from my garden.  My son, the budding comedian, a young man in need of constant attention and laughter, competed for top billing with his uncle.  Both were in excellent form.  Before we all retired for the evening, a quick run to the local Dairy Queen was in order for a round of chocolate-dip 'torches' (cones, but the alternative name came about within the larger family circle, and it stuck) and banana splits.  Olivia is quite fond of that crunchy outer coating over vanilla soft serve.

Breakfast involved one of our favorite special meals: whole grain crepes filled with berries set atop sweetened sour cream, rolled securely, drizzled with Mexican crema (basically a thick but not whipped cream) and dolloped with spray whipped cream.  That's a whole lotta dairy goin' on there!  For the hubby it was turkey sausage links, pork bacon, and basted eggs with buttered bakery Farmhouse White toast.  All during this preparation, Olivia was also putting together an enormous batch of potato salad to help me out with a wedding reception meal at our church tomorrow.  That woman gets down to business and gets it DONE!  The table chit-chat centered around the 4th dimension, aliens, hauntings, etc.  The grandpup and our old girl, Panda, meandered about the kitchen but never acted untoward concerning the victuals.  Outside, we could see the neighbor and his two young boys stretching atop their folding chairs to catch butterflies flitting about the top branches of my sprawling butterfly bush.  Just another Saturday morning at the Valdez house.

Through a sudden deluge of almost horizontal rain at times, and lightning which seemed to strike near the truck with each shattering display, we managed to deliver her to Southwest Airlines in plenty of time.  (And this after the half hour we spent rearranging her luggage to ensure each bag weighed no more than 50 pounds; she's bringing back an entire kitchen collection of cutlery and such in them there bags!)  It helped that her flight was delayed by an hour.  My boy fought his tears valiantly; he doesn't like goodbyes and he deeply loves and enjoys his grandma.  He said if she lived around us, he'd be fat from all of her homestyle cooking.  I imagined her reading and rereading her WE'LL MISS YOU card with its cache of pictures and spending money, alternately smiling and crying just a bit.  She had herself a great time and the collection of stories in her heart will keep her going until next she comes.  It's a good thing to make a mom happy. 

Now, all of us left behind return to our normal.  School starts with one of those infamous 2-hour days next Wednesday . . . also my husband's 44th birthday.  Whatever shall we do?  Suggestions?  Anyone?