Whined It Up Wednesday: 72 Hour kits help...

Maggie wants to know where to store emergency supplies in a small apartment, and Anonymous wants to know about storing fuel. I have a few suggestions, along with alternative fuels you can pick up in your own yard for free! just click here!

Wednesday Afternoon Theatre-

The following is a small narration. To make it even more exciting please use the following voices in your head while you read the green and orange parts.
Green = A nice dull Ben Stine impression - think "Bueller...Bueller..."
Orange = Let's do your best Marie Barone - you know, Raymond's mom

Have you ever been in a situation where a random -yet specific- question was thrown out to you and those in the room you are in? Something like, "Introduce yourself and tell us ONE colour you really hate."

The circle of folks begin their responses. (cue party music)

"My name is Ophelia and I can't stand beige."
"My name is Prudence and I detest lavender."
"Hi, I'm Eliza and I am not a huge fan of turquoise."

Then comes this:

"I'm Ethel and.." "Ethel is my daughter, I'm Ursula and I know Prudence. We played polo together as children. And this is Armando, he's my husband."

(Armondo has sat in the same position for the last 15 minutes as if he were the lead in "Awakenings" [catatonic])

"um, I'm Ethel. I went to Westminster Central Park three years ago. It was right when they were building the new Greek pavilion and I lived right there you know. And..." "And she was there when the Prime Minister of Guava Imports was there to bless the Guava crops near by." "well yeah, I was there, and then, but I lived right there you know? And then the Prime Minister of Guava Imports came to bless the crops and he had his Ambassador of Roots and Shoots with him and well if you all remember that was when the Ambassador got sick."
- -tiny side bar- - this is when pretty much everyone in the room began to look around at each other in an uncomfortable "where are the exits?"- way, a slight pause and then...
"Well he got sick, came home and DIED! You remember how he DIED? Yeah, it was right then and I was there then, and then he DIED!"
--well o.k. then, moving right along--
"She was, she was right there when it was happening. You know -when the Ambassador got sick and DIED! Strange huh? Yes, well, like I said I'm Ursula, and she's my daughter and, what was I supposed to hate?"

That was my party last night. Dang if I don't know how to throw 'em! Call me if you ever need a good getting-to-know-you game. Then again, perhaps there are folks we just don't want to know too much about. ugh!

originally posted in 2005. reposted today because I am having a few tech-difficulties. enjoy the rerun!

How many wheat fields had to die for this?

Tuesday Tutorial is below this post.

This post will be a primer on the ridiculous. Yesterday I met with a good friend and we did some shopping, and had some lunch. We went to the Cheesecake Factory and after seeing the lengthly menu, I was overwhelmed. My friend made her choice, and confused at what to choose, I picked the first thing on the page I was currently viewing; a chicken pot pie. It seemed a benign choice at best and I figured I could have something to more exciting to write about later, during dinner. I was wrong.

bigger than your fist
Originally uploaded by foodchronicles.

The waitress took our order, gave us our drinks and casually asked if we would care for bread while we waited. My friend responded in the positive and soon a basket with delicious pumpernickel and sour dough slices was at our table.

After a few minutes I saw an odd look on my friend's face and turned to see what she was grimacing at. The waitress was headed our way with what looked like an alien invasion of Phyllo puffed pastry. She whispered to herself, "Please let that be for someone else, just keep walking..." No such deal. The mother ship had landed. Laughter began as giggles and eventually burst forth as we took in the enormity of the puffed pastry atop the chicken "pie". This this is larger than my hand, Larger than my head!

I like bug buns
Originally uploaded by foodchronicles.

My first reaction was, "This is why 3rd world nations hate us!" Which was followed immediately by, "This is why America is FAT!" Look at the size of this thing!

"It's takes a village...it feeds a village!"
"Does this qualify the waitress for workmen's comp?"
"If it hovered we could use it for Mars Attacks 2."
"It could frighten small children and elderly ladies."
"I like big buns and I cannot lie!...even white boys gotta shout!"
"APNews: Entire Pillsbury Dough Boy's Family Wiped Out At Local Restaurant. Witnesses report, "He has no enemies, although his ego has been inflated lately.""
"If only I had a Flint-mobile and a rack of Stegosaurus to hang on the outside of my car window..."
"Change this photo to black and white and you have the original first wheel."
"Does this lunch make my bun look big?"
"Can I have a U-HAUL car top carrying case instead of a doggy bag?"
"If I punched a small hole I could wear it like phyllo dough turban!"
"Forget Ninja Stars, throw this at the bad guy."
"You could use this like Captain America's shield!"
"Having an affair at work? Take your someone special to Cheesecake Factory for lunch and hide behind this. Your secret is safe!"
"Need to find out enemy secrets? Force them to eat this or tell. You'll be Head of the C.I.A. in no time!"

What was the waitress thinking when she asked us (knowing we had order the above monster) if we wanted bread? Was she kidding? Do they make bets everyday on what idiot will order the chicken pot pie and become the object of conversation in the restaurant? Seriously, the folks around us were laughing as well. One gal leaned over and asked us what "it" was! I have to admit the comment about the Flint-mobile came from one lady who thought it belonged to Fred Flintstone! It's nice when your lunch (normally a lighter meal of the day) is a party starter! Need to get a conversation going at your next event? Call the Cheesecake Factory and order this baby! Oh My HECK!

(originally posted back in 2005, however the I met with the same friend yesterday, Chronicler, and we went to the C.F. for lunch...we had a good laugh remembering and I thought you would too!)

Whined it up Wednesdays! -Baby Crack -

Welcome to the first edition of Whined it up Wednesdays! Today's fare comes from a new Mommy.

Dear S'mee,

I am expecting my first baby in December. Already my sister in law and Mother in law are giving me "helpful" parenting advice. One example is in their family pacifiers are not allowed. They want me to just nurse the baby each time he cries. They say this will help bond the baby whereas the pacifier will give the baby "Billy Bob Teeth" and too much dependence on something other than me. What did you do? What should I do?

Sign me,

P-O'd in Provo

Dear P-O'd,

In laws can be very helpful to be sure, however sometimes you need to let them know you are up to the task, whatever that task may be. Just remember they are your hubby's family and will be with you FOR EV ER! So play nice.

As far as I can recall, a pacifier won't cause damage to baby teeth or mouth development. But yeah, they become like Baby Crack. Back in the day I would have paid any amount of money to keep that crack in the house. The only exception is if your pediatrician suspects nipple confusion, in which case, stinks to be you, and the baby will be off all but one source for satisfaction.

Other than that, I think a baby will take the pacifier if and when they want. Babies have a way of calling the shots, and this is no exception. By the time they are a year old however, they are beginning to really like the pacifier. There are a couple of options depending on your preferences.

On their one year birthday, S'mee threw out all bottles, pacifiers, and yup even the sippy cups. My kids had learned by them to drink from a glass. The trick there is very little liquid at a time. But that's another post. They were not happy to be sans pacifier, but the habit left swiftly and after a looong week, we were fine. Really. Yeah. We were! (Be firm! You can do this!)

Another option is to wait until a certain age. A few months prior to that date you can begin telling your little one about the "ninny" faery, or whatever you call the danged thing. The faery comes on that date, takes all the pacifiers and leaves a treat of your deciding. All done. Kind of like the tooth faery.

Or you can let your child decide when to give it up. Although I have seen many a toddler with a pacifier dangling from their mouth. This is hard to speak through (and yes, this does cause speech delays) and also the older they are the more difficult it will be to give it up. So you may want to think about how much your little guy is depending and using his pacifier, if he should be learning words and talking, and just how difficult this habit will be for him to break.

As far as depending on someone other than you for all his needs, well, um, yeah he's going to need to do that! This is where daddy, gramma, siblings, the dog and that irritating lady at church come in handy. Your child will learn to depend on, and trust, all kinds of folks. You don't want him screaming with fear every time your sister in law comes over now do you? Tell her he needs to bond with her also.

So there you go. O.k. people, I need more letters! Let see that s'mee mail fill up! That's it for this week.

Did I ever tell you how much I hate bugs and spiders?

I woke up yesterday thinking it would be an easy day. Knock off some easy cafe type curtains, cut a rug to fit the bathroom, get rid of the weeds overtaking the front yard, make a nice dinner and then kick back and wait for the Bishop to call. (I was released from my calling and told to expect a call on Thursday night)

The curtains. What should have taken no more than an EASY hour took almost the entire day. It was just one goof-up or small snag after another. Things like the screws just not wanting to stay put in the wall. Huh? How does stuff like that happen? Where is #4 when I need him? lol. #4, since he was able to hold a screw driver has had the ability to fix pretty much anything. He's a genius (seriously), and my right hand man when I need something tricky done. Bada bing and it's a done deal.

So about 3:00 I decide to scrap the bathroom rug for the weeds, which are haunting me. #5 and her "non-boyfriend" (yeah right!) dig right in with me and in an amazingly short time we are finished. Hey we had to remove a literal ton of ornamental rocks and small boulders to get to the weeds growing between them and then replace them to their spots. Weed whacker, hula hoe and plain muscle were the tools of choice. After about 2 hours the yard was filled with 5 huge piles of weeds and debris from the wind! #4 shows up and begins to help as well.

With the small bed in front of the porch cleaned to perfection I think I should go ahead and re-plant some flowers. For me this means: Sunflowers and alyssum. I am taking a chance on some morning glories and nasturtiums, but I don't hold my breath. I am like Charles Manson to the botany world. My sad little Charlie Brown wysteria is hanging on for dear life, so I just keep praising her and hoping for a miracle. And thinking I might be able to pull it off, I got three Yucca plants for in the corner.

I am down on my hands and knees, very happy at seeing the dirt turn easily and being able to plant some more seeds, and to add some small alyssum sprouts in between the rocks. Everything is going fine. Until I reach for another pod of flowers. My right hand is immobile and stiff and extremely weak and I cannot life even the tiniest of plants without excruciating pain! YEOWWWIE! So I look at my hand and the outside edge of palm, pinky side, is blown out about an inch and the skin is so tight that it has turned completely white. My pinky finger is straightened tight and stiff and cannot move at all. Hummm. I search for a bite or puncture, any wound really. Nothing. Weird. O.k. Well, something is wrong. So I ask #4 to finish planting the flowers taken from the packaging (I don't want to waste the $2.00!!!). He sees my hand and says, "Go call dad, I will take you down to the doctors". (Which for us, is about an hour drive) I tell him o.k. and go inside to tell the other kids and get the dirt off of my hands.

I call Thor and he is almost home, so we drive to meet him and Thor and I head down to the doc's. Along the way, my arm is beginning to ache and stiffen and pretty soon the pain is at my elbow and beyond. Still no sign of why. Thor calls the ER nurse at the hospital. Hands the phone to me and we go through all the pertinent info; she'll call me right back. The call comes back, this time with a Dr. on the line who asks our ETA. About 8 minutes. "I can tell by your descriptions and voice that you are going into neurological dysfunction. If you begin to shake, tremor, or lose speech, have your husband pull over and call for an ambulance." "O.k." I am having tremors in my hands and my tongue is getting thick. But for now I think the car can get us there faster than waiting for an ambulance, and really, other then the ache and stiffness, I feel o.k. I can still breathe and talk, so I am not too concerned.

I get into the ER and the evaluation takes place. "Go down the hall, turn right on the rug, and wait in ER#2." What she should have said was: "Go down the hall, turn right on the rug and wait in ER#2 for about 3 hours until everything goes away. The nurse will call you at that point and then we'll have you sit up in a very uncomfortable exam table for another 45 minutes and then a dr. will exam you, give you a non diagnosis and then have you sit for another 45 minutes while they write you a prescription you will probably never even fill."

What the dr. said was that it wasn't a recluse bite, no ulcerated skin, etc. And that the symptoms were exactly the same as a black widow bite, but concentrated to the right hand/arm only so they are ruling that out as well. I was to go home and come back if the rest of my body began to ache in the same manner as the arm and hand.

This morning the hand has almost gone back to normal size and has an odd reddish bruise(?) on the side where the pain is. Pinky is still stiff, but movable - jerky, kind of- and the stiffness in the arm is still there to a point. It looks more like I was stepped on by a horse than bit by a spider.

All's well that ends well and I am headed outside to finish the flower bed. Perhaps I was only licked by a spider.

They call the wind "Mariah", I could think of a different name...

Remember that last post, where I talked about the wind? Yeah, well, it blew. And because of the rain we experienced this winter we have a wonderful crop of foxtails this year. Lucky for us they all blew right onto the porch. INCHES THICK! I tell ya, it was like a scary fifties sci-fi movie. Black and white, a tad grainy and with that creepy rancher off in the distance.

foxtail nightmare
Originally uploaded by S'mee.

The foxtails are literally shoved up against the walls of the porch and all in the seams, around the posts and under the windows. ICK! So it's time to pull them all out. There is a bonus to it all: the fox tails all stick together. Once you get a handful and begin to pull them off the cement, you get a huge pile. But they are sticking in the seams of the porch and sidewalk and they do not want to come out. UGH! So S'mee thinks I'll just power wash them off the cement. (yeah, I know it wastes water, but I am disparate.)

I go and get the hose. The nossle thing-y (don't you just love the sound of the word "nossle"?), anywho, I turn the water on full blast and squeeze the trigger hoping for a very powerful stream to blast out the foxtails.... the danged trigger doohickey snapped like a twig.

Hello almost finished remodeled department store! I saunter into the garden department. (You know it is spring when they bring out the colourful flowers and tropical plants that will never last two weeks here in the desert. Ahhh...) I carefully ponder which of the assorted hand held trigger power sprayers will do the deed and head up to the counter. Hmmm. Lookie there, one of those new fangled "fireman" hoses they sell on t.v. And, it's in a reel! You got me with the reel. I detest the fact that the only faucet is about two feet from our front door and the hose is ALWAYS unrolled and waiting to trip up any visitors. (Thor says it is a trap for wayward salesmen and the home teachers.) Every time I have bought a reel for the hose there has been a problem. But I see that this one is MADE for the hose and actually comes with it! How can I go wrong?

$20 later and I am on the porch again. I am a reader and follower of instructions. (geek alert) So I carefully open the packaging and find the info. "Attach the nossle (!) to the end of the hose. It is very important that the hose is completely off of the reel BEFORE attaching to the faucet and filling with water. " I can visualize the why for this -so I begin to unreel the hose. I get to the very end, the 'faucet end' of the hose and it is literally locked inside the reel and as far as I can figure CANNOT be removed without breaking the reel. I search the information again hoping to find the secret 'obvious' button that magically releases the hose. Nope. Not there. O.K. I will figure it out later it's getting too hot to be outside. I need to rid the porch of the foxtails!

I grab the other power nossle (thinking to self, "at least you decided to still get that! smart cookie!) and attach it to the old hose. Full force water here we come! I feel the pressure rising in the hose. I see the hose dance in anticipation of expelling H2O in a force yet unexperienced. I pull the trigger and WHOooooooooooosh dribble dribble .

Man! That was totally disappointing. I turn to the faucet, sure that I didn't give it enough of a turn. Nope, wide open. The stinky trigger nossle thing-y is just weak! WEAK! grrr. So now the foxtails are clean, wet, and stuck into the seams of my porch.

Well, tomorrow is a new day. I love returning stuff. oh well; could be worse. Could be stickers from the tumble weeds.

I think that song scorched my omlette...

We got up early this morning to attend a Chamber of Commerce Breakfast and for #5 to receive another $500.00 (THANK YOU! THANK YOU!) towards her collage fund!

It's an interesting thing. All my life I have always thought of civic leaders in a certain light. Suits, straight carriage, moral, etc. Then you eat with them. Kablooey! I should be used to this now, as I have eaten with politicians! Talk about dissolutions! But I digress. I also am surprised at what kids these days1 consider "business attire2". You'd be surprised. This stated, I will promptly back up and announce to the world that I am not an expert and make these same faux pas, however, I am not in a leadership capacity, nor do I represent anyone other than myself.

All in all the morning was quite interesting. The room was filled to capacity and everyone was really warm and friendly, very chatty and inquisitive. Nice really. I did note, however, that when addressing the audience that everyone of the speakers, informal and keynote, referred to the members of the room as "you guys"; which I was always brought up to be a major "no-no" within a social or business frame. Perhaps a more appropriate choice would be: "For those of you in attendance...", or "All who would like to...".

That and the use of gender specific titles, such as: "The girls in my office...". I have been told that one currently should use P.C. terms such as: "The co-workers in my office..." or even better, "My associates...", lest you offend those whom work for you, beside you, or have authority over you.

Credit goes out to the 4th grade children who presented a well planned program, including a power point presentation. They each stood straight and slowly enunciated their names and titles, then took a step back and allowed their class mate to do the same. During the speaking portion of their presentation they spoke distinctly and with factual information pertinent to the presentation.

Another part of the morning was the entertainment. Entertaining it was, although #5 and I were a tad blushed when the story-teller broke into song about "Hot hot Sadie, that brazen baby, that hot little lady they all knew!" The story lady was dressed like most story-tellers are, in bright bold colours and completed her ensemble with the obligatory wash board, kazoo, and bicycle horn. Her song was indicative of the 1800's ragtime, although the lyrics were as scorching as the firemen whom "dated" Ms. Sadie. I don't think any others in the crowd were offended at all. She received an ovation and whoops and whistles. Poor #5 was about to burst into flames.

The events were kept on time and on track by a man with a sledge hammer - seriously! He would bang a contraption similar to those used at the county fair to test your strength -DING!- if you went over your allotted time. Everyone had a good laugh over this "tradition", although for all the newbies in the room, it took us a couple of DING!s before we didn't jump and flinch any more.

So there you have it. The leadership folks in the community right next door, who evidently know how to party on a Wednesday morning! God Bless America!

1 - Yes, I have become my mother, thank you very much. 2. jeans, logo t-shirt and basketball tennish shoes; skin tigh black leggings (I thought those went out inthe 90's) with a very thin skin tight turquois t-shirt and bright yellow sking tight shrug wrapped around Dolly Parton-esque torso, with neon strappy stillettos; or camoflage - um, we can still see you.

If you don't want my peaches, don't shake my tree.

I have written this post 5 times now. Each time it ends up being WAY too long and sounds very gripey by the end, and I am just mad after reading it for corrections, etc. So I will not rewrite it again. Just suffice it to say that if you want to stay married, love your husband for who he is and has always been. You can begin by looking at him as the eternal companion he will be someday and if you treat him nice for what can give you, he just might start being nice back. Appreciate each other. Be a united front and stop arguing in front of the kids. They learn from you two. If you -their only example of Heavenly Father and Mother- are fighting over crap -yeah, I said crap- then why do you think they fight and argue over who gets what toy? Good grief! Go to the master bathroom, turn on the faucet and have the argument behind those doors. Learn to live within your means and teach your kids to do the same. Lighten up. If you can't live happy on this rock for 60 years you'll never be happy for eternity. Let this be your mantra: If it won't matter in five years why worry (fight, etc.) about it? (Chances are if it matters for five years it could matter for eternity. Who knows.)

Discipline your kids and get a grip mom, you're the boss so start acting like one. Kids need clear instruction and boundaries. If someone sent you to Pluto, you'd need to learn the language, the etiquette, the rules and what is expected behaviors, or you would never succeed. If you stood up as tall as you could and you only came up to their knees you'd freak out too. Try seeing things from their vantage point and give them a break once and a while. Let them win the little things and pick your wars. Be strict with the things that will matter in five years. Play with them. And again, if you can't enjoy them for 18 years, how do you think eternity is going to feel? Not all teenagers have to be horrid, they are a reflection of what you created in your home.

P.S. Not that I don't want to help you, or listen to your woes (trust me, we have ALL been there), I am just tired of the incessant complaints without you taking action or responsibility for your part in it too. And yes, I know there are kids that are just flown in from the planet REBELLION and no matter what you do they will go their merry way and there you go. But I think sometimes we give up too easily on a kid who is just plane bored and name him/her trouble. 'Nuff said.

The real thing!

model homes 049
Originally uploaded by S'mee.

Model homes. These are both a frustrating and fun inducing projects. Frustrating because you have no choice in what goes on the wall, and little input. You get paid to put what the designer thinks will look best and usually there isn't a lot you can do to change her/his mind. Fun because you still get to paint stuff.

The Tuscan Grapes in the photo are slightly larger than life and take up an area in the home's dining room. There are companion paintings throughout the kitchen and dining area and each grape cluster took about an hour to do. That blows most people's minds. "An hour to do that?" Well, no, actually an hour to do just the grapes, the leaves, vines and aging take more time. People also get unsettled when they find out how much I charge. I think I am worth it in cases like these, where, contrary to the cartoon look of Dani's palm trees and monkey, this style is a tad more difficult to achieve. Most of my clients do not have the skills (yet) to achieve this look without a lot of gnashing of teeth. So where's the fun in that?

There's more frustration; the cost. People forget that it is indeed, real art. That and it's original and even if the neighbors call me into their house to do the exact same thing, it won't be. It can't be reproduced exactly. That's why you pay someone like me to paint instead of wallpapering; like tens of thousands of other family homes. Chances are if you were to purchase a framed piece of poster art the same size as my work, it would equal the cost of the painting. Change that for a nice print or reproduction the same size and you have just exceeded my price. Forget about getting an oil or acrylic framed painting for that space and size. Most of us can not afford the "real" thing.

Bins and Purge

About a year ago I gave a class to about 25 women on home organization and storage. I think the initial thought was, "Physician- heal thyself!". I have lived in the same area for the past 27+ years and frankly, folks know me! So there was some skepticism all around on my ability to express any coherent objectives that would be received with any form of acceptance. (I am not known for my model home appearance.) But those who truly know me know that I enjoy (not suffer from) certain OCD benefits that have helped me be organized, if not tidy. So the class was on; and to my surprise I actually had attendees.

Since then I have been asked to travel to other groups and teach the same class about 6 times. Next week will be another trip into the junk drawer and hopefully these ladies will laugh along and have a good time while we talk "dirty".

I like to survey ahead and get some ideas from the attendees, things they are having trouble with or things they would like information on. Questions from the past have included everything from, "How do I throw away things my mother-in-law gave me?" to "How do I get my kids to help without it becoming punishment for all of us?" Answers to the above: Just throw your mother-in-law away first. And, That's impossible. Actually there are more realistic answers, but I'd bore you here with the long dissertation.

Basically being organized is a matter of getting rid of all the "stuff" you have accumulated over the years and being consistent about storing the "stuff" you keep in well labeled clear containers. Then get some OCD of your own to stay on top of things. This way, tidy or cluttered, when someone asks if you have those tiny gold safety pins you know the answer and if the answer is yes, you know right where there are.

The theory of realtivity or why eternity is only 30 years

I think I am posting more complaints than happy thoughts. I had made a goal for myself to try and be more positive in my observing and to try to post things that up lift rather than just have an open gripe session. Then this.

I met with a friend last night for dinner. Last night's kitten dish spilled the "details" of why two of my very good friends are getting a divorce after 30 years of marriage. From what I can tell both parties are -as usual- at fault. Now if this were just some random couple I could go on. But this couple made sacred promises to love each other for eternity. I know this is a foreign concept to most of the world, but in my religion we married FOR EV ER!

Even in a regular everyday wedding there is a promise in there somewhere about "until death do you part." right? Here's my difficulty: One party was away to long, the other party needed too much. One thing leads to another and they grew apart, leaving a gaping hole in which a third party was able to inappropriately comfort a member of this union. Now by inappropriate I am not suggesting anything other than conversation. But comforting conversation by a dear friend that leads to more intimacy than a couple currently share is inappropriate and will lead to destruction of one of the parties, if not as in this case, all three.

Next. One party files for divorce. The other party states that reconciliation has been offered and refused. "Too little too late" it seems is the excuse for them both. One party moves out and away from the situation and the divorce is proceeding.

My huge big fat ugly problem: In a U.S. civil union, "Until death do you part." is understood by most English speakers to mean that you are married until one of you is DEAD. No pulse, no heart beat or brain waves, cold, stone stiff, DEAD. Within our religion even the death will not severe the marriage and you are still indeed hitched. Best be careful whom you choose to stay with for eternity; or just a lifetime.

One party in this friendship of mine has begun dating another person. The other party is playing the martyr and "waiting until the divorce is final." - but already has committed to date a fourth party, who has shown interest and is willing to delve into this relationship as soon as "legally possible." UGH! I want to scream. (If there has been an agreement to date later, intimacy has already been established and the pretence of waiting seems moot.)

What are these people thinking? Even in the lowest possible legal sense they are still married to each other for at least a few more months. What happened to trying to forgive and compromise and make things work? 30 years down the tubes because someone has had it and is fed up. According to my knowledge the only abuse between the couple has been indifference and neglect. I don't think that is irreparable. It isn't easy by any means but isn't 30 years and 6 children worth ALL the trying until you get it right?

The outside parties make me sick. Why would anyone get in the middle of two married people? You have to be insane to do this. And why would anyone think of dating a divorced person so soon? Shouldn't there be some healing period or time to think? How about a year? I can hear people all over the place yelling at me and telling me all the reasons why it's o.k. But to me it just seems like everyone is asking to get into another bad situation before they have been able to clean up the last one and figure out why it went wrong. Everyone too busy feeling sorry for themselves and pointing their digits at the other person and never seeing what they did wrong to help speed up the destruction of their family.

I know. It's easy for me. I have been married to my high school sweetheart for the past 29 years. Think about that folks. Do you really think each and every moment of those 29 years has been rosie and that we were deliriously in love? Get real. 29 years takes more than love- it takes forgiveness, compassion, trust, commitment and hard freaking work at times. I thought that was what marriage was all about.

There are some actual deal breakers: Abuse that is mental, physical, or spiritual. From what they tell me, this isn't the case. And, as bad as the above are, I know of couples that have committed strong enough to even get through those. But not very often and I don't blame those who choose to leave dangerous situations. From what I have been told, none of these abuses happened. They just wandered apart and found other folks more interesting and didn't have the power to come back together.

I am so sad. I know of 4 more families that have fallen and it has affected more people than they will ever know.

ApRil FOols JoKe....

Weeellll, not exactly. The following story is true. Only the names have been obscured to protect our dignity!

I was cruzin' the net when my cell went off. The programmed ring told me it was hubby. So I pick up expecting a rather nice conversation and instead got a frantic man on the other end. It seems that hubby got up early, went to the bank, grabbed some moola for his business trip to Reno and headed out for a 45 minute commute to pick up his partner. They rode the free way for another 3 hours and needed to stop for fuel. YIKES! This is where hubby realizes that he has left his card in the ATM machine like 4.5 hours ago. He is having a minor coronary as he is pleading with me to give him the 800 number for canceling your cards. I am fumbling to open the PDA and grab said companion card and HOPING that the numbers are still there. You see, my signature and all the other important info on my card INCLUDING the raised numbers imprinted on it have all been flattened or erased from a lot of use! I find the numbers and give them to him and within 5 minutes a return call tells me that indeed the card has been canceled!

Now, I didn't have the guts to ask him how I was going to pay for my trip back to SoCAL with a canceled card... but there you go.

This reminds me of when we applied for and received a credit card to be exclusively used for our son's wedding. The card arrived in January and was activated in anticipation of buying frenzies. Somewhere in the last weeks of May I actually began purchasing flowers, food, tuxedos and other things. The first couple of purchases (the $200.00 + tuxedo rentals, and a trip to Michael's ) went fine. But when I went to (stupid - I HATE this store) WalMart to pick up $16.00 worth of ribbon, the card was denied. "Too much activity on the card" and they thought it had been stolen!

In fairness to the clerk at WalMart she was gracious and handled the situation nicely. I can't say that about the gal behind me in line who -not realizing she was in a WALMART -hello- threw a hissy fit and ranted about the wait and my inability to pay for $16.00 of ribbon. I finally told the clerk to never mind her, she was just upset that a house had been dropped on her sister yesterday; (and that really sent her up!)

The problem was eventually fixed; although there were a few more times when the card company helpline was involved!

Is it any wonder I never use those cards unless I have to?

SOLD!

Day two: House three. Jessica. A very happy young gal who is getting married and needs someone to take over her contract for summer/fall. SWEET! This street level condo, one block from the Bayou is offering a single bedroom with as private bath, HUGE closet, bed, desk, bookshelf,dresser and big window that looks out at the street. A washer, dryer, large shared living space and large kitchen, plus great roomies in the basement. To throw a bone our way, Jessica dropped the price for the summer contract by $50.00 per month! WaHooo!

Next came Creepy Landlord Guy. Upon entering his office he remains seated as he throws keys at my daughter through a counter window. (In your best Eeyore) "All the apartments are the same. Go all the way to the end of this hall, then all the way down the next. #114 is open." So we walk down to #114, unlock the door and promptly smack it into the closet that faces the door. To the right is a large kitchen. We didn't realize there was a living room to the left until we shut the front door because there wasn't a space between the door and the closet to view the room from. The kitchen leads to a communal bathroom sink type area with rather sticky drawers that SCREECH when they are being opened. There are more cupboard closets across from the sinks that line the mid hallway. Equal bedrooms are on either side. Both mirror the other and are large and have two twin beds in each. The closets have fold down tables that act like desks. The trip here is that almost every cupboard door is off a hinge, or two. The carpets and drapes are grimy and dingy and I don't want to describe the bathroom and shower. UGH. So we return the key to Eeyore. "Did you say on the phone that you had singles?" "Yeah, if someone wants a single we just add the other beds into the other room. The apartment ALWAYS has at least 4 and the majority have 6 people." (Great, so the princess who has a huge private room to herself gets the resentment of the others whom she has inconvenienced. Read: The other roomies take every opportunity to cough in her food.) No thanks.

House #5 was the internet preview choice number one. Great location, fairly new and reasonably priced. After seeing in person, not so much. That and watching the "Kramer" neighbor drinking chocolate milk out of the jug while telling us how much she LOVES this apartment kind of messed with the illusion.

House #6. Party Central. Enter Art School Barbie and her friend Sick in Bed Midge. Barbie gives us a quick tour. Her room is Gynormous with a double bed et al. Really nice rooms but shared bathrooms. Still, all in all, a very nice place. Art school Barbie has displayed her talents via the acrylic sofa sized painting of a freaky surfer girl. Over the kitchen table she waxed cultural and went for the Asian characters and symbolic red and gold square objects in black frames. Magazine and movie choices are edgy. But hey, this is college right? The hallway is papered with Abercrombie and Fitch male models... hubba hubba. There are sundry art objects everywhere and the ward is TOTALLY COOL!

House #7 is another great find. Here we have the H&G co-ed ideal for the truly matured gal entering adulthood. Beige leather sofa, on a non-traditional angle to offset the structure of the square floor plan. Fine art and tiny sculpture. Immaculate and smelling of a crock pot roast. Bedroom out of a model home with private bath. Mom and Dad own the apartment and she is graduating. It was probably THE perfect choice so far - except the price is a tad too high.

We called almost every phone number listed in the Provo Real Estate market. Marge was the main contact for the majority of places we were interested in. When we were finally able to contact her, she informed us that she didn't show the homes, she just handles paperwork. "If you are interested in seeing a place you just need to walk up, knock on the door and tell them you want to look at the place. Then decide and call me back." For this she gets a boatload of money for managing half of Provo. It's a nutty way to conduct business. "Hi, I'm a complete stranger from out of state. Let me in your home unannounced to look through your closets and lingerie drawers."

We decided on number 3. Just like in the funeral business (more on that later), number 3 is the best seller. Both nieces and their hubbies approved the location, price and even knew the ward. One of the nephew-in-laws has one brother currently living across the street in the men's apartments and another younger brother on the way in the fall. She will have plenty of family around for support. There is also a warning about a particular men's building where illicit action is currently taking place and a stern warning to avoid these "men" during church and other activities. Thanks you guys, family is the best!

Just get a magic wand and a message delivering owl....

Day one: Searching for the "Private single women's housing, BYU approved, as close to campus as possible, washer/dryer included, most utilities paid, internet access, good ward, preferably with good roomies and reasonably priced (read CHEAP)" room.

Met with Ashley and Alley. Very nice and informative roomies who showed us the open space. A 3 level condo, one block off campus. The single bedroom is upstairs, shares a shower bathroom with another gal, with sinks in the hall. The bedroom space is large enough to accommodate a twin bed on cinder blocks (for storage space below), a small desk and dresser with closet. The main floor has a large shared living space with an equally large kitchen with W/D and "boys" bathroom. The basement "belongs" to Ashley and Alley "because we were the only ones to clean it out and now it's our office space". The rent is reasonable considering the location and utilities paid. The 4th year roomies also informed us on neighborhood personalities and lifestyles and offered to give their opinions on other properties we would look at to "make sure you're in a good place for a good price." They praised the ward for being a place for people who want to attend church, have callings and actually increase their testimonies. "This is not a party ward." Sounds perfect for #5; but this is the first place we have looked, so onto number two.

Ever wonder where Harry Potter spent his miserable childhood? In a quaint little bungalow just down the road. We caught an appointment and went in for a look. As we approached the basement entrance hot pink and hot purple porch lights announced our arrival. The door opened and we are greeted by the blonde equivalent of Wednesday Adams. We entered into the dim living space. The kitchen wasn't much brighter, but it was indeed large and spacious, but dreadfully stuck in post war amenities. We cross through the kitchen space to get to the "private" single room offered. Wednesday swings the door open to reveal a twin bed surrounded on three (count 'em -3!) walls. Granted one side of the bed has a wall that only goes half way down the bed as it bends to the "closet" space. The slant of the 6 foot ceiling grows ever closer to the floor cutting the closet space very triangular. There is a built in shelf (desk?) on the opposite wall. Wednesday explains that the shelf in the middle of the room should go next to the entrance door and that is used as both book shelving and dresser. The closet cannot accommodate dresses or lengthily clothes and that any of those items are usually stored in the other girls' closet. The GAPING hole in the ceiling (with exposed shards of wet wood and dripping pink insulation) will be repaired soon. There is indeed a curtain, but alas no window. It's there for effect only. The loud noise we hear is hidden behind the entrance door. Closing it we see another door and understand it to be the "maintenance room" complete with boiler (boiler???) and washer and dryer. These are communal and the lock on this door is there so that the gals from upstairs can't just saunter through your room. (although the downstair girls will be able to do so.) The noise is loud and vibrating. Wednesday tells us that the landlord is lovely, sweet and very attentive to repairs, etc. "You can't get a better guy." But that she is moving because she gets too cold in the winter. The girls upstairs control the heat and cooling; and heat rises, so they (the downstairs gals) are always cold. That and they pay half the utilities; "why pay for something you never get?" So she's outta there and so are we.

It's a S'mall world...

Went to the Small today. We call it the small because the folks here think it's a mall, but it really isn't. I went to purchase a new pair of jeans. Up until about 12 years ago I never owned a pair of jeans, now they're all I want to wear. After watching one too many "What not to wear" episodes, I realize that I should just burn my closet to the ground, rob a bank and shop only at Banana Republic. Problem is, I am not a Banana Republic size, more like Watermelon Republic.

So off I go into Lane Bryant. It cracks me up that the models -even at Lane Bryant- are thin. There is no possible way the gal flaunted in the window posters is anywhere near a size 18. Even size 14 would be pushing it.

I saunter over to the jeans section. A literal wall of jeans. Relaxed fit. Boot cut. Stretch Classic. After trying on my size in all available options I have decided that #1 I have the legs of a troll; #2 perhaps it is time for S'mee to quit wearing jeans again.

I exhausted the jean department and the sales gal suggested that, "If the jeans are too long, perhaps crop pants would be a better choice." O.k. I bite. I'll try on a pair of crop pants, although I am telling myself, "No one has seen my legs since 1978 and they won't be seeing them today!" Into the dressing room I go. (Good time to play "The Girl From Imponema") I wriggle into said crops and viola! They fit. They are best fitting pants I have tried on today. The problem you ask? Well, crop pants are supposed to hit your leg somewhere right about mid-calf (they named that part of my body correctly...moooo!), or about an inch or so below your knee. HA HA HA HA HA! These crop pants hit me just about one inch above my ankle! Seriously and without ANY exaggeration if they had been one inch longer I would have paid the lousy $60.00 and bought them as pants.

So I bought a shirt instead and went to look for a new phone deal.

"Hello, I am looking for a "family plan" and would like to upgrade my old phone." "How old is your old plan?" "Well, here's my old phone...." (salesman, upon seeing the old phone is trying hard not to laugh) "Um, ma'am, that phone is like 9 years old..." (just about half his age) Do you remember the phones from the old Army movies that came with this big lock box and a crank to get them going? They required the user to hold it with both hands? Yup, that's my phone. "Um... do you know how many minutes were on your old plan?" "Well, no, but my free minutes were from 2 a.m. through 5 a.m. and weekends if you live in Guam." 'Nuff said. He knew he had a live one. Hubby and my daughter are now driving to the Small to get a new phone and deal. Whatever it is, I hope that I can finally use my phone during waking hours.

Wednesday Afternoon Theatre

The following is a small narration. To make it even more exciting please use the following voices in your head while you read the green and orange parts.
Green = A nice dull Ben Stine impression - think "Bueller...Bueller..."
Orange = Let's do your best Marie Barone - you know, Raymond's mom

Have you ever been in a situation where a random -yet specific- question was thrown out to you and those in the room you are in? Something like, "Introduce yourself and tell us ONE colour you really hate."

The circle of folks begin their responses. (cue party music)

"My name is Ophelia and I can't stand beige."
"My name is Prudence and I detest lavender."
"Hi, I'm Eliza and I am not a huge fan of turquoise."

Then comes this:

"I'm Ethel and.." "Ethel is my daughter, I'm Ursula and I know Prudence. We played polo together as children. And this is Armando, he's my husband."

(Armondo has sat in the same position for the last 15 minutes as if he were the lead in "Awakenings" [catatonic])

"um, I'm Ethel. I went to Westminster Central Park three years ago. It was right when they were building the new Greek pavilion and I lived right there you know. And..." "And she was there when the Prime Minister of Guava Imports was there to bless the Guava crops near by." "well yeah, I was there, and then, but I lived right there you know? And then the Prime Minister of Guava Imports came to bless the crops and he had his Ambassador of Roots and Shoots with him and well if you all remember that was when the Ambassador got sick."
- -tiny side bar- - this is when pretty much everyone in the room began to look around at each other in an uncomfortable "where are the exits?"- way, a slight pause and then...
"Well he got sick, came home and DIED! You remember how he DIED? Yeah, it was right then and I was there then, and then he DIED!"
--well o.k. then, moving right along--
"She was, she was right there when it was happening. You know -when the Ambassador got sick and DIED! Strange huh? Yes, well, like I said I'm Ursula, and she's my daughter and, what was I supposed to hate?"

That was my party last night. Dang if I don't know how to throw 'em! Call me if you ever need a good getting-to-know-you game. Then again, perhaps there are folks we just don't want to know too much about. ugh!

originally posted in 2005. reposted today because I am having a few tech-difficulties. enjoy the rerun!