memories, migraines, and dead meat in your bed

One of the memories I have of my Gramma is of her sitting on the "Davenport" -feet apart, elbows on her knees, bent over leaning in to listen to Vince Sculley on the radio or on t.v. as he commented on the Dodgers. "Hot Damn!" she would exclaim as she slapped her knee when she saw or heard a great play by "one of the boys." Listening to the play by play meant it was time to clean something special. She had a chrome cigarette lighter that resembled the Chrysler Building, or maybe the Empire State Building, I don't know, I was 4, at the time it's what I thought they might look like.

The lighter was heavy for it's size, about 4 inches tall, rectangular, and at the base 3 or 4 'steps', the tall mid section and then, again 3 or 4 more 'steps' to meet the cap that had spring loaded hinges that snapped open and closed. Inside was the magical little wheel that she would spin with her thumb, a tiny mechanism with grooves around its' edge for friction, spin it just right and it would ignite the same flame, blue and yellow, that was on the tin of Ronsonol.

I would watch as she would load the minuscule tabs of red flint into the cartridge and soak the felted lining with bright chemical smelling lighter fluid. Anyone who touched it would leave dull gray fingerprints smudged on the shiny chrome. Gramma would methodically and almost ritualistically wipe the chrome down with fresh Kleenex as she listened to Vince talk the Dodgers into a victory.

She would stop to smoke, and I can remember how she would blow the smoke high into the air through her wrinkled and pursed lips. The smoke would shoot almost straight up, then begin to curl and dissipate, the gray soft curls of her hair a faint reminder of the 'magic' she just blew away.

Grampa also smoked, a cigar on occasion, but more often a pipe filled with cherry tobacco. He too would clean the pipe while listening to "the game". Multi coloured pipe cleaners would be pulled from their clear plastic bag one by one and carefully twisted through the stem hole. Not the thick chenille stems people call "pipe cleaners", but the actual pipe cleaners. The bowl would be tapped and the unburned contents removed. It would be cleaned before repacking it with more tobacco, fresh from a large round tin with a deep red label and large white lettering. He also, would use a fresh Kleenex to polish the deep burgundy coloured wood on the outside of the bowl until it shined. Packed and readied, he would carefully light the interior and blow large thick puffs of 'cherry scented' smoke balls into the small apartment. It took me several decades to realize the scent of their home was actually that of Lysol, LifeBouy soap, and stale tobacco, seeped and almost steamed into their immaculate furnishings.

Mom and dad also smoked. I am not sure of the habit count, was it a pack a day or more or less? All I know is that when mom decided to quit it seemed to happen without incident or remorse, although it was then that she gained her weight; weight that would never come off. Dad was another case. His habit drug on (literally) for years. He would try to quit. Claim to have quit, only to be discovered at work during a surprise visit or to have the claw of dependence dig into him during times of stress or crisis. It was years before any of us truly believed he had kicked his habit. I can remember the cigarette breath and now when I smell it on a stranger there is a familiarity to it as to almost make them an immediate acquaintance. The smell of smoke drenched clothing sends me to home closets and the smell of Aquanet and cigarettes makes me think of mom's Beehive hairdo dotted with spring daisies and carefully wrapped each night in toilet paper to keep it looking nice.

High school would not have been complete without the smoke in the girls' room or the "smoke" out in the field. But by the time I was in high school there were already rumors and those trying to convince the public about the dangers of smoking.

Seeing the trouble my family had when trying to quit I decided to never start. I had plenty of bad habits to keep me going a lifetime, I didn't need this one. As the years went by I found myself, as most adults do, surrounded by people I chose to be with rather than forced to be with. That group of associates was sans smokers. There are still a few smokers in the family, however even they prefer to smoke alone and away from the group. I am just not that exposed to smoke anymore.

Several years ago I realized that I -somewhere over the years- developed a keen and nasty allergic reaction to smoke, any smoke. My sensitivity in regard to smoke is like Spiderman's "Spidey-sense" or perhaps Obi Wan's connection to the force. I can tell if someone is smoking in a car two cars ahead or in the lane "over there" before we have physical proof. I smell it in malls or parks or at the beach when most people are not aware of it. And smelling most smoke gives me an immediate migraine headache complete with nausea and vomiting. Burning tobacco products, pot, or (real) weeds or wild land fire smoke will induce immediate throbbing in my (usually left) temple. The pounding, if left untreated will radiate down into my eye and then into my stomach where it violently tries to exit my body via my stomach and throat.

The only solution is to (within 5 minutes, seriously) of smelling the smoke, ingest 2 Excedrin with a large glass of (as cold as I can get it) milk. The milk is really just there to stave off the eminent nausea on an empty tummy. If it goes any longer than the five minutes I can count on trouble.

This morning (now yesterday...I wrote this about 11:30 at night) I woke up to someone in the neighborhood burning their weeds, which kicked a headache into gear. I was asleep at the time so I missed the window of opportunity to stop the sledgehammer of doom from cracking open my cranium. It was the throbbing in my eye that initially woke me and I knew I was going to have a bad morning as soon as I stood up. The room began to pitch and swirl, the light from the morning sun began to poke me in the eye like a dull finger intent on touching the back of my skull via my orbital socket, and I had an immediate urge to sacrifice to the porcelain gods.

The dry heaving began before I could reach the bathroom, and once there I began the gag inducing reflex exercises that rival a morning workout with Jillian Michaels.

I decided to head to the kitchen for a glass of milk and then remembered that I had run out the night before. (Lesson learned: Listen to the Little Voice when it tells you to go to the store now, not later.) I got dressed and put my head into the shower. Two reasons: One, because ever since cutting it short I have amazing bed head in the morning, but I'm not brave enough for my 15 minutes of fame -even with a migraine; and Two; Cold water would help alleviate some of the pain until I could get some meds in me. I made my way to the local store and grabbed a carton. Obviously, I didn't learn my lesson and again ignored that Little Voice when it told me to grab a bag of frozen peas while I was there. I get home, down two Excedrin and a couple of swallows of luke warm milk. It makes me gag and I think I need to get my head on a pillow and into a dark room pronto. I go to the freezer to get the last of the required ingredients to save me from tearing my head off in search of relief when I notice I am out of frozen peas.

Frozen peas. The saviour of gray matter during these times, frozen peas, are not to be found. I can't take it anymore, I run to the sink and gag a few more times, and turn to grab anything frozen in there. Walk to the drawer that houses tea towels, wrap a rock hard slab of ground beef and press it to my forehead and eye as I make my way down the hall and into the bedroom. I get undressed, because even though I am sick I still need to be undressed to lay in bed, it's weird, but yeah. I also know that I am going to need to be under the covers, so I turn the fan on, knowing I will burst into flames without it and tuck my head under a pillow, adjusting it just so. I need enough room as to not feel my own hot breath and enough coverage to block out any light. Freezing my eye into a solid dull aching orb and feeling the icy brick against my head I fall into a fretful, yet grateful-to-have-it sleep.

All this, because of smoke.

Why the photo of the green spiky ball? 'Cause I didn't have any other picture to grab your attention.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am off in search of the towel wrapped piece of (now thawed and warmed) beef, I have forgotten until now, that is buried somewhere in my bed. I sense another gag coming.

When smoke gets in your eyes

We made the trip into Vegas yesterday. What a day. I'll save that for another post... any who, it always hits me when I arrive at any hotel in this town that I am definitely a California girl.

As we head into the hotel the smell of smoke just permeates the air. While we were in line at check in on of Thor's business associates (From Oakland, CA) arrives. First thing out of his mouth after the initial greeting is, "Wow! I still can't get over all the smoke! My dry cleaning bills are always sky high when I come home from Vegas!" At dinner, another associate (Riverside, CA) brings up the fact that there is really no "smoking/non-smoking" section in restaurants, it's all the same after ten minutes.

Vermont is for Lovers. Nevada is for smokers. California is for whiners.

I went to bed with a small migraine and woke up with a sore throat. I'm a wuss. As a kid both parents smoked plenty. After they quit I guess I developed an allergy of sorts. So I'm in the shower and then heading out to fresher air.

Any ideas out there on how to avoid the smoke in a public place without causing a scene or making others feel as lousy as I do?

not that I expect an answer....

But what the heck is going on with the ol' gal-mones???

A few years back I got the ol' girl parts yanked, and life began to be good again, I highly recommend it to anyone! Yes, even guys, it was THAT GREAT!

So the dr. was all like, "Well now you will either go on HRT or be thrust into mental pause.", to which I said, "BRING IT ON!"
It was like...

Saturday: Get girl parts yanked. check!

Sunday: Sleep like the dead. check!

Monday: keep sleepin' girl, ya just got yer girl parts yanked. check!

Tuesday: Feel like you are twenty, with a bad case of the saggies, but hey, you feel like you're twenty who cares what you look like. check!

Friday: Maybe you should take your magic pills and see what they're all about. check!

Saturday: Find a brain surgeon to put your skull back together because the pain induced from the HRT s are freaking giving you the head ache of all freaking time and you are now allowed to kill any one or anything in your path. check!

Sunday: stay in a dark room with a bag of frozen peas on your head and pray to Rudy the pain stops. check!

Monday: Praise any and all Deities for allowing the dr. to be at her desk when you call and ask "What the heck is up with the happy pills? These things are killing me?" When she replies "You can decrease the amount until the headaches go away." You can do an interpretive dance expressing your joy. check!

Fast forward a week or so. We have decided that the best HRT is a dead HRT and they are banned from entering the property line, never to be seen again.

Now it is about 18 month or so past that time and once again I am getting the familiar ax in the eyeball headaches. Sweet Mother of Pearl what the HECK?

I have heard this whole mental pause thing is supposed to last about 3-5 years. Can anyone, for the love of PETE tell me an E.T.A. on these headaches ending?

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.

Six Years of Childhood

I was traveling this morning and ran across sohoman.blogspot.com.

I read through some of his words, feelings really; and they triggered old memories.

When our eldest child was 6 he was diagnosed with a rare form of a rare (then*) blood disease. For a "rare" disease it was normal that a child would acquired it and could then go through it relatively unchanged, recovering unaided within 6 weeks. Then the secondary group of kids who would recover aided via steroid and drug therapy. Third group: recovered after therapies that involved "unproven drug therapies". Our son was in a 2% group that was totally unresponsive and would "never recover" and have potential for fatal repercussion. He, as a result of the disease, had a dangerously enlarged spleen, extremely low platelets, high white count, constant severe bruising, spontaneous bleeding - internal/external, extremely lowered immunities, acquired Hep. C, Cytomegalovirus, pneumonia several times a year, viral meningitis, and other complications that kept him out of school for 3 years and then some, and away from church and social situations (read: pretty much any where but home). Blah, blah, blah.

We set our lives on auto-pilot and went to hospital/clinic visits (1 hour commute one way) sometimes daily and most often at least twice a week, for six years. During this time we prayed. A lot. We pleaded with the Lord to relieve our family from this disease, to heal our little boy, to make everything right again. Once in a while we would throw in a "if it be Thy will", but I'm being honest here - I wanted my miracle, not His will. I did however, maintain my faith through it all and I (looking back on it now) can't remember ever being "WHY ME? WHY US? OH CURSES!!" and being angry with God. I remembered that everyone has their trial and all that, this was just one of ours. (there would be more) I definitely had my "please feel sorry for me" pity parties and there were times when I was so tired of it all I just went silently crazy. I can remember burying my child several times and rehearsing in my head how I would explain to younger siblings that he had died. I would breakdown and cry almost every month in the shower - especially after a particularly hard treatment or exam (lumbar punctures and bone marrow checks were devastatingly painful to witness, and much more painful to go through as my son had to).

There were those who tried to comfort us, me. They would call and chat and visit when appropriate. I looked forward to these angel friends. They saved us many times just by showing up and staring with us into the green hued light of a sterile room. There were those who seemed to delight in our misery. They would point out that if we were truly faithful the Lord would stretch forth His mighty hand and cure our son. Thanks. That helps. The truth is -and I understood this then- that the Lord is in control and although having faith is a good thing, unless I have the faith of a prophet, I wouldn't changed the Lord's plan in this matter. Tough luck, too bad, stinks to be me. This was a nice test and there you go. Deal with it. The words still hurt, then, and still now. Don't tell me I do not have faith when it comes to my little boy. I wanted to hurt this person back, but there is no equal to the pain her words caused. So move on.

We were in and out of the hospital so many times we had a specific room assigned just for us. The nurses knew us by name. The doctors were open and friendly. The routine became routine. Pajamas were home made so that he could have firemen and dinosaurs, trucks and other fun prints on his bleached and funky smelling hospital snap up the sides IV accessible nightwear. Special body pillows to alleviate the bruising of his body and bloodied nose just from his turning in his sleep. Mornings would be met with mouthwash to rinse the blood from his mouth so he could taste his breakfast. "Mint flavored everything in the morning." Hugs were forbidden at times because of the bruising. A spleenectomy was suggested, but his platelets never rose high enough to accommodate the surgery. And there were no trips to parks or slides or swings or school with chums. He was home schooled by a grumpy old lady who came twice a week. Eventually his levels rose enough to merit some activity, and then they would drop and he would be pulled from having a normal kid life a again.

Year six met us with quite a surprise. His levels began to rise. Each week a little more until he had enough to seem like a remission. Time was now monitored and eventually he was in a "remission". After a year they called it a full remission and we were allowed to come in for check ups once a month, then every 6 months and eventually once a year. Now there are blood counts and checks for various diseases every 5 years. So far so good.

He's married now. Almost 18 months. He still has some minor situations in his body that are directly linked to his childhood disease. But he's a big burly fireman. One of those that was on the first strike team a few years back when CA was on fire. His team was right there next to the team from up north, the team that lost one of their men down saving San Diego. My son fought 40' and 50' flames in the hills above Claremont, then San Berdoo, then San Diego. If they needed a strong team of fire fighters, they sent in my son's group. He's my hero.

Heavenly Father has a time schedule and a plan for our son. Our son is one of the healed. He is a miracle. There are moments when I am plagued with guilt because he was healed while other little children, some with more terrible diseases, grew up and are still tethered to the clinic, the 4th floor, to seclusion, to IV poles, to not being big and burly. These little children and their families are still in my heart. They are still heroes to me. I know their hope and they trial and their faith. I know that there is sometimes nothing left to say or do, but breathe in the sterilized bleach scented air and gaze into dotted ceiling tiles. Learn how to run and repair your IV pump. Find all the words hidden in the letters of your disease. Mentally destroy all your "mean white cells". Count the squares in your room, the holes in the curtains. Rent a video. Pray for the hug that can come when the count rises. Eat chocolate-hazelnut tofutti. Scare the nurses. Race in a wheelchair when no one is looking. Knock on the morgue door after 9 p.m. Replace the urine specimen with apple juice and drink it in front of the lab tech. Have your mom paint a smiley face on your tush with lip stick for the night nurse to find. Decorate your room, you're going to be there for a while.

There are other children who face different challenges. I feel empathy for them, their families, mommies and daddies. My hope is that they know they are not alone and that they are receiving hidden gifts and blessings. I pray for their strength and knowledge of eternal truths. My heart stays with them all.

Thank you to the friends we have. Thank you Heavenly Father for saving the little boy who now saves others. Thanks for the whole experience that helped our family stay together and prioritize what really matters.

* Idiopathic Thrombo Cytopenia Purpura or I.T.P. - I.T.P. as stated above, is usually a very harmless and dull disease in which patients basically recover without incident in about 6 weeks; and thus go unrecorded. Back in our day, not one case had been recorded in Southern California for 14 years prior. Severe cases such as ours, required hospitalization and treatment. Less severe recored cases require in and out patient treatments. By the time we were into 3 years of the disease there were 12 more boys in the same hemotology/onocology clinic. Idiopathic defines this as an unknown cause for disease. We believe it is environmentally charged as the disease is claiming more and more children each year. The cause is unknown, however boys seem to have a higher incident of illness than do girls. There is a strong indication that one acquires I.T.P. after a severe lung problem, such as a strong cold, or pneumonia. This was not our situation; we had no illness prior to the discovery of this. Although our son continues to have severs colds, allergies and bouts with pneumonia on a regular basis. On the plus side, he also has a more efficient use of his lungs, which enables him to use less air than most people in a similar situation. This is a good thing for a fire fighter using an air tank!

Awe, the smell of cremated cow in the afternoon!

Speaking of blessings... Thanks to two of my good friends who, a few years back, presented me with new pots and pans. Now some may think this a strange gift, but trust me when I say - Wa Hoo! It's days like today -when I burnt a perfectly good roast to a crackly crunch- that I appreciate the pots more and more.

I had another lovely migraine and had headed for the dark room for relief. I fell asleep and awoke to the scent of burning money. As I pulled the pot from the oven I knew dinner was a loss. The thought of prying charred flesh from the bottom of a pan is, well, there are no words. But pull I did. Because of the pot (yes!) the meat pealed right off and the pot was almost clean enough to just throw in the washer.

So, once again ladies, THANK YOU for the pots and pans!

yeah!

At the beginning of this semester #5 was informed that she was the Valedictorian, and then due to an admitted error from her less than stellar AP Chemistry teacher, she was denied the honour by 3 points, which she could have earned easily, but again, admittedly her Bio Teacher blew that opportunity for her. Top ranking in her school is fiercely close, with the top five literally separated by those 3 points and determined by each of the students' weighted classes.

All of the top 10 students have the typical "all A" report cards, the whole 4.0 GPA is a thing of the past. Now everything is based on which AP (accelerated program/advanced placement) classes you have; kicking the GPA goal to 5.0. She is blessed with a keen intellect and has taken every opportunity to advance as quickly through high school as possible. She chose classes based on their ability to be used as college courses, thus eliminating the need to take (and pay for them later) in college. At the end of each year she has taken the AP tests that, based on her scores, have enabled her to pretty much blow off her first year at the Bayou, or other colleges if she chooses.

This morning she was informed that she had indeed missed the spot for Valedictorian. She knew that a couple of months ago and dealt with the disappointment much better than S'mee (who wanted one AP Chem teacher in a dark alley...). She decided that being in the top 5 was a great accomplishment in it self and that she had already been accepted to the colleges she wished to attend and benefited from being able to chose instead of settle for; so why pout about top five? She's graceful as well as smart.

This morning she was also informed that she had placed second in her class and the honour of Salutatorian would be hers! We are extremely proud of her and are jumping through all sorts of joyous hoops and dancing all kinds of happy dances. (pretty good trick for dad and his funky knee) She of course is still a bit embarrassed about the whole of it and won't let me announce it to very many people. ("Not everyone has it as easy as me mom, look at #4, he had to struggle for everything he learned. And #3, who worked as hard as me and just missed it by inches."). I told you she was gracious. But I am not. So here's to my #5, and all my kids, who have accomplished a lot. And thanks to a Heavenly Father who has blessed them deeply! We are very very happy and extremely blessed!

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.

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.