Greek Tragedy or Parking Lot Theatre

O.k. so posts lately have been 'less than'. Ugh. A combination of my being incredibly dull and incredibly busy at the same time. I hope to remedy this soon. In the meantime I offer a strange little piece of conversation had between Thor and myself this afternoon:

Thor (reading an e-mail out loud): "Ah, good. They sent the R. T. C. S., great, ok. then."
Me: Articius?
Thor: (looking up confused) Wha? huh?
Me: Articius? You know, your e-mail... Articius? Like the famous Greek crafter: Articius Farticius?
Thor: (still confused): Um...no.

This concludes my lame attempt at levity in an empty parking lot after a long day at work. Have a great weekend y'all.

Jagged little pill...

Since I was a little girl I have had weirdo leg pain. Back then Mom used to console me with "It's growing pains, you'll be fine.". But even after I grew and grew and finally finished growing all the way up, the pain was still there.

Other things I have are totally weird. (read through the laundry list or just scroll to the next section!) Skin that hurts, wobbly legs and legs that dance in the middle of the night, being completely exhausted without reason, heightened sensory impulses (light, smell, hearing, and unusually sensitive to pain), sometimes my eyes blur, sometimes I can't concentrate well, sometimes I get dizzy and run into walls...which has always been a great source of entertainment! I have always been able to predict the weather like an old woman by the pain in the back of my joints. My gums swell for no reason, every once in a while I can't swallow. Sometimes my heart races, which is weird, because most of the time I have such low blood pressure that a few times doctors have been unduly concerned for my well being. Sometimes I feel out of breath just sitting. I don't react to prescriptions or OTC drugs in the normal way, so I always have to be careful when taking something I've never taken before and why I try not to ever take anything at all. Sometimes I get odd blisters in places that shouldn't have a blister (like my inner forearm?), and I get petechia from time to time for no reason. I could go on, because frankly, there are numerous other situations that I deal with on a daily basis, which I have come to think of as "normal" which really are not.

So'k.

I was once diagnosed with Fibromyalgia because of the myriad of weird oddities that I live with. (Is this a real disease or are they just pacifying me with a coolio name?) Now I see that there is a wonder drug out there for folks with Fibromyalgia. "Lyrica". After seeing the people in the ads I began to think "this may be the answer". But like the little pill that is supposed to help people with social anxiety break out of their shells but causes uncontrollable gas, diarrhea, mood swings, and sexual dysfunction, Lyrica has a few side effects also: (from their website)

In clinical trials, the most common side effects were:

• Dizziness Check
• Sleepiness Check
• Dry mouth Check
• Swelling of hands and feet Check
• Blurry vision Check
• Weight gain Check, Check and thensome! Check (yes! Let's all take some.)
• Trouble concentrating What? Huh? Oh yeah, Check!

LYRICA may cause serious allergic reactions. Yup.

• Call your doctor right away if you think you have any of the following symptoms of a serious allergic reaction:

• swelling of the face, mouth, lips, gums, tongue or neck check, check, check, check, check and check!

• have any trouble breathing been (GASP!) there

• Other allergic reactions may include rash, hives and blisters. yup, yup, yup.

2. LYRICA may cause dizziness and sleepiness. CheCk and yeeawn- yup.

• Do not drive a car, work with machines, or do other

dangerous activities until you know how LYRICA affects how alert you are. Ask your doctor when it is okay to do these activities.

3. LYRICA may cause problems with your eyesight, including blurry vision. check!

• Call your doctor if you have any changes in your eyesight. Hello, Doc?

So there you go. Pretty much every side effect of this wonder drug is a symptom that you probably already have! Yeah, those poor people with Social Anxiety get help that equals gas, diarrhea, mood swings and sexual dysfunction! And for those of us with Fibromyalgia... we get to take a magic pill that gives us our current symptoms.

I love science.

Now I'm just really hungry for a cookie.

If you make a new year's goal you're going to have to make some changes.

Those changes will make you sit down with a newspaper and circle certain sale items with a pen.

If you circle items on sale then you'll have to adjust your budget to accommodate the purchasing dates and quantity limits.

If you actually go to the store and purchase the limited quantities and other sale items you're going to have to keep them in the freezer.

If you need to keep stuff in the freezer you're going to have to clean and reorganize the freezer to make room for all the new items.

If you organize the freezer you'll find out that you'll need to get out the food sealer and repackage all the newly purchased food into meal size portions.

If you package the portions you'll need to get out the black magic marker and write the dates on the packages.

As long as you have all the dated portions in the freezer you may as well make menus.

If you're going to make menus, you're going to need a pen...

This is Halloween...CupCakes!

This is Halloween!
Originally uploaded by S'mee.

More Halloween goodies from the past. Nothing says fun like cool treats that aren't from the store. You can whip up a bunch of these for the kids you personally know and they will love gobblin' them up! This tutorial is a repeat from 2005, however they are pretty fun so here we go!

O.k. So this is the first run of cupcakes! I wasn't prepared for the decorations with special candies or frostings, but went ahead and came up with these little beauties with what we had on hand:

Dunked in Jelly Bellies, You're Bugging Me!, Spike, & Don't Forget to Floss.

Jack Skelington, Oogie Boogie, Sally, & Stock

High Anxiety, Buck, I only have eyes for you, & Miss Spider.

All cupcakes were chocolate with vanilla or chocolate frostings. I used Mega M&Ms, tiny M&Ms, Jelly Bellies, Life Savers, Sour Patch Strips, Green Apple Gum, Eclipse Gum, Jolly Rancher Rocks, and black Jimmies.

Frosting was applied via a zip lock bag snipped at one corner or with a butter knife. I also used a bamboo skewer to aid in the placement of many Jimmies! I am sure when I actually get out the cake gear and use the pro stuff they will come out even better. In the mean time, we're eatin' cupcakes for dessert tonight!

To view cupcake details more closely, click on the photo above. This will take you to my photo page at Flicker! Find the photo stream st the top right of the page and click the "next" photo, it should be titled: "I'm ready for my close up!" double click. It will come up full screen and with much better detail.

Getting Ready for Halloween Tutorial

I like a good Halloween. What's not to like about this pagan holiday? You get to dress goofy, beg for free candy, and scare people without fear of reprisal... well there is a risk of having your house t.p.'d but other than that, hey! Let's Party! Every year I try to deck the house out even though no one in our town really trick or treats anymore, unless they are looking for a way to satisfy their munchies, but still I love to do up the yard with luminaries, cool pumpkins and of course a silly graveyard.

O.k. I admit I pull this post out every other year, but hey, it's a good tutorial, quick, fun, EASY, and cheap! The main instructions are on the Flickr! page accessed via either clicking on the photo, or by clicking on the little Flickr! dookhickey on the right side near the bottom of the page. So without further ado... the DIY tombstone:

Flickr! page tute - click: Tombstones. Scroll down to the tombstone photos and follow the instruction beginning with "a" and finishing up with "g".

"Fred's Dead, Baby"
Originally uploaded by S'mee.

In the "spirit" of Halloween, I spent the afternoon in quiet solitude and carved up some fun! The undertaking? Tombstones!

This is the first of the new tombstones for this year. (2005) This one is 24" wide by 16" high and is made from 1" thick (I originally wrote 1 inch thick...but it's really 2 inches, oops.) foam board insulation that comes in a variety of sizes. (Lowes/Home Depot) I chose the 4'x8' sheets. About $12.00 out the door and into the minivan.

tombstone tutorial
Originally uploaded by S'mee.

If you are like S'mee, you will need to have the guys on the floor cut it into 2 pieces for you (so it can fit in your vehicle). As you can see in the photo, there are indeed "lines" that one could follow -if they wished to do so- the guys I was working with at the time were less than cooperative and decided to "freehand" it on the totally white side without marks and guidelines. UGH! and GRRR!

Make sure you stress the first cut along the lines, otherwise, like S'mee, you will lose one inch, or more, when they cut it diagonally. again UGH!

O.k. so click on that Flickr! link and get started, seriously, if you work in assembly line fashion, this only takes a few hours and you can whip out an entire graveyard!

accessories from a thrift store!

When it comes down to it, you need a place to put your feet up at the end of the day. We went in search of accessories at the local thrift stores and this is what we came up with:

2 pressed tin flower pots, turned up side down and glued (with tub caulking) to the underside of a cupboard door for a sofa table. All recycled, the pots from mom's house, the cupboard $1.00 from the Habitat For Humanity thrift in Provo. The small fish bowl (so long "Soup" we knew and loved thee well!) is filled with button cast offs.

An architectural fleur de lis adds a touch of sparkle on top of the deep brown book case. Recycled from mom.

$1.00 each buys empty frames, mirrors. A few personal photos along side a $3.00 shelf, all from Deseret Industries, Provo. (-except photos, they were gifts from a friend.)

A collection of vintage suitcases and a complete bowling bag! The suitcases were $3.00 a piece as was the bowling bag, shoes and ball inscribed with "Brownie". The suitcases and bowling bag act as a catch all by the door, the shoes and ball are accessories in the book cases. Look for them in the photos!

Doesn't everyone have one of these funky flower vases from the florist? She filled hers with more buttons and set it beside a rusted metal basket found at Urban Renewal in St. George for $5.00.

$1.50 for three antique bottles, a small paper mache globe, black with light tan lines and markings, a small silver tray, $2.00 and arranging books by colour on the shelves. (Notice the bowling ball in the right corner on the floor?)

Very difficult to see in the photo, but on top of the left book case is a pendant, a small painted piece of glass with the Eiffel Tower and "Paris!" written in script. On the other shelf are her bowling shoes, a small ceramic vase, and on top a glass bowl (recycled from mom) filled a new unnamed as yet fish, and the fleur de lis.

Randy Pausch

Today, one of the good guys graduated. Having passed all his tests Randy Pausch died leaving his wife and three children. If you haven't yet, click on the above link or on the screen below to watch and to listen to his Last Lecture. It's is worth the 104 minutes.

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.

Don't Try This At Home! Try It At A Friend's House!

Well, as long as today's theme is water I thought I'd set up this video for you. It was pointed out to me by my Sis, Chronicler. You see, she is the mother of three daughters. I have three sons and two daughters.

The thing with boys is this, they discover things, they have adventures, they act before they think things through. They freeze amphibians because they have watched one too many National Geographic Videos ("Beaver Pond" - I don't recommend it.)

If these were my boys I can tell you right now, things in this video would have been different. After each of the boys involved had a trial run, things would have been kicked up a notch. Say, surf style (standing up), or after dark with sparklers. I know, because when we had the advantage one summer of living where a pool was in the back yard and accessible, swimming was JUST. SO. BORING. yawn. No , we had to figure out ways to propel our bodies into the pool from various and sundry vantage points, like the roof. Or fence. Or off a moving bike. The diving board was just a means to an end, an additional tool in the arsenal of dangerous toys. Anything that could float was employed as a surfboard. Including your best friend. Contests and feats of strength were invented, and commentary was sometimes pre-scripted as to make sure nothing got left out. Boats were made, slides were invented, rules were constantly changed to promote manhood and the growth of chest hair. And the loss of cousins. kidding. I think.

We only lived in that house one summer however, so learning and testing had to take place in other arenas. Little sisters were also used as tools or physics experiments. Their smaller bodies lent them to be used as keys ("Shove your hand through the hole and turn the nob!"). Their cat like legs begged to be dropped from trees to see if they too (girls) landed on their feet. Or as human propellants ("As soon as you get this high...JUMP!) Poor little things were flung across the yard, into pools, off of trampolines and skate boards, and onto old mattresses or boxes (...like in the movies!)

One summer our then 16 year old was at his best friend's house. No parents. No sisters. Just the two of them. They had spent hours and hours filming each other trying out the newest tricks on their skateboards and decided to go indoors. One thing led to another and they began to wrestle each other while on the boards, in the house, in the living room (probably while eating something). My kid lost. He went elbow first through the fancy glass coffee table severing all the muscle systems, the ligaments, the tendons, and chipping the bone in his dominant arm about two inches above the elbow. When I first saw it, his arm muscle looked like a red sea urchin. Lovely. His brother drove him to meet me at the local ER and I have been informed that along the way the injured one managed to flirt with a girl in the car next to them at the stop light. (Never miss an opportunity.)

Long story short, he also severed the nerves, so he wasn't in pain, but that night he had an 8 hour appointment with a neuro surgeon who had to reconnect all of the above. He had an amazing recovery (one for the books actually) and a few months later had a "ligament transfer" (read: The neuro plastic surgeon harvested the extra ligaments in both of his arms and rewired his hand so that he could use it again, like the bionic man, only without the cool noise and slow motion, and um, six million dollars paid by the government.) He had 33 "entry points" in his one hand and after 130+stitches we stopped counting. Again he had a miraculous and amazingly quick recovery and he was the youngest patient to ever have this procedure at the time.

So yeah. Boys. I could go on, but suffice it to say, keep your eyes and the first aid kit open, never leave them alone for a second, and if you do, make sure your medical insurance is paid up!

all I wanted was to make a baby dress

Have you purchased a sewing machine lately?

As a new bride my mother decided I needed my own sewing machine. She scrounged around and found an Italian brand machine. A Bertinelli, ever heard of it? Nah, neither had I, or any of the repair shops I took it to. It was about 20 years old, but had been reconditioned and was about 88 pounds of sea foam green hardware. The motor sounded much like Mussolini's tank invading France, and it left destruction in it's wake the majority of the time. I look back on that machine as the tool that taught me to swear.

Time went by and we decided to take up with the allies and remove Italian machines from our home. We searched out what my mother and other's had said were good brands, Bernina, Pfaff, Viking...hey Viking, they sound like they could take on any sewing chore and do very well. After doing much research we decided that a Nordic made machine would be great, however the Euro had not yet been created, the iron curtain was still hung, and no matter how we thought it out, we could not afford a "good" machine. We went with a Singer. Yikes. It was a higher education to be sure:

Singer Sewing/Swearing 202. The Sewing/Swearing Technology program provides students with the technical and practical training necessary for work as a seamstress or sailor in a variety of settings, including homes, church, and/or but not limited to submarines, along side drunken sailors, long shore-man or bartenders frequented by the above. Students will examine the sewing machine (over and over and over), material becoming ground up into the feed dogs, thread entanglement and breakage, bobbin tension malfunctions, the use of scissors to extract clothing from the machine and seam ripping on all articles made.

Courses are not necessarily offered in the sequences in which they appear in the catalog. Oh no no no! Students will be thrown for a loop every time they begin to sew! No two projects will ever be the same and multiple application in regard to the same pattern will also turn out different as the machine is possessed by Satan.

Prerequisites for this course are previous work on a Bertinelli Machine, serving 2 years with the merchant marines, or surviving a coup d’état. Testing out is possible if you can go two rounds with...with... heck, my mom! (sorry mom, but yeah, I learned a lot at home!)

30 years have gone by and it's time to buy a new machine. The kids are (relatively) out of the house, we can eat food storage for a month, and save to buy a new (cherubic choruses singing) machine of Nordic heritage!

I thought. Have you seen the price of a new machine? The first store I went into we had to call in paramedics. The sales gal asked me what my budget was. I know I was going to shoot low, I mean really, I know I can't afford even a mid range machine, but all I need is a low end model, so I say (somewhat proudly) $350.00! The poor woman fell over backwards and knocked herself unconscious on a bolt of heavy duty denim.

After the medics took her off, her second came in and politely told me, trying very hard not to laugh, that the LOWEST price machine they sold was $500.00. She could show me a "craft" sewing machine, they come in a cardboard box, third shelf in the scrapbook isle. (swearing is coming back to me) "O.k. well show me what you do have in the bottom of the barrel category. It's been a while."

She takes me over to a "...really nice little machine that has been used as an upgrade. The owner bought it knowing they would return it within 90 days as a trade in... (WAIT! Did she just say "trade in"? as in "I want to trade in my station wagon for a minivan."?) ...so it has only 3 months usage! It retails for $5,000.00 but we are putting out for $1,500.00!" Holy cow, I am dead freaking meat.

When I gasp, she senses my surprise and informs me that to get a "really good quality machine I need to invest, not just buy." I am SO in trouble. She walks me over to -if it were a surf board- would be a long board. "This (she pauses for dramatic effect, arm pointing to the beast) is the Turbo-tastic computerized embroidery/quilting 350! It retails for (please sit down if you aren't already) $25,000.00." (and yes, I am exaggerating a lot in this post, but this price? um, no. THAT WAS THE ACTUAL PRICE!) She waits for a response. I am, frankly, hoping those paramedics haven't left the parking lot because I am feeling my left arm go numb. "You see, you need to invest!" She waits again for me to say something, anything, but I am still trying to get the elephant off my chest. "You can purchase a car, or a sewing machine...." Her voice kind of fades and gets echo-y and at that the room kind of swirls around and begins to turn black.

I woke up (in a cold sweat) with her standing over my (presumably dead) body. "S'mee? S'mee? Oh perhaps I have overwhelmed you. (ya think?) Oh dear, (she begins to giggle) you were serious about wanting a bottom of the line!" She walks me over to a rolling chair and sets me down to look at what she has never touched. Seriously, it had cobwebs between it and the other 3 machines on that desk. There were cobwebs and I think I heard eerie organ music in the background, it was a dark and scary place, the kind of place you just know something bad is going to happen.

"This (she is suddenly channeling Ben Stine) is the WhyBotherSewingAtAll 200. It sews. This model here (moving over one machine) is the Sure,IfYouWantEveryoneToLaughYouOutOf TheSewingGuild 180, it also sews, but it has reverse too. It starts at $550.00, but it's on sale, today until (what time is it now? 12:35) 1:00 for $399.00. This next one, the I'mSoEmbarrassedToEvenBeSittingByIt 450xl3 is also on sale, regularly $800.00, for $499.00. It sews, go backwards, and also makes zigzag stitches. (she begins this speech with those soothing, melodic tones one uses while trying to coax someone off a ledge) Now you see S'mee? Do you see why you need to invest? Why these machines here, well they just sew a straight stitch, maybe a button hole, but those over there, well, all you have to do is throw folded material at the machine and (in a strict German accent) command them to "make a toddler dress, size 4!"- and it's done! No cutting, no sitting at the machine, just done!"

I go through this process with four other sewing centers. Ladies and gentlemen, I have some career advise: Forget being an astronaut. Put down that dream of being a brain surgeon. Don't even think about being a rock star. The real money on this planet is in sewing machines!

I am still in the market for a machine I can afford. (please, for the love of Pete, stop laughing!) I have a few more places to explore before I finally commit to just killing myself. I'll let you know how it goes. Mussolini? Hitler? heck, if they knew how to do it right they would have just forced their enemies to try and buy a sewing machine.

One more reason Thor is amazing.

Dandelion Momma writes beautifully on summer happenings in her home and feelings that bring moments of relief in an often overwhelming life; one of which is the thought that perhaps someday she will be able to hang her laundry on a clothesline outside to dry and fluff in the warm summer sun. She makes it sound lovely.

One of my best friends hates to see the weather change to the point where she has to take her laundry indoors. She is a firm believer in the benefits of sun dried sheets and clothing that takes on the scent of the outdoors. She becomes slightly depressed during the long winter months of rain, or the threats thereof that chain her shirts, socks, and sweaters to the energy efficient dryer in the laundry room.

Me? I have issues.

For the first six and a half years and three children of our marriage Thor and I budgeted every penny trying to buy a house, feed little people and keep ends at least within a few feet of each other. Part of that budgeting was me lugging laundry and 1, then 2, then 3 children twenty minutes into town and doing laundry at the mat. I detested most every minute there as, at that time, it was the least expensive of the auto-mats in our hamlet, and being such, attracted those who could least afford the better machines and interiors. But I went dutifully. Thor was sacrificing (he had to live away from home for work, many times living in his car to save money rather than sleeping in a hotel), and this was my part. Many times the children were not allowed away from my sight lest an inebriated parent in the room engage them in a somewhat less than appropriate conversation.

After a while Thor saved enough and came home with a washer. It was small, the smallest one they made in the line he chose. It was a fabulous machine that lasted us well over 20 years in the long run. On average, with the kids and the size of the washer, I would do 3-4 loads a day over those 20 years. We hadn't yet afforded a dryer, so those loads were hung outside in the summer weather to dry. We had 1/2 acre of land, completely void of vegetation due to the high cost of water. The backyard was a vast flat piece of sandy dirt and gravel with foot high foxtail weeds in the spring until Thor could plow them down. But the line was well above the danger of the weeds and dirt and with the heat of the day, even the heaviest pair of denim jeans would be dry in a matter of minutes. In the winter laundry hung like Salvador Dali's "Persistence of Memory" all over the house furniture. When it finally dried it would come off the particular piece of furniture cast in its' shape, crispy and often oddly shaped even after putting it on. If I didn't take care to properly place the clothes once dried you could have a permanent "bubble" shape in an arm sleeve or the small of your back, or worse.

Along with saving for dryers we needed to save for other items. As a young bride and groom we received zero towels when we married. Z. RO. We got 5 hand mixers, 10 salad bowls, 6 chip and dip sets and 2 blenders, but no towels (or sheet sets for that matter). Thor's mother generously gave us her older towels and sheets which we gratefully took once we saw the price of new ones. It took me about six and a half years to finally save enough to buy brand new thick lovely towels!

I brought them home and cut the tags off of them, I put them in the washer and anticipated their thick fluffy loops drying us all later that night. I hung them out on the line and after 20 minutes or so went out to gather our new treasures! Instead I walked out to find the line post had broke at the base and fell to the ground. The line had twisted over and over in the wind and the towels had flopped and mopped up thousands of foxtails into the terrycloth. I unclipped each towel and wash cloth and cried crocodile tears as I surveyed the damage. Not one was saved, they all were covered so thick with the foxtails there was no hope of pulling them out without destroying the terry loops. I blew. After waiting almost seven years it was all I could take. The towels were gone. Worse, the money was gone with them.

With all the kids down for their naps I went to the garage. I found the hedge clippers and I went to work. I went to the downed line and chopped it into foot lengths of rope confetti, crying and yelling at the ground for all I was worth. I had lost my new beautiful longed-for and months of saved for towels and I was hysterical. I exhausted my emotion in that line and then picked up the destruction and put it all in the trash.

I walked into the house, took a shower and waited. Thor came home two days later and I showed off the towels and my handiwork. If we went into hock or hell, I was Scarlett O'Hara and as God as my Witness I would never use an outdoor clothes line again! Thor gave me the "Frankly my dear..." look, but before he could begin the look on my face told him not to say a word.

Poor Thor took all my wrath and then some. It was not his fault but I didn't know who else to blame and I needed to spend that rage. It took two more weeks but, Thor brought home a small dryer and kept me from chopping up anything else. It's been 30 some years now and I tell ya, there are just some things a wife needs; and for me, it was a washer and a dryer!

So I put it to you, is there any silly thing that pushed you over the edge of reason, for which your better half has saved you by providing a solution?

You're o.k. I'm o.k.

Olly with the ladies
Originally uploaded by Oliver Steeds

I've been out and about lately, reading, pondering. Seems we bloggers have aging on our minds. So who wants to be America's Top Model? I guess, in a way, we all do. But then there's me. I'm some what low maintenance.

I met my best girl friend years ago. She is tiny in height in shape, but never in hair, nails, or ideas. She is huge with ideas. And generosity, but that's another post. My best girlfriend has always tried to "girlify" me, you know, help me dress better, wear make up, do something -anything- with my hair and generally fem up a bit. o.k. It's not like I'm a lumberjack, but that I am more the hippy chick wanna be. If I had my way I'd look similar to Dharma's mom, Abby Fincklestein, but I'm no where near that cute.

I gave up make up in the 70's because it was just to suffocating on my skin and after a couple of hours I looked like a raccoon anyway. Back then I was 105lbs. with stick straight hair. In the 80's I wanted big hair (read BIG HAIR) like everyone else. So I fried the juju out of it. I also gained a lot of weight so I ended up looking much like a before photo of Richard Simmons...no one wants that, so I eased up on the perms.

Most of the 90's and, up until recent dates, I lived in the perma-pony tail, still sans make up, and let my casual dress lead the way. I wear a suit to church on Sundays because grown up ladies are supposed to do that, but frankly, I'm not a fan. I would love to wear my peasant blouses, broomstick skirt and berks, but I do know that I don't look like Abby enough to get away with that. I don't dye my hair. I have really nice colour anyway, who cares if it is going gray now. I'm 50, deal. I both fell into the "beauty" trap and avoided it, I'm an enigma, go figure. But I am aging and with age comes wisdom, or at least one can hope.

There are wrinkles now. There is the funky stretchy skin all over and the bread dough tummy... probably from eating too much bread. I lose more hair on the pillow than Thor ever will. I shed. Holy cow, do I shed!

But then I think about the women on my favourite t.v. show, the women of the Kombai and Mek tribes. Beautiful black women who have lived their lives in the wilderness of their countries, no make up, no lotions, no Victoria Secret, no Spanks, no toothbrush or nightly showers, no clothes or shoes. No models to speak of, no bill boards or infomercials, no make up counter at the center of the village, nothing. What would Carrie Bradshaw do? Probably throw her Prada pursed, Manolo Blahnik shod and Victor and Rolf draped self off the nearest cliff.

I look at my face in the mirror and see the crow's feet beginning to hop around, I see the laugh lines and my still crooked 'period' teeth. I see the "highlights" of gray in my charcoal hair. I feel the aches and pains from standing on a ladder one too many times. But I also see the wisdom that is coming with each year, the not worrying about the little things anymore, the ability to let things go that are no longer important.

I look to the women who see me as the young kid, and who laugh out loud at all the fuss about carbs, low-fat yogurt and the number of inches on your heels. One of my dear friends, in her 80's, just last week shared with our lunch group how she just looked straight at her doctor and told him he could jump in a lake, she was fine with her weight and at her age she wasn't about to go on a diet. Don't get me wrong, she does water aerobics three times a week, and takes full care of her ailing hubby all the while pulling off a pretty stressful and time consuming church job. She takes care of herself, but she doesn't worry about the outside too much any more. "It's great to go to the pool now. No one cares if you're too fat if you're in your 80s!" She says with a laugh. "You should see those tiny little 25 yr olds! They worry about every little jiggle. They don't realize men LOVE jiggles!" With age came confidence in her true self; added pounds and all.

We live in the U.S. The birthplace of feminism, which was supposed to give us all the "go ahead" to be what we wanted to be rather than having to be what someone else decided for us. And yet, for all those grandiose ideas we all still look to Carry as the role model, as the "it" girl. (a women, I might add, who has wrinkles, smokes like a freaking chimney, colours her hair, and -for all her liberated lifestyle- only wanted what most of us already have, a husband.) What happened to being o.k. and good enough in our own skin? What happened to being revered for who we are and not for what we own, wear, or how large or small certain parts of our anatomy are?

Look at the women in the photo above. Confident, learned, knowing, even sassy. These women grew into themselves not a size 0 designer label. They grew into what they were divinely designed to do. As young women they had full round hips and breasts. As their children grew away from a mother's need, these women's bodies changed and adapted to their new age. Are these women wistful that their bodies have changed, drastically? Maybe. But they go with it anyway. They add to their dog teeth necklace, honours and trophies for their abilities and skills, not for their collection of Jimmy Choos, snow white teeth, or size two body after fourty.

They sag. Their legs are scarred and pocked. The skin drapes over their ligaments and tell the struggle of their existence and experience. Their hair is a ball of woolen snarls, but their eyes... look at their eyes.

I'll give you a minute, go on, click on the photo and check it out as large as it comes. Look at the women.

I'll tell you right now the two on the outside, well, I would love to talk with them. Don't they look fabulous? They look like they have something to say! All three of them look smart, confident, strong in opinion and ethics, interesting and humourous. Wouldn't it be grand if someone saw a photo of us, no clothes, no make up, looking straight into the lens and could say that about each of us?

Now that gal in the middle, don't mess with her, she knows what she wants and I bet she gets it...every time. She doesn't look angry or overbearing, but defined, focused, purposed, and even humble. I bet she is a good friend. Dependable. Sure. The gal on the left, seems like the gal in high school who had it all together, a bit of attitude - the good kind- and always on the edge of laughter, the gal who went to work and got it done. The cutie on the right, I want to know her the most. She just looks like she is ready to share a good story, such smiling eyes.

In their tribe these women will be worked literally to death. Yet in that work will come their honour also. They will be praised for the children they bring into the world, rear and train. As they become older their knowledge will be sought after, and as elders they will be regarded as wise and powerful. Even in their death they will watch over their children and grandchildren and the tribe as a whole. They are revered because they are women. That's enough.

My point is this: Take care of yourself. Eat right, exercise, keep moving, stay involved, but for heaven's sake, take a look in the mirror and give yourself a break. You were designed to wrinkle, gray, and shift your body weight. It happens, it's o.k. Embrace the fact you are aging, it's certainly better than the alternative! Dye your hair if it makes you feel better, but don't feel bad if you don't. Diet if you like doing that, but it's o.k. to buy a size larger (or even more!) than you did when you were young and single. Relax, you're going to be fine the way you are.

Being you is enough.

random list

*We have two new RS Presidencies in our stake this month so we needed to have an orientation with the new gals. We decided a while back that this kind of a meeting isn't the most exciting, always goes longer than you'd think, and frankly everyone needs it, but nobody wants it. So we start ours out with a dinner.

There was one a while back where we were all so busy that we didn't have time to cook, so we ordered up Chinese and chatted it up over orange chicken and noodles. This dinner idea is a good one. The women who come are sometimes, not always, but sometimes intimidated or just plain overwhelmed. Seeing your 'leaders' eating a cheese enchilada has a way of relaxing people.

This last dinner meeting was so much fun. I got to meet up with a bunch of ladies I haven't seen in a while and I think we had more fun visiting than going over a list of do's and don'ts. One of the gals is a teacher, she had fabulous questions so the night went really fast.

I have been away from the house more than usual which has made the interior similar to that of an abandoned warehouse, except it's more like an abandoned 1500sf. E gads, the floor in the hall way looked like it had been carpeted with dryer lint. Partially because that is where the "laundry room" is, but also because we have just run it, done a few loads of laundry and headed out again without polishing the 'wood' (read laminate) floors and we haven't had Roomba plugged in for a while. (He goes back on duty today!) Under the dining room table looks just as fluffy, but with a stray dead leaf. Yeah. Appetizing.

*Ants. Wo Wo Wo unto the ants in this house! I am SO ticked (to use another insect for anger analogy) with these guys! I swear (I'm getting better about just doing that in my head, but still). We could have the kitchen counter smeared with marshmallow cream and they still would just randomly show up in the hall (which they did yesterday), the closet (what's in there?), Thor's desk (because bills are tasty?), or hanging out in the bathroom sink (yeah, I know, the whole water thing. But really; if they want water all that bad there is a neighbor who leaves his on all the freaking time!). We rarely have ants where you would expect them, but the whole of it is making me cranky. I have little black plastic ant traps everywhere. It's disgusting.

*I decided that I can't take the treadmill in the bedroom anymore. (I actually can't take a lot of what's in the bedroom anymore, but I can do something about the treadmill.) So I got it in my head that I could just move this and that and shove it into the girls' room where we already have the weight machine (and permanently set up ironing board - lovely, but I'm lazy.) and the twin bed for that single visitor (all other visitors fight over couches or -the winner- who gets to go to a hotel). So fate being what it is, I chose the day I wore my perfect white tee to do the move. No big deal, it folds; it has rollers.

O.k. So I clear the path from one room to the other, this baby is huge. I had to move a couple of books that stuck out too far in the hall book case, had to move said ironing board a few feet, put this over there, that over there and we're ready! I fold the machine and lock it and the tip the beast just enough to roll it. I SAID: TIP IT JUST ENOUGH TO ROLL IT! Good grief this thing weighs for thousand pounds and is stuck in those tiny but very deep carpet scars heavy objects make. UUUuuUuGGGhhh OOomph Oooohh uh oh! At this point I am making mental notes on how I am very happy no one is video taping this. Sweet mercy this is a bit more difficult than I antiscipated, but it's too late to stop now!

I make it the door, but too late to notice it is exactly 1.5 inches too wide to fit through. Seriously? Ugh. I think "o.k, I'll just roll it back into the bedroom and slide it through sideways." Well the machine only rolls one way. So I kind of have to power lift one end of the beast and twist it, drop it, lift the other end of the beast, twist it and drop it and lather rinse repeat about 15 times before I can wedge my tiny self between the beast and the door jam, which by the way rhymes very well with a perfectly good swear word right about now.

I get it turned around and begin the process all over again, in reverse, to get it out into the hallway. I get it to the other bedroom door and lather rinse repeat.

Inside the bedroom now I (inwardly begin to weep) realize my white tee shirt is no more. But I press on (because I am an idiot). I go back to the master bedroom to grab the floor mat that goes under the beast to catch any stray machine grease (too late, got all that on my white tee and new chinos). I mop it clean and set it down in the right spot. I am happy that the rollers will work! Yeah! Just roll it into place! Whew!

Well until I figure out that the rollers just wudge up the plastic mat into a thick plastic wave of doom. To remedy this I need to tip the beast back onto my self while I bend over enough to grab the plastic and keep it taut with one hand while I walk and balance the beast into place. Yes, this creates a beautiful visual; although I do feel like Mr. Incredible after I am done.

I get it where it needs to be and plug it in. The phone rings. It's my daughter in law who wants to know what I am doing (Is she watching through the windows?). "Just cleaning today" "You want an excuse to stop?" I knew I loved this girl the minute I laid eyes on her. We go to Target. Frankly, if she wanted me to go anywhere it would have been a great idea at that point!

*My two nephews (twins) went through the temple for the first time last night prior to leaving for their respective missions (one to the "South side of Chicago, to the baddest part of town..." Well perhaps not, but South Chicago, Spanish. and the other to Germany/Austria). That was great. A beautiful night to be there with family and friends and to fill up the temple with people we love and respect. These two young men are awesome.

*Our #3 is moving today. This is the third move this year. For some reason my daughters like moving. Not really, they just have a habit of doing it a lot. I am glad for this move. She has her first 'off the desert' job with a "nice" dentist and a fabulous apartment in a great area. Plus she gets to live alone for the first time. If she gets a roommate, she'll be the land lord. She gets to make the decisions, it will be her "house". I am happy for her. Being the alpha roommate has perks the lesser roommate does not. Furniture, temperature level, closet space, etc. She has paid her dues, it's her turn now! I would (most seriously) love to live in that building where she lives, it's a great place all around. Almost perfect SoCAL location for S'mee. She wouldn't be so happy to have us there, but when or if she moves out...hmmm, maybe I can talk Thor into that!

The big bonus is this building has an elevator! Thor and the brothers are thrilled to hear this. Her last move (well and the one today moving out) had those really cool exterior stairs that have about 6 steps, a landing, a turn, and then another 6 steps and a landing. For one level you had to turn three times. She lives 6 landings up. (plus there are five stairs down to the common area, then across the grounds and another five stairs up to the parking lot. These people are stair freaks) Not fun for the movers. Thor asked if he could just throw the stuff out the bedroom window and replace what was broke after the fall with new stuff. If you know Thor at all, this is a clear indication of just how horrid the stairs are. He is giddy about an elevator.

*It's only 10:00 a.m., but all I can think of is some B&R's chocolate chip ice cream. I think I'll call my daughter in law and see what she's doing for lunch.

For Sale!

Oh Holy Hannah! We live in an area that has 5-6 small communities all clumped together. While taking a Saturday drive around "town" with Thor we spied this bargain!

Granted it must have originated in Nevada (according to the plates), but somehow it ended up here. And for sale!

Why would anyone want to get rid of this vehicle?

what a weak!

O.k. so you saw the agenda. Somewhere in the middle I decided that heck, things are just going too smoothly so why not get really really ill? Yeah, that was fun.

I was going pretty good. I had babysat the most well behaved baby in the universe (oh my heck this child is easy!), and then geared up to go to Time Out For Women.

I went over to my sis's house to chat for a second while we 'canned' (that didn't take nearly as long as I had anticipated.) Then headed over to my mom's to do the mother's day gig because I knew I would be otherwise occupied on Sunday. After that I headed to the local Fresh and Easy to grab a lunch for the following day. I picked up a Caesar Salad and a peach nectar and went to my sis in laws to visit with her hubby and daughter until she got home. Her hubby grabbed subs and sodas and we spent the night yakking away till about midnight when her son told us to "GO TO BED!"

I hop into the shower and by 12:30 I was face down in the loo sacrificing to the porcelain gods. Not fun. Meatball and marinara in reverse is never a good idea. But one good 'ralph' and I thought I was done. "Just too much to eat." I thought. I thought wrong.

Literally every hour on the half I got up again to recycle the daily intake. Holy Schmoly. At 4:30 my tour of duty woke up sis and she was standing outside the door as I crawled out to leave. I took the cold glass of water she offered, it was heaven to sip, and explained the situation. She prophesied that I wouldn't be heading down to San Diego that morning. She's always been a smart one.

At 5:30 I again met her in the hall and decided to call it. Flat Lined, I gathered my bags, surrendered my ticket in hopes of her finding someone to go in my stead, and headed to the car. As we were at the front door her son popped his 12 year old head out from underneath the dining room table and said, "GO TO BED! YOU'VE BEEN TALKING ALLLLLLL NIGHT!" -seems he and a cousin were camped out there and had heard us "talking" all night. yikes.

I drove the hour and a half home in about two hours. I stopped three times to 'ralph' and breathe. My head was beginning to split open, fever, chills, and I seriously thought that Thor would have to come and drive me home, abandoning my vehicle (or his) until the resurrection...I was dying.

My last stop before home was a Pep Boys at 6:45, where I am sure the few cars driving by enjoyed the sight of me, red satin night shirt and jeans, hung over in half, crying and ralphing in the flower bed. Pretty. "Yup, she had a good time last night!"

I called to wake up Thor about ten minutes before I drove into the drive way, or front yard as it turned out, and went to bed. The next 10 hours were the same as the previous, on the half hour; until finally, it ended.

Sweet Mercy! That was one nasty 36 hours. I slept through Mother's Day. I was weak come Monday, but healthy enough to babysit the little guy again, and let me say I am SO GLAD that baby is easy. He was so sweet and just the best little boy.

I came home again for Wednesday to attend RS meetings and to gear up for the weekend's festivities. Thursday I meet with Chronicler who is making me tart shells to fill. (click on her link to see what I get to fill! YUM!)

Friday we'll cook pork loin, apple sauce, pineapples, dressing, and I'll make the tarts! Set up tables, decorate and prepare flowers. That night we'll serve and clean up; and then, I suspect, I will hit the mattress dead, or at least hoping to be!

Profiling for Terrorists=Safety for All!

There are a few of you who literally know what I look like. For the rest of you let me draw you a picture:

5'4"(and that's a stretch), 50 yrs.old, over weight (seriously, just look at the icon, it's pretty accurate), short gray hair, glasses, very stiff legs and neck on the day in question, which means I was slow and walking rather "broken".

As that may be I am still the epitome of the American Enemy, a terrorist.

Yup. According to the folks at The River in Rancho Mirage, I am terrorist material!

I was taking the photographs you see in this post between 8:30a.m. and 10:00a.m. last Friday when I was approached by a Security Guard. Now to his credit, he seemed really embarrassed to "do his job", however do his job he did. Seems that "someone" had reported me. I was "suspicious". This is pretty much how the conversation went down:

Guard: Hello

S'mee: Hey! Pretty day!

G: What are you taking a photo of?

S: (as I am aiming at the roof of the Cheesecake Factory) The scroll work on the facade.

G: The what?

S: The scroll work. See? It's really cool and I bet no one ever pays attention to it. It's going to look great in a tight shot.

G: yeah? hmm.

S: Yeah! I got up early this morning so I could shoot the desert flowers in macro...

G: Really? I'm just learning to do that! Were you up at dawn?

S: Not that early, but early enough to get good light. Now it's too bright and those bougainvillea blooms are giving me trouble; too bright, too much contrast between the white and magenta.

G: So do you work for (a local newspaper)?

S: Oh heck no! hehe, my husband is in a hotel basement for a conference and this is how I keep myself occupied! I just go all over taking whatever sights I can. I like macro shots of architecture and ...

G: Shrubbery. Right. Yeah, you see, that's why I'm here.

S: huh?

G: Yeah, I've been trailing you for about 40 minutes. All I have seen you do is bend over and take pictures of the ground or stick your head in a bush. 'Figured all you were taking pictures of were close ups on flowers and bushes.

S: hehe, yup, I'm weird that way.

G: Well, I hate to say this but I need to escort you to your car. You need to leave.

S: What!?!

G: Yeah, someone called in a report a while back; said they saw you taking "suspicious" photos. Thought maybe we should check it out. That "someone" talked to a store owner who talked with another and then more and more shop owners called in and well, we have rules and policies about this sort of thing.

S: You mean against taking pictures of flowers? I didn't take any photos of people or store designs. You want to check out my film?

G: No, like I said, I've been watching you for 40 minutes and all I have seen is you taking shots of bushes. Well until the rooftop. They think you could be taking photos to use in a (rolling eyes) "plan".

S: Sooo, I'm taking terrorist photos? hehe. Let me explain something. First off, If I were to take off running, you could catch me in three steps. Second, there ain't a fat girl alive who would blow up the Cheesecake Factory! And third, if I were a terrorist and I did somehow manage to blow up this place, what would I accomplish? Blowing up, what, like, 250 old people? I'd be laughed out of terrorist school!

G: hehe, I see your point, but you still need to leave.

So leave I did. Let this be a lesson to you folks. If you are ever in Rancho Mirage, home to the likes of the Betty Ford Center, 12 golf courses, a casino, and the 67% elderly population who boast that Sony Bono was once their Representative...remember that they are also very diligent about civic security! The bushes have eyes! They have a "no tolerance" enforcement for their "suspicious" photographers. Terrorists beware! These folks are on high alert and will take down -or at least escort politely out- anyone profiled as "dangerous!"

I don't know about you, but after seeing these "plan" photos, I'll be sleepin' with one eye open! (shudder!)
(shhhh! That bud right there---> it's a microphone!)

Celebrity Sighting!

Hey! Lookie over there! I see a celebrity! Me! I'm a guest poster (or is the poser???) at Mormon Mommy Wars today! Check me out!

"We can help, but YOU have to make the call..."

Ahh, kids. Back in the day I would gather up all of my 5, and a couple of other kids, and we'd pile into the minivan and head out for school every morning. I was the Kool-Ade Mom on the block, so I got a lot of kids hanging out at the house both before and after school. I loved that.

This was the day before law required seat belts. Yes there used to be a havoc in the streets and people just threw their offspring haphazardly into the back of whatever vehicle they owned and off they went. Let me tell you, a kid understood the laws of physics much faster back then.

We had the first Caravan off the line! It looked like a small white refrigerator on four wheels. Yeah, we were stylin'! We had bucket seats in front a 3 passenger bench seat in the middle, which did have a baby car seat, and the third row consisted of two folding lawn chairs. Heck, those third seats were EXPENSIVE! Ingenuity! Thor went down to Thrifty's and picked up to lawn chairs for a total of $12. When the kids complained about not having a seat belt, Thor took two of his old belts and wove them between the plastic webbing and TA-DA! seat belts! It was really fun to watch the boys tip over when you took a turn a little fast...they loved that. (You should have seen the face plants when you had to brake fast!)

The morning routine was:
1.Everyone in the neighborhood who needs a ride to school meet at the house.
2. Have neighborhood prayer. (It used to be just family prayer, but the kids began to protest so that circle on the living room floor got rather big.)
3. Everyone pile in the car. Leave the car seat for the youngest; and find a seat, or just stand, whatever... it's only 6 or 7 blocks.
4. Grab my hot chocolate travel mug.
5. DRIVE!
6. Unload everybody and their duck.
7. Drive home.
8. Do this all again in reverse at 2.

One Wednesday, (I know it was Wednesday, because in our house each kid was assigned a day. This part of the story is about #3, and the third day is Wednesday...see how this all works out?) Anywho, #3 is in the front seat crying as we leave. Everything went well until we start to pull out of the drive and she just began crying....hard.

I inquire to her distress and she burst out with, "YOU NEED HELP MOM! I LOVE YOU, BUT YOU NEED HELP!" I am even more curious so I ask why I need help? "BECAUSE YOU DRINK AND DRIVE ---EVERYDAY! AND NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO DRINK AND DRIVE!" I tried (not to laugh) to calm her down and she begins telling me that "there are hot-lines" and that I "am not alone", and that "there are people who can help " me, but that I "have to make the first step". "And while we're talking about it, THE BABY NEEDS HELP TOO! SHE ALSO HAS A DRINKING PROBLEM!" and the crying reaches an almost fever pitch. She is completely undone.

Now, in the back seat and the lawn chairs, other children are beginning to come undone also, only with laughter, which doesn't help the situation up front.

I finish the drive to school and drop off the minions but keep back screaming Mimi. I try to calm her down. She finally gets to a point where she is sounding more and more like Mary Richards, with a very high pitched staccato voice. "The. Ba. AY. BEeeee. Has. A. Drink. Ink. Ing. Prob. Lem!" (Oh Mr. Grant!) "Ev. REeee. Time. She. Drink. Inks. She. E. SPIIILLLLS!"

After a long talk I convince her we'll get the help we need; and resolve to never allow her to watch t.v. again.

I am sad to report, that after all these years, I still drink and drive.

Holy Canole, It's a girl!

When I was a little girl mom worked day and night, night and day. One of the side effects of this constant working was not enough time to fiddle with four little heads of hair. So one got buzzed, and the other three were cut into "Peter Pan" bobs for ease. Wash. Dry. Run out to the playground. That was the routine until you were old enough to protest and insist on length.

By the time I finally got the gumption to express the desire for long hair I had fallen so in love with length that I let it grow. And grow. And grow.

When I got married I could feel my hair at my waist. A few years later I was able to sit on it! But after baby number three came along I decided maybe the long hair would be easier to maintain if it weren't so long. So off it went.

The eighties were a sad and tragic time for me. Remember all that BIG hair? I mean radically HUGE FRIZZY WHITE GIRL WITH A FRO hair. yeah. It was horrid. My hair refused to take a perm, so I fried it. Over and over and over again and eventually I looked like the bride of Frankenstein.

Eventually I promised myself that I would never cut my hair again. I would never perm my hair again. Pony tails would reign supreme. And for a few years they have. Sure I have cut my hair now and then, but only to my shoulders...had to keep it long enough to put back into a pony tail so I could work. I CANNOT work with hair on my neck or face. So in the pony it would go.

Today, I went to my favourite stylist and let her loose. Do whatever! She sent a few options via e-mail last night and I had Thor pick out what he thought were best. I had other ideas, until he revealed that my choices were "helmets". (He didn't know I was secretly leaning in that direction.) After hearing that remarks I saw what he saw and went with what he thought was a good choice.

I am still trying to get used to it. No hair, none on my neck, short short short! And bangs. Sweet mercy I have bangs. Oy.

So I went out and bought a blow dryer, a curling iron and my friend is bringing me home "product", shampoo and conditioner. Someone call the papers, I'm a girl.