A man and woman had been married for more than 60 years. They had shared everything. They had talked about everything. They had kept no secrets from each other, except that the little old woman had a shoe box in the top of her closet that she had cautioned her husband never to open or ask her about.

For all of these years, he had never thought about the box, but one day the little old woman got very sick and the doctor said she would not recover.

In trying to sort out their affairs, the little old man took down the shoe box and took it to his wife's bedside. She agreed that it was time that he should know what was in the box. When he opened it, he found two crocheted dolls and a stack of money totaling $95,000.

He asked her about the contents. "When we were to be married," she said, "my grandmother told me the secret of a happy marriage was to never argue. She told me that if I ever got angry with you, I should just keep quiet and crochet a doll."

The little old man was so moved, he had to fight back tears. Only two precious dolls were in the box. She had only been angry with him two times in all those years of living and loving. He almost burst with happiness.

"Honey," he said, "that explains the doll, but what about all of this money? Where did it come from?"

"Oh," she said, "that's the money I made from selling the dolls."

Christmas Crazy

My husband and I attempted to begin and complete my daughter’s Christmas shopping in one night—last night. It shouldn’t have been a problem. Most of the things she asked for she isn't going to get...too obnoxious...too babyish...too much money...all the above...blah blah blah. She wants that "Butterscotch" horse (yeah, right...it's like $200 dollars). She also wants that “Squawkers” talking parrot (No way am I gonna spend $60 on something named "squawkers"). As odd as it sounds, she has also been asking for a cake decorating kit. "MOM!! MOM!!! It's the Betty Crocker Cake Decorator. It comes with all the things you see here, and you must be 18-years or older to buy!" I remind you that my daughter is 6.

The one thing that she really really wanted is the Polly Pocket Race to the Mall racetrack. She’s been begging for it since September and even saved up enough money to purchase it herself ($35 worth of 25-cent lemonade). By the time she had enough money, it was December and I wouldn’t let her buy it, “No way—why do you want to spend all your money on something that expensive when you can ask the Big Guy (Santa) to get it for you?!?” So every time she sees a Santa, she asks for Polly Pocket Race to the Mall. (Actually, she asks for “Barbie” Race to the Mall, and it took me 2 months to figure out it’s Polly Pocket, not Barbie. Barbie doesn’t have a race track—she’s so lame.).

Guess what…apparently every six-year-old girl wants Polly Pocket Race to the Mall. Either that, or NO one wanted it and the stores quit carrying it.

Oh, crap.

I have visions of a road trip to Wyoming…then maybe Kansas…quite possibly New Mexico. Whadda ya say, Ruth? You with me?

Getting closer...closer...

Tonight is the night my husband and I shop for the girl (did you read the book, The Road? The main characters are "the boy" and "the man"...it's odd). I'm excited and nervous. My husband is a tortured soul. He hates crowds and this is going to be a living hell. I think he'd rather be poked in the eye than go Christmas shopping. BUT as long as he does his breathing exercises, we'll be fine (I'll take my flask in case of an emergency).

After this little excursion, we're done...except for food. We're having an open house on Christmas Eve and I am looking forward to my menu. So far I've settled on classic martinis, Cosmo martinis, Chambord and champagne cocktails, prosciutto-wrapped Parmesan-pecan dates, bacon-wrapped scallops, hot artichoke spinach dip, and Asian meatballs. Of course, I'll have a meat and cheese tray, veggie tray, crackers, pretzels, chips, salsa, cookies, blah blah blah. I'm still working on it.

You wanna come to my party, don't you? But you can't...I know, I know, I've heard all the excuses, "But I live in Carolina!" "But we do Christmas Eve at the in-laws house." "I'm going to my moms!" Blah blah bah humbug. I'm gonna party anyway.

I don't expect that we'll have as large a crowd as we did last year, but that's cool because I can get much more fancy with my menu if I'm not feeding an army. Can you imagine making 4 dozen bacon wrapped scallops only to have them all eaten within the first 20 minutes of the party?

I have the week of Christmas off of work. My daughter and I are planning all kinds of adventures. I was so excited to take her to the US Mint in Denver only to find out that all the tickets through the end of December were snatched up two weeks ago. We'll find something even more fantastic to do. Some of our best days are pajama days, so it's not like she has high standards.

I may or may not post again before the new year. If I do not, I want to be sure I wish you all a very happy holiday season.

Cheers!
- rachel

Mixed emotions

I went to the doctor on Monday for a meds check. I gained even MORE weight. Holy crap...I'm THIRTY-FIVE pounds overweight. Needless to say, it was like getting punched in the gut. I have to get this under control. I'm chatting with the doctor and telling her that I AM exercising...30 minutes of hard core cardio 3-5 days a week. And I've been doing this for weeks! I would have been okay if she's told me that I didn't loose weight, but still gaining...that's not acceptable. I'm pissed.

Doctor tells me, "Start writing down everything you put in your mouth. You've got hidden calories in there somewhere." I'm heart broken because I'm sure it's the booze. I just did a quick looksie and guess what? A glass of red wine has 170 calories in it. That's more than a can of soda. Do you know how long I have to sweat to burn 170 calories? God help me. I looked up whiskey...it's only FIFTY calories! Hallelujah! God loves me and he wants me to be warm and fuzzy!

I'm not going to do anything about this until after the first of the year. I'm going to keep on with what I'm doing now, I'm just not going to start counting calories and fat and sodium, etc. until the holidays are over. And until then, I'll take comfort in knowing that I can drink my whisky guilt-free.

Christmas meme

Welcome to the Christmas edition of getting to know your friends. Okay, here's what you're supposed to do, Just copy this entire blog and paste into a new blog. Change all the answers so that they apply to you. If you play along leave me a comment and a link to your blog I'd love to see what you have to say!

1. Wrapping Paper or Gift Bags?
wrapping paper
2. Real tree or artificial?
real tree (but Uberstrickenfrau has made me rethink this..who knows what will happen next year).
3. When do you put up the tree?
The first or second weekend in December.
4. When do you take down the tree?
Depends on how dry it is--First weekend in January.
5. Do you like Egg Nog?
Yup--with brandy or bourbon (not rum).
6. Favorite gift received as a child?
I don't know that it was my favorite as much as it is the one I remember the best--it was a mermaid doll bath toy with a sponge lily pad.
7. Do you have a nativity scene?
Yes...two.
8. Hardest person to buy for?
It changes every year. Probably have to say my husband's parents.
9. Easiest person to buy for?
My daughter
10. Weirdest Christmas gift you ever received? (I changed this--it used to say the "worst")
It's a tie between the swimsuit and ONE set of towels (1 bath, 1 hand, and 1 washcloth)
11. Mail or email Christmas Cards?
If you're going to do it, I vote snail mail, but I don't do it, so I don't feel qualified to vote.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie?
A Wonderful Life.
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
January.
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
Probably, but I can't think of what it was.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
Prime Rib.
16. Clear lights or coloured?
Coloured, hands down.
17. Favorite Christmas Song?
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen by Bare Naked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan
18. Travel or stay home at Christmas?
Stay home!! (meaning in town)
19. Can you name all of Santa’s Reindeer?
Yes. Side note: my husband argues that it's Donner, but I say it's Donder (German word for thunder). What do you think?
20. Angel or Star on the top of the tree?
Star
21. Open Christmas Eve or Morning?
Morning
22. Most annoying thing about this time of year?
The crowds!
23. What’s the corniest family tradition you do or miss doing?
All our family traditions are corny!
24. What’s the worst thing you’ve seen related to Christmas?
Hummm...this one has me stumped.
25. Which looks best, theme trees or homey trees?
Homey trees.
26. Gingerbread or Sugar Cookies?
Gingerbread--gingerbread is more special.
27. Do you like fruitcake?
Oh yeah, baby--see "I've been tagged, number 2)

I've been TAGGED!

Well, I was going to talk about my symptoms of early menopause, but Ruth tagged me. I’ve never been tagged before. The rules (posted below) say I have to share 7 random and/or weird things about me. I am finding it embarrassingly difficult to come up with 7 random and/or weird things. I might need to enlist your help! Or, maybe I can list that as a weird thing—I’m so normal, that I’m weird! Anyway, here I go…

THE RULES:
1. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

7 Weird Things 'bout ME...

1. I hate to have my hands wet…freaks me out! The only thing worse than having my hands wet, is touching someone else’s wet hands. My daughter isn’t allowed to touch me after she gets out of the pool or bath tub until all the wrinkles go away.

2. I really, seriously LOVE fruitcake. (Okay, that’s enough. Take her away!)

3. I love to have my toes pulled and my nails (finger and toe) squeezed.

4. I cry when I’m really happy or excited. My husband and I went on a scenic 45-minute train ride a couple years ago. I got so excited when they blew the whistle that I burst into tears. I cried at the rodeo one year. I’ve been known to cry during SuperBowl highlights. Hell, I even cry when I hear really good songs on the radio.

5. Logic was my favorite college course. I loved logic. It was the only course that I got an ‘A’ in.

6. I love to garden, but rarely eat anything that I grow.

7. I believe using the bathroom is the most inconvenient chore EVER. Because of this, I hold my pee until my eyes water.

OH thank God I’m done! Whew! Now the next part of this getting tagged business requires that I “tag” 7 random people. I don’t know 7 people who blog, so I am REALLY gonna get random. I closed my eyes, spun the globe, and here is who I picked…

Princess Trish, Kati, Sue, Alexandra, Janey, Carol, and last, but not least…Rachel

You're not crazy, ladies. None of you know me. But you can be sure I'm going to be checking in on you periodically to see if you've played the game!

Cheers!

Speaking of Gifts

Happy 31st Birthday to my brother, David. I love ya, big guy!

Gift Quandaries

I do my Christmas shopping year round. I’m flipping through a catalog and I see a token that is the most perfect gift ever for Sam I Am. I HAVE to buy this for Sam I Am, and I do. Rather than give it to Sam I Am right away, I save it for Christmas. Few weeks later I stumble across the cutest token of love that would be the PERFECT gift for Cinderella and Tom Thumb. And, “Oh My! 75% off at Happily Ever After—why for only a few dollars, I can add a little somethin-somethin to those tokens of love!”

Here’s where the quandary comes in…What about Mother Goose and Chicken Little? It’s December and I don’t have anything for Mother Goose OR Chicken Little. I can’t ship gifts to Cinderella, Tom Thumb, and Sam I Am and not send something for Mother Goose and Chicken Little. Now, I’m in a panic because I have to find a gift for Mother Goose and Chicken Little.

It happens to me EVERY year. I find myself unprepared and I end up making a forced purchase. I buy something just so I have something, and that is EXACTLY the way it comes across. I just don’t know anyway around it. Any ideas?

Attack Critters

I have lived in my house for 5 years and for 5 years I have insisted that we have critters living inside the living room/front porch wall. I hear them in there scratching and thumping around. I don't know what they are, but they're fairly large and they can get pretty rowdy when no one else is around.

My husband has never heard the noises and he insists I'm full of shit. He says, "Show me the hole, Rachel. There's no hole!" And when there is snow, he says, "Where are the foot prints? There's no footprints on the roof!"

We have even gone as far as to get the neighbors involved in this. We invite them over for little séances. "SSSHHHH!! Did you hear that?"

Blah blah blah---Rachel is crazy---blah blah blah, ha ha!

So, my husband is up on the roof Saturday hanging our Christmas lights. My daughter and I are on the side of the house hanging a garland. My husband says, "Hey, Rach…You're not crazy." I thank him for the vote of confidence, but insist that he elaborate. He tells me he found the hole. Apparently, it is the size of his fist.

As we contemplate what to do (Him: "Should we seal it?" Me: "If you seal the hole and there are critters in there, they'll die and stink!" Him: " Well, they won't stink forEVER!") As we are chattering, he looks into the hole and a squirrel jumps out, smacks into his forehead and almost literally flies across the room to the back of the house. All I can say now is that we're lucky he didn't fall off the roof. It scared him so bad, he dang near messed in his pants. My daughter and I laughed so hard, we dang near messed in our pants...and we didn't even see it happen (but we did see the red mark it left on his forehead)!

Where's the video camera when you need it?

Office Etiquette

I was 22 when I got my first office job. All my work experience had been retail and bar and restaurant and I was completely unprepared for the office life. It was the only job I ever got fired from. I was told, “It’s just not working out.” And I agreed whole heartily, but that didn’t stop me from crying. I cried so hard, I got the hic-ups. But I shook hands and thanked them for giving me a chance.

It was the idea that “we are NOT created equal” that I got hung up on. For example, just because the VP of Operations and the Accounting Department get 2-hour lunches, doesn’t mean I (the receptionist) get 2-hour lunches. Sometimes I wish someone had pulled me aside and explained this to me. Twelve years later, I still struggle with this concept, but at least I know to keep my mouth shut.

There are examples of office etiquette that can be (and should be) taught. A young, fresh college grad might need to be reminded that cleavage is generally frowned upon in the professional office atmosphere. There is no place in the office for terms of endearment. This includes “Sweetie”, “Sunshine”, “Hun”, and even “Dude”.

And then there are things that should go without saying. I can NOT think of a single incident where it is appropriate to share the volume of your “flow” with a coworker. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever…NEVER! I don’t want to know how many feminine hygiene products you’ve gone through. I don’t want to know that your cycle is mixed up because you’re going through menopause. I’m totally grossed out knowing that you had a “blow-out”! SAVE IT, LADY!! Fact of life or not, that shit has NO place in the office. I don’t want to know about cramps, irritable bowel syndrome, incontinence, or yeast infections. In fact, if the source of your worries is in anyway associated with your crotch or your crack, save it for your diary.

Thank you.

Wrong Number

The name of the company I work for gives people the impression that we offer advice on health issues. We don’t. At least, that’s not what our company does, but if you get me on the phone…

I had a guy call once to ask if it’s safe to eat canned food that had been frozen. My reply to him? “Why, that’s a good question…let’s see what we can find!” I Googled Green Giant and referred him to their hotline. The answer is no. Green Giant does not recommend eating canned food that has frozen (he didn’t store it in the freezer, rather in his garage and it got really REALLY cold that week).

Lots of people call to ask for physician referrals. One woman started the call by saying, “Please don’t laugh—this is not a prank call…” I knew right away it was going to be good. She was looking for a physician who performs colon cleansing. I referred her to the “holistic medicine” section of the yellow pages.

A sweet old lady called one day because she was worried about her neighbor. Her neighbor was an elderly woman trying to care for her adult son who suffered a serious brain injury. The caller was concerned that her neighbor was too poor and too old to be responsible for caring for another person and she wondered if there was someone who could help her neighbor. I gave this lady the phone number for the Colorado Medicaid office.

I had one woman walk into my office looking for help. Her grandchild was in Nevada and she was trying to get her daughter and the baby moved to Colorado and was having a really hard time with Medicaid. Apparently, the baby had serious health complications and was covered under Nevada Medicaid. She was told that if mother and child moved to Colorado, they’d loose coverage. The poor woman went from stark raving mad to bitter weeping back to raving mad. I felt terrible and there was nothing I could do…so I held her hand and sympathized best that I could.

The lady that called yesterday (prompting this post) was calling from Planned Parenthood. She JUST found out that her friend’s daughter was pregnant. The friend (suspecting that her daughter was having sex) kicked the 17-year-old out of the house. Caller took the girl into her home, but doesn’t want financial responsibility. She wanted the phone number for Medicaid and WIC. I don’t know WHO this woman thought she was calling, but I looked up the numbers for her.

I hope they all find what they need.

Hair

I found another gray hair today. I have had one for several years. Just one. But then today, I found a second one and it’s flippin’ beautiful. I noticed it while I was washing my hands in the bathroom. I leaned forward a bit and kind of turned my head from side to side real slow, “Is that a gray hair?” I asked. I finished my hands and reached up to touch the hair. It’s a tad courser then the rest and it sparkles. It is almost beautiful enough to make me stop coloring my hair. My natural hair color is mouse brown and it always looks like it needs to be washed, so I lighten it to “medium golden blond”.

Speaking of hair…let me ask you this, why don’t we all just shave our heads and wear wigs? I’m serious. I have been really putting some thought into it and I’m going to start pricing wigs. My husband thinks it is the same as asking a dentist to pull all your teeth so you can get dentures. But he’s wrong. First of all, there is no pain involved in shaving your head. And the benefits of a wig, I think, far outweigh the benefits of false teeth. And the expense of false teeth…I imagine you could buy dozens of wigs for the cost of just pulling your old teeth, never mind how much it costs for the new ones!

So what do you say girls? Who's with me?

Remembering Thanksgiving

Holy cow...has it been a whole week? (...yeah..a week and then some!) I must have dozed off or something.

Tis the week of turkey. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday...at least it was my favorite holiday when I was growing up. I feel that starting to fade some. When I lived in Carolina, spring was my favorite season. After living in Colorado for a few years, I emailed the family to report the latest snowstorm. We got 36 inches in 2 days one March. My eldest brother replied to me with a Carolina weather report. It was such a beautiful description, I closed my eyes and could see it, feel it and smell it. I wish I would have saved it. You can't beat spring in Carolina. S pring in Colorado equals snow. Really heavy, sloppy, wet, nasty-ass snow. YICK!

Being away from my family for so long is starting to change my impression of holidays, too. As much as I love my husband and my daughter, and any of our friends that we may end up sharing the day with, it just isn't the same as Carolina.

We moved from Texas back to Carolina in 1980. The first year or two that we lived there, my parents invited Virginia Clemmer to our home for Thanksgiving dinner. Ms. Clemmer was an elderly woman who lived alone. She was in relatively poor health, she didn't have much money, and what money she did have, she gave away. Her home was pretty run down, she didn't have any family, and she was the sweetest woman in the world. The next year, she told my folks that she had a couple friends who didn't have any where to go, and would we mind having them, too. As the years passed, the guest list got bigger. Eventually, we moved into the church's school cafeteria, then into the church's multi-purpose room.

The last time I participated in this dinner was 1993. We served more than 200 people. The entire community got involved. We had dozens and dozens of volunteers. Some came early to set up tables and chairs, to cook, and serve. Some drove all over the city to pick up elderly and bring them to the church. Lots of people donated food, and still others came when the party was over and helped wash dishes. We served dozens of turkeys and hams. There were more casseroles and pies than you could count.

And the company was fantastic. There is so much to learn from senior citizens. But they weren't all old or lonely. Lots of families joined us for the day, too. We'd gather for 3 or 4 hours, then pack to-go boxes for everyone and drive them home again.

These people were SO grateful. They hugged us and thanked us profusely, tearing up as they told us how much they looked forward to our party every year.

It was empowering to me. To know that I could have so much impact on another person's life. It was such a learning experience for me. I learned how to communicate with adults. I got to see how adults communicated with each other. I learned what can be accomplished when we all work together.

I've been in Colorado since 1994 and I haven't participated in anything that even comes close to those dinners in Carolina. It makes me sad. I feel the holiday loosing meaning, and that scares me. This memory is part of who I am and I can't loose it.

I took my first step this year by donating a turkey dinner to the local food bank. I took my daughter with me to the store to purchase everything you need for a fabulous feast (we even threw in some cinnamon rolls for breakfast). We boxed it all up and delivered it to the food bank on Sunday. It was pretty cool. Next year we'll do it again. And when my daughter is a little older, we'll go serve food at a homeless shelter. Until then, I'm going to keep telling my story in hopes that it will stay alive in my heart.

So what's your greatest Thanksgiving memory?



ps. I shared this memory with my mother one day and she chucked and said, "Well, it didn't happen exactly like THAT." Which leads me to believe that Virgina Clemmer played a much greater role in this story than I gave her credit for. I can say this, I attribute the idea to her. I don't believe this incredible dinner would have ever happened had it not been for Ms. Clemmer. And 17 years later, that Thanksgiving dinner is still being hosted.

Good and Evil

I was raised the seventh of eleven children--five boys and six girls. The age span between the oldest and the youngest is 16 years, so we pretty much all grew up in the same house (the oldest moved out when I was 8 or 9, I think). When you live with that many people, you learn compromise and diplomacy at an early age. We bickered and fought and poked and teased, but more than that, we loved and respected.

I moved to Colorado in 1994 at the ripe age of 21. The first three years I lived here, I tended bar at a neighborhood pub. The same people came in every day, sat in the same seat, drank the same drink…day after day after day. They were mostly in their mid 30s to mid 50s and they took a liking to me instantly (of course). Even more than their relentless teasing about my southern accent, they laughed at my naivety.

I insisted on seeing the world as a happy place. I assumed all people had the best intentions at heart. I remember one conversation in particular with Rock-n-Roll Steve.

Side note: there was more than one Steve, so we had to nick name them to keep them apart—sometimes we used physical characteristics as with Big Tom and Little Tom, and sometimes it was beverage choice as with Bud Light Bob. Rock-n-Roll Steve wore a mullet. I worked there for three years and to this day, I couldn’t tell you the last name of a single patron.

Steve said, “One day you’ll see the world for what it really is.” My reply to him was something along the lines of, “I hope not…that would be sad.”

Fast forward to 2007. My good friend was bitterly disappointed by her mother this week and she wrote about it on her blog today. The 21-year-old me doesn’t comprehend this kind of behavior because the world I grew up in was so different. I’m shocked and saddened by her story. But then I read the words of support written to her by virtual strangers. These women have extended sympathy, love, and encouragement to someone they most likely have never met.

So where ever you are, Rock-and-Roll Steve, I am seeing the world for what it really is. For every natural disaster, there is hundreds, thousands, millions of dollars donated in support. There are homeless people sleeping under bridges, wrapped in wool hats and scarves, hand knit especially for them by strangers. There are volunteers in hospitals playing games with sick children so mom and dad can take a break. And a couple weeks ago, outside of the grocery store I saw a mother with her elementary-school-age child collecting canned foods for the food bank. They stood next to cases of donated food.

The world is good, Steve...the world is good.

Name Dropping

I'm new to all this blogger stuff. My girlfriend, Ruth at 5elementknitr introduced me to it all and has been kind enough to show me around. I started reading Uberstrickenfrau after she dropped a few lines on my blog. I really enjoy reading her blog and added her to my favorites.

I was there yesterday, reading the sidebar and stumbled upon a gem of a quote. It was so beautiful that read it three times:

“If we are lucky, a few times in our lives, the wall of our mental house falls down-or explodes outward- and we get to step over the broken rubble and walk this entirely new landscape of mountains and possibility and giant sky and new pathways full of knowledge and our own potential to grow, change and eventually, contribute something. There is possibility. And ponies. And the world expands." Enchanting Juno

I Googled it to learn more and was delighted when my inquiry lead me to yet another blog!

All three of these women are fantastic writers and their blogs are as thought-provoking as they are entertaining. I invite you all to visit them regularly.

Me, self-righteous?

I believe that “self-righteous” is one of the ugliest human traits. When I think of a person that is “self-righteous”, I think of a person who believes that his/her way of doing something is certainly the best—if not the only—way of doing it. This person is smug and intolerant. I don’t ever want anyone to think me “self-righteous”.

The problem is that I am self-righteous. My way is SO many times the best—if not the only—way to do it. I know what is best and I DON’T like people telling me I’m wrong.

If you’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it a million times, “The first step to getting help is admitting you have a problem.” I know that I have self-righteous tendencies. And I know that this is not something I want people to think about me, so I must suppress these tendencies.

Because I also believe that (to an extent) what other people say and do is not a reflection on me, regardless of my relations to that person, I find myself in constant conflict.

Yesterday, my daughter chose to wear clothes that didn’t match to school. I gently suggested that she change her clothes. I said that although her shirt was as beautiful as her pants, they didn’t look beautiful beside each other. She defended her choice by pointing out that the pants had many of the same colors as her shirt. These clothes didn’t just “not match”, they clashed SO badly, that I couldn’t even tell her what was wrong (just LOOK at it, for crying out loud!). So I let her wear them.

I spent the majority of the day reminding myself that this does not mean that I’m a bad mother, only that my daughter has a unique sense of fashion.

She told me later that night that I was wrong. No one had laughed at her, as I suggested they might.

Okay, fine, no one laughed at her…but it still would have looked better with the solid shirt.

Clean the Clutter!

I walk a fine line between cozy and clutter. I don’t notice it as much in the summer because all my windows and doors are open--my house feel bigger. When it gets cold, I get claustrophobic. I start noticing how much crap I have in my house. It’s the papers that make me crazy. I “need” to save them, but I don’t have anywhere to put them. Where should I keep the student handbook? Or the FYI booklet for Brownie Scouts? What about the recipe I ripped out of the news paper or the crochet pattern I printed off line? I keep it in neat little piles and I move those piles all around the house until I get fed up and I throw them all away.

A couple years ago I labeled a three-ring binder “Suppa Time Favorites” and filled it with tabs for “appetizers”, “soup”, “beef”, “chicken”, “pork”, “sides”, “desserts”, and “holiday themes”. This way, every time I find a recipe on line or in a magazine, I can print or copy it and file in my binder! It’s bloody brilliant—so brilliant, that I developed a similar binder for crochet patterns.

You know that line about the road to hell being paved with good intentions? Guess how many recipes I have in my binder? Three. Only three. And the crochet binder—well, it’s only a week old, but I only have one pattern in it. Now guess how many recipes and crochet patterns I have floating around my house? Then again--don't. We don't want to know.

This weekend, I pledge to Clean the Clutter. I am going to find it a home, or throw it out, so help me God help me.

Happy Halloween!

Dead leaves, seaweed, rotten eggs too.
Stir them in my witches brew.
I've got magic alakazoo.
Oooh, my witch's brew
Ooh what's it going to do to you?

.... BOO!

I'm a witch today. A witch with purple hair.

Happy haunting!

Spread Love

I am often surprised at how defensive and angry I get when dealing with doctors' offices. I just took a call from a man who says, “I just received a ‘second request’ (he emphasized this heavily because the subject line of the letter he is referring to says, “second request” in bold font) for a…(blah blah blah)…and I assure you it is not.”

In an instant, my blood pressure sky rockets and the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. I think to myself:

Like hell you say, old man, I sent you THREE request! Tell me I didn’t send it…I mailed it to (blah blah blah) on September 6, then I called your office and spoke to blah blah blah. Then I faxed it to blah. After another 15 days, I STILL didn’t have it so I mailed it AGAIN. And you have the balls to call me and tell me I didn’t do it. That’s all I’ve done for 2 months! I mailed 376 requests, then sorted through and researched dozens of returned letters. I’ve spent the better part of the last 3 weeks listening to you tell me, “If this is a life threatening emergency, please hang up and dial NINE ONE ONE.” I’ve been put on eternal hold and I’ve had it up to here with your stupid-ass Musak recordings.

But you know what? The world is full of angry people because anger is contagious, so I make a special point to say NO to anger and instead, spread love. Instead of biting off this man’s head, I simply replied, “What can we do to make this better?”

This happy ending is brought to you by the makers of Lexipro (anti-depressant medication).

The Girl Scout Promise

On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.

I signed my daughter up for Brownie Scouts. She needs to memorize the Girl Scout Promise and the Girl Scout Law. The Promise is only 4 lines, so we started working on it yesterday.

I read the entire promise to her, then asked that she repeat after me. “On my honor, I will try”. We recited that line a few times, then added “To serve God and my country”. Over and over—about a dozen times. Next comes “To help people at all times,”

My daughter (MD): “But what if they’re mean boys?”
Me: Just say the line.
MD: But I don’t want to help the mean boys.
Me: Okay—so you don’t have so help the mean boys, but you have to say the line.
MD: But the lines says ALL people.
Me: No it doesn’t. It says, all TIMES.
MD: Even when they’re mean?
Me: That’s enough for today. We’ll work on this again tomorrow.

I never imagined that my 6-year-old would take a conscientious objection to the Girl Scout Promise. Mean boys ruin everything!

Appliance Update

Yesterday afternoon was rather hectic. My daughter has religious education (RE) class on Wednesdays from 6 until 7:15, so we go straight from daycare to RE (I give her a snack to eat in the car). After I dropped her off, I swung by the house to pick up the credit card so I could go purchase the appliances before I had to be back to the church to pick my daughter up.

I think I told you earlier that Mark agreed to all three purchases. And dispite the fact the Home Depot guy swears that dishwasher installation is a two-beer job, my husband would rather pay Home Depot $50 to install it.

So I race from the church to the house to grab the credit card. I have one hour. As an afterthought I say, "Give me the tape measure, how big is that space?" Ugh...my choice chiller is two inches too tall. I just stood there with the saddest look of defeat on my face. That, my friends, jacked up everything.

The same man that less than 24 hours before refused to do the two-beer, three-connection dishwasher installation has offered to demo the kitchen cupboards to make room for the new refrigerator (can any man say no to a demolition job?).

So, do I go with the 18 cubic-foot refrigerator, or do I let Mark demo the kitchen cupboards to make room for the 22 cubic-foot refrigerator?

Every woman's life should be this hard.

How embarrassing…

I had a rather embarrassing moment yesterday. I say moment, but I’m pretty sure this “incident” is going to stick with me for a few years.

I’m at my girlfriend’s house and I sit down on one of the kid chairs at the kitchen table. (No, the chair didn’t break.) As soon as my ass touched the chair, I stood straight up and said, “Woah.” My girlfriend comments that, yeah, the chairs are small. I say, “no, it’s wet.” I grab a napkin off the table, wipe the chair and sit again. More wet. So I reach my hand around and touch my bare ass. Wait a minute---BARE ASS! OH MY GOD, I just grabbed my BARE ASS! My day flashes before my eyes like a near death experience. I see myself volunteering with the vision testing at my daughter’s school, parading around the 5-10 year olds with my ass hanging out. Oh, it gets better! Next, I’m at Home flippin’ Depot flashing my ass all over the appliance department. But I don’t stop there—it’s on to Best Buy before I return to my daughter’s school. I paraded around town for 4 and a half HOURS with my bare ass peeking through a three-inch-long rip in my jeans.

Okay, so this brings us forward to my rather reluctant admission that I am no stranger to ripped britches. In fact, I’ve lost three pairs in almost as many months (yesterday was number 4). I want to believe that it’s not my fault, but four pairs is more than coincidence. You’ll have to take my word that I’m not that big. I wear a size 10. But then maybe THAT’s the problem. You reckon I oughta shoot for size 12?

The good news out of this is that, so far, none of the parents have pressed charges against me (at least not that I know of) AND I get new jeans. And did you catch that I was at Home Depot? I picked out a sexy new kitchen trio. After I shared my horror with my husband, I whipped out a folder full of fliers covered with my notes. I researched online and picked out what I wanted, then went to the first store to confirm my wishes. Finally, I went to a second store to compare prices. He approved all my choices (he doesn't give a shit, but $2K is a LOT of money and he wants to know that I made educated decisions). Tonight, I get the credit card, and since today is the first game of the World Series, I will be going alone to purchase the appliances—and a new set of stainless steal cookware. Why not?

Bitter Sweet

I complained a few days ago that my refrigerator is on the skids. I’m doing the best I can to jerry rig the damn thing into submission. We’ve adjusted the shelves and rearranged the food and are just taking it all with a grain of salt. At least we have one, right?

I didn’t mention my dishwasher. My husband replaced the floors in our kitchen this summer and noticed that our dishwasher was leaking. The floor under the dishwasher was rotted. He replaced the floor and stuck the lid from a tub of ice cream under the dishwasher to catch the water. We have to empty the lid every couple of washes.

Last night we had chicken enchiladas for dinner. My recipe requires that I cook all the food in a skillet, assemble it, then stick it in the oven to melt the cheese. After 30 minutes of preheating, it was only 250 degrees. The damn thing broke! My oven BROKE! I just used the damn thing 12 hours earlier to bake the egg dish for the teachers. The stupid coil thing in the bottom of the oven literally broke in half. I don't know why I'm surprised. The oven is 20 years old.

As exciting as this moment should be, I have lump in my gut. Every time we get to a point where we have some extra cash to start socking away for vacation, some stupid shit goes wrong and we’re back where we started. Son-of-a-bitch, will you give a girl a break?!?!

Maybe a batch of brownies in my new range will make me feel better—with a glass of cold (but not frozen) milk out of my new refrigerator. If that doesn’t work, I’ll load all the dirty dishes into the new dishwasher and go buy some yarn.

Pajama Day

The weather forecasters started telling us on Wednesday that Sunday would be yucky--cold and wet. Much to my daughter's delight, I declared Sunday would be our first pajama day of the season. We busted butt on Saturday to get all of our chores done so come Sunday, we could stay in our pajamas all day long. Like icing on the cake, we woke to a few inches of snow. It was beautiful.

After a hearty breakfast of sausage gravy and biscuits, Morgan and I ventured outside long enough to shake the snow off our trees. Meanwhile, Daddy stoked a honkin' fire and we drank hot chocolate and watched ET. It's been so long since I've seen that movie, it was like watching it for the first time.

We played a few rounds of Trouble, Candy Land, Connect Four, and Go Fish. The rest of the day was spent crocheting, reading, and napping.

Ahhh--life is good.

Yea Me!

After 15 years as a pack-a-day smoker, one year ago today, I smoked my last cigarette. I had been talking about quitting for more than a year and all my reasons were obvious: unhealthy, stinks, expensive, bad role model for my little girl, blah blah blah. I quit cold turkey and it SUCKED ASS! But I did it. And I’m stronger and healthier because of it.

I can’t believe I have gone an entire YEAR without a smoke. Damn almighty, I’m proud!

To Work or Not To Work

They were playing some silly game on the radio the other morning. The question was something about how many people said they spend more than 92% of their work day actually working. One lady answered 85% and the other lady answered 60%. The host says, “Are you sure you understand the question? How many people think they spend almost 100% of their day doing work-related work?” Both contestants stuck with their answers. They were both wrong. The answer was TWO percent.

I work a standard 40-hour work week (8 to 5 M-F). On a normal work day, I wake at 5:30, shower, then go down stairs and pack lunches, put dinner in the crock pot, clean the kitchen, and/or whatever else I can get done in 15 minutes. I drink a cup of coffee while I watch the weather and then go back upstairs to wake my daughter at 6:15. She crawls into bed with daddy and watches cartoons while I get dressed and made-up. We turn off the TV at 6:45, she potties, gets dressed, brushes teeth and hair while I make beds. God willing, we’re out the door by 7:15. I’m usually home by 6, but then I have to cook dinner, clean kitchen, supervise homework, bathe the child, and it’s bedtime. I’m lucky if I get my daughter to bed by 9.

So, yeah, I dink around at work. I’ve been here for 2 hours today and have checked my email, placed three online orders, called my recycling company to straighten out an invoice error, and I glued my shoes back together. (One shoe is in under my desk with binder clips holding it together until it dries.) Meanwhile, I’m typing my blog entry for the day.

Now, let me ask you this? Am I cheating the company I work for?

Moments that shine

I was driving down this tree-lined road the other day. The trees were large enough that they reach over the road, giving it the appearance of a tunnel. As the sun filtered through the umbrella of reds, golds, oranges, greens, and purples, it cast a psychedelic glow that you could feel. It was so beautiful, so surreal, I wanted to swim in it. The air felt so clean. I forced my lungs to capacity and more—until they burned. I wanted to consume it all. I wanted it inside of me forever.

Dinner (almost) disaster

My refrigerator is jacked up. The top shelf freezes and the bottom shelf rots. It took me a while to recognize that my refrigerator was (is) the problem. I kept taking food back to the store. I let THEM throw it away—don’t need that crap stinking up my garage! After the third week in a row that I returned meat, I told my husband, “NO one buys rotten meat this often—it’s gotta be our problem.” So we placed thermometers in the refrigerator. Top read 40 and the bottom read 53 (can’t believe I just admitted that). YIKES!

So every day I adjust the temperate just a little bit cooler. I thought we were in good shape until yesterday morning. I pulled the chicken to put in the crock pot and it was rotten. DAG NABBIT!! (I assure you that the real-life version was much more colorful than “dag nabbit”.)

I’m one of 11 children. I was 9 or 10 when my mother taught me how to cook—for 13 people at a time. I learned to plan the menu, make the grocery list, and prepare the food so that everything is done at the same time. And now, 22 years later, I sit down on Saturday or Sunday morning and make a list of 6 meals (meat, veggie, starch). Then I make a list of all the ingredients I need to make those meals. My lists are organized in the order they are found in the grocery store. I tape my menu to the refrigerator and everyone knows what we’re having for dinner every night…and whatever we eat for dinner tonight is what you get for lunch tomorrow.

The point is that rotten chicken at 6 a.m. on Thursday morning jacks my day. I’ve had this meal planned since Saturday…and now it’s rotten. The bad news is that I can’t plan meals at 6 a.m. The good news is that, I don’t have to. I always have hot dogs and mac-n-cheese on hand.

We had mummy dogs with mac-n-cheese and apple sauce—but you have to say it real spooky, like “muh-uh-uh-uh-uh meeeee dogs”. I took pizza dough (Friday night’s dinner) and cut it into strips, then wrapped each hot dog and baked at 350 for 15 minutes. Well, every time I said “mummy dogs”, I said it all spooky like. By the end of the night, my daughter (6 years old) says, “Mom, will you please stop doing that. You’re giving me a headache.”

Some day she’ll appreciate me.

Peace

I'm reading a book called, A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Child Soldier. A 12-year-old boy goes with his 16-year-old brother to a neighboring village for the day. While the boys are away, their village is attacked by rebels. Long story short, the 12-year-old ends up enlisted in the “army” to fight the rebels. He eventually makes it out and is rehabilitated.

It is a painful story. My heart hurts when I think of these people whose lives are turned upside down by war. How do you recover from something like that? This 12-year-old child looses his mother, father, and brothers. He is handed a gun and a mountain of drugs and is told, “These are the people who killed your family, you must take revenge!” These children shake with fear when handed weapons, then within 6 months are making games and contests out of how many people they can kill. He is only TWELVE! These are children!

I hope this story will help me learn to better appreciate a hot shower, a cold glass of clean water, a soft bed in a warm house, and that I am able to walk my daughter to school in the morning without fear of attack.

We must practice and teach peace and tolerance. Our lives will be richer and we will be happier.

Pinkie promise.

Welcome

Hi, I'm Rachel.

My girlfriend, 5elementknitr, has referred to me as, "bloggless Rachel" for the last time. I did it...I'm an official member of the blogging community. "What took you so long?" you ask. Well, I often thought, "if you blog, you can't run for public office...ever." At least I couldn't (well, NOW I can't). But I can't let that stop me from an occasional brain dump. This head o' mine fills WAY too quickly for me to keep it all inside.

I am married to one of the greatest unsung heros of all time. I tend to rag on my husband more than what is fair. He's a hell of a guy and I love him with all my heart. We have a daughter that keeps us entertained. She's 6.

I reckon that's all I'm going to say for now. Moving forward, I hope to entertain you with my senseless ramblings and maybe provide you with food for thought...points to ponder if you will. I'm new at this, so bare with me.

...and thanks for stoppin' by! Ya'll come back now, ya hear?