Rabbi, What Big Teeth You Have

We had a nice Thanksgiving, but we didn't get to spend it together as we usually would. My son's girlfriend had a cold, so my daughter couldn't bring the baby over, since her lungs are compromised from the CDH. My daughter stayed at my middle son's apt. We spent Saturday with the youngest son and his girlfriend, and Sunday with my daughter, granddaughter and middle son. We ate "real" carbs on Saturday for the first time in quite awhile. Mashed potatoes, fried peach pies. I don't think I have been missing anything.

I cooked all morning Saturday, and by the time everyone got here for lunch, I was burning up with a combination of cooking heat and hot flashes. I really had no appetite so just nibbled at lunch. My mom brought a German chocolate cake, which is still sitting in my kitchen, and I've not had one piece.
BUT, I did go buy some new jeans on Saturday, and I wear a size smaller than I did. That feels better than the chocolate cake would taste.

I saw the therapist today, and I told her I am totally intimidated by the Rabbi at our temple. I told her even though I'm fifty-one, I feel FIVE when I'm around him. Maybe he reminds me of my father, I don't know. But now that I've talked through it, I intend to not let him intimidate me anymore. How am I going to avoid that? I'm going to talk myself through whatever he says or does that causes me the anxiety, and figure out what to say or do to prevent it. Am I the only person that can think of great things to say to stand up for myself AFTER the situation is over? That is SO frustrating.

No Carbs, Jeans, or Memory

Thanksgiving looms. Ours will be delayed until Saturday due to the kid's work schedules and travel plans. I have a lot of last minute things to do to get ready, and unlike Amy, I don't have enough presence of mind (is it present at all?) to make a list. I just think of something and try not to forget it until I get it done. Then I think of something else. The grocery list I did make a formal list of, but that's only because my biggest pet peeve is taking the time to go into the kitchen to do something with the meat I thawed out, only to find I don't have all the ingredients.

Friday we went to service. It was suppose to be a "sit and learn" service according to the bulletin they mail out monthly. We arrived, in casual clothing (my everyday stuff, my husband in jeans) to encounter the Rabbi in a suit and tie in the foyer. Uh oh. Then we entered the dining area to find all the women dressed up. Uh oh again.

I haven't quite figured this out. We dress up and go, and everyone will be dressed casually and look at us like, "Why are you so dressed up?" Then we dress casually, and that will be the time everyone is dressed up. I'm confused. I would suggest they put a dress code suggestion by each activity so we would know. I did figure out we dress up for bat/bar mitzvahs so I kept watching to figure out why all the dress up that evening, but I never did figure it out. We had our normal service, some refreshments afterward, and then sat down at the tables to hear the Rabbi do a short lesson on the Psalms. No special announcements, unusual guests, baby naming, bat/bar mitzvahs, nothing unusual. So what will happen is this week we will dress up, and everyone else will be casual. There ya go.

I've stopped baking challah because we are on this low carb thing, and when I do make it, I like to put raisins in it, which are definitely a no-no when you're trying to eliminate sugar. Add to that the fact that I don't care much for most bread, but I LOVE challah, and when it is in our home, I keep pinching off another piece, and another piece all day until it's gone. However, on passing up the challah on the eve of Shabbat, a nice man said to me, "Challah is not food for the body. It's food for the soul!" That may be true, I suppose, but I have a hard time cheating on the low-carb thing for fear I'll toss out the whole idea of sticking with it.

We've done great so far. At first I could tell I was losing. My clothes were getting looser, I could tie my shoes without my eye balls popping out, and I could cross my legs more comfortably. The last week, I feel bloated and miserable and wonder if I'm losing anything. I keep thinking if I tough it out and drink more water, this will be a passable plateau.

We went to the temple's annual Chanukah Sale on Sunday to find the parking lot packed and people scurrying to grab things like a red light special at K-Mart. We looked at all the Chanukah decorations, couldn't decide what to get, and so we bought a Hadvalah set. (The Havdalah service marks the end of Shabbat. It is performed on Saturday night normally about 45 minutes after sundown. Items needed: a glass of wine or other liquid, some fragrant spices, and a special braided Havdalah candle.)We are adding to our Judaica items, and decided rather than going all out decorating for Chanukah (My husband is going to be gone for the first three days of Chanukah on a business trip) we thought we would add something we wanted to get anyway, when we could afford it.



Well I better start trying to figure out what I need to do next to get ready for the kids coming home this Friday. Put clean sheets on guest beds, put towels in guest bathrooms, clean out sewing room/front guest room so it looks less of the first and more of the second, .....and on it goes....

Babies, Pork ,and Nails

Doesn't that picture just make you want to say, "Ahhhhh..."

Tomorrow we are going to go with my daughter to take my granddaughter to the doctor. She is doing so well, gaining weight, and her lungs are continuing to develop. She was born in July with Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, and many of the CDH moms who have had babies or lost babies to CDH have banded together to raise awareness of this birth defect by contacting the Governor in each state to declare a day in March of 2008, CDH Awareness Day. This birth defect happens in one of every 1500 births, but most people have never heard of it. It happens more often than cystic fibrosis or spina bifida. I'll be posting more info about it later as the day gets closer.

We went to my son's tonight for Zaxby's salads and watching "House, MD." (I think that's the name of it. We have never watched it, but he thought we would like it, so we're watching it from the beginning. We saw three episodes tonight and really liked it. Man, that guy has a major attitude! I'm glad he's not my doctor. Bedside manner is important to me. We saw the episode where the kindergarten teacher got a tapeworm in her brain from eating pork. Made me think that the Jews may have been onto something with not eating pork. After that show and the graphics it had, Yuck!

Thanks to Whoopi Goldberg, I no longer bite my nails. I used to do the acrylic nails and had manicures every two weeks, back when I was working and had the money and inclination to keep them up. Now that I'm home, I cut them short and developed the habit of biting them when I was nervous or whatever. On the View last week, Whoopi was talking to one of the guest hosts and said she could make her stop biting her nails. She asked her how often she went to the bathroom during the day, how many times she did #2, how often she washed her hands (the woman said often), and if she used a nail brush (no, but who does?). Then she said and how often do you touch doorknobs, phones, elevator buttons, etc, during the day? All of that from all those people who have gone to the bathroom is all over everything you touch, and unless you use a nail brush, it's all right there, under your nails. She said, "Now think about that every time you put that nail near your mouth." Well, it works. I do think about it and I haven't bitten my nails since then.

I had a lawyer who did that once, had a terrible nail biting habit. He had chewed his fingernails, cuticles, etc until they looked pitiful. It was a disconcerting feeling to think your lawyer was that nervous...what would happen in court??? But he did ok, despite his nervous habit.

Well, There Ya Go

Last night was our second class at the Reform temple. Rabbi asked, "Are you living your life by thinking that God is looking down at you, or are you living your life consistently reaching up to God?" This was something he asked each of us to think about. Much of my life, I've lived thinking God was looking down, noting everything I did wrong on a list, looking at me disapprovingly, etc. Last night, I realized God put us here to reach back to him, in our words, actions, how we treat others, what kind of person we are, etc. This was the second week of our class, and we are growing! We had several new people last night, including one black couple, who really asked some good questions. I've never been good at thinking of questions during a lecture. It's when I get home and think over the things I've heard, I think of many questions. By the next week, I've forgotten them. I really should write notes when I read.

As most of your know who read this blog regularly, I've had some success with publishing short stories, and for the last year or so, I have done all my creative writing to meet some editor's submission guidelines. I miss writing just for me. I'm going to try to do more of that--writing a fictional story that is for no one but me. I really think it will help me to get back some of the fun I used to have when I played "make believe" with my characters. I want to reclaim my writing for myself for awhile.

We are doing fine with the low carb eating thing. I really feel like this has been easy, and it's something I could do from now on. I've even gotten out and walked a few days this week. Eating out has been interesting, but we have found most restaurants will happily substitute extra veggies for the high carb sides. I'm even beginning to like broccoli, which was never one of my favorites. It seems like once we stopped the sugar, vegetables taste better.

The kids are coming home for Thanksgiving. I was going to just suggest we all go to Cracker Barrel but that didn't sit right with some, so I'm going to cook, but not as much as usual. We always have WAY too much food.

We Lost Him

Rags
April 15, 2004 -- October 30,2007

Dog Days and Halloween

My doggie has a blockage and several bladder stones. The vet just called and said they will have to perform surgery this morning. They hoped to be able to dislodge the blockage with a catheter but were unable to after several attempts. They were able to get a fine catheter by the blockage and at least give him some comfort. He said when the dog has a blockage, the kidneys stop functioning correctly and the dog gets uremic. He hoped to get that under control before surgery but doesn't feel he can wait and wanted me to know he's not in an optimal position health-wise to do surgery on. They began the surgery at 9:30AM this morning. So now we wait. I've thought of going down to the vets office and sit there but their waiting room is tiny and I'd be in the way. There's nothing I can do there I can't do here. I'll be worried either way. He said Rags will be in the hospital for at least several days.

Halloween is tomorrow night, and since I was thinking about my doggie, Rags, I happened to run across this picture and thought it would be cute to include. We bought one huge bag of mixed candy in case some children come by. We had quite a few last year. I'm surprised people still let their kids go to the doors of people they don't know, but they do.

I'm glad my kids grew up when Halloween in one's neighborhood was not something you had to worry about too much. We were always warned to look through their candy and not give them anything unsealed, but other than that, they had nice Halloweens. Many of the churches in our area have trunk Halloweens, where different church members park in the parking lot and open their trunk and the kids go from car to car with their parents collecting candy from each car. I guess when my granddaughter gets older, my daughter will have to just have Halloween parties and invite all her friends.

Tonight we begin our classes at the Reform temple, one night each week for six weeks. My husband works in that city, so I'm going to meet him over there and we can have a quick dinner before the class begins.

Well, I can't keep my mind on this writing since I'm so worried about my dog, so I'll end this post here, but I hope all of you have a nice Halloween.

Update: At noon I called and was told Rags is still in surgery. I hope that means they didn't get started right after the vet called and not that he's been in surgery all this time. I'm still waiting.

Update on Rags

My dog, Rags, is really sick. I took him back to the vet and he was just lying there, limp, whining, and shaking. They made me leave him and told me they would call me in an hour. I waited an hour and fifteen minutes and called back. They did an x-ray and he has a robin-egg sized bladder stone that they can see. His bladder is also not emptying, so they suspect there are others. They were getting ready to do a radioactive dye x-ray to see what others they could detect, and also try to catheterize him to relieve the full bladder. They said he is probably going to need surgery.

I'm sitting here waiting for them to call me back and let me know what is going on.
We had a dog before this one named Sam. I got Sam from the animal shelter for my kids right after their dad and I divorced. They had wanted a dog for a long time, school was out, we had just moved to the country, etc. Poor Sam had been found wandering in a neighborhood and had been at the dog pound for ten days, so he was getting close to his "expiration date." We brought him home and loved him for twelve years. Then he got a heart condition and the meds for the heart condition caused kidney damage, so we had to put him down. It was hard on all of us.

I had to work that day after they put him down. I went in the door crying and cried all day. My office workers felt sorry for me. One co-worker said her daughter had a little puppy she had gotten for her kids, but he wasn't housebroken, she had a new baby, etc. and couldn't keep him. She wanted to know if I wanted him. I just couldn't imagine loving another dog like I did Sam. I was still hurting and the thought of another dog just seemed too much.

At lunch she went home and got the puppy and brought him back to work. It was love at first sight. She told me her daughter's family had financial issues so this little puppy had none of his shots. I felt like I couldn't do anything for Sam, but at least I could help this little guy out by taking him to another vet near my office and getting his shots. I called my husband and asked him to meet me at that vet's office. He told me in no uncertain terms that he didn't think we needed another dog so soon, but I assured him if he didn't want this puppy for us, I had another man at work who was interested in adopting him. He agreed to meet me, took one look at Rags, and made him a part of our family. That was almost 3 1/2 years ago. I got him housebroken, crate trained, and he's been a good healthy little guy.

I'm really worried about him, and I'm worried because they aren't calling me.

One Sick Puppy

Our little doggie got sick yesterday, so I ended up going with my husband to take him to the vet. They thought it was a UTI, so they gave him a shot and ten days worth of antibiotic pills to take. He's felt really bad all day. He's not eating anything but is drinking water. He thinks he needs to pee constantly, but very seldom produces anything. He's been going in the house and since he's been totally housebroken I know this is as upsetting for him as for me.

My son brought his dog by and our dog didn't want to mess up his own bed, so he kept running over to the other dog's bed and peeing when he wasn't looking. After the third time of washing his bed, I just put it up.

The vet gave us pills to give him and we have always put them in a piece of cheese or lunchmeat and he'd take them that way in the past. Well, now he doesn't have any appetite, so we've had to hold open his mouth and put the pill way back at the back of his throat, and even though he's little (6 pounds) he clamps down and refuses to open his mouth at all, so it's quite a struggle.

That's about how our weekend has gone.

We're doing well with our sugar busters/ low carb diet. We planned out some meals for the next two weeks and bought groceries tonight. Lots of chicken, salmon, lean beef, and veggies. LOTS of veggies. We also bought whole wheat bread and whole wheat pasta. We spent a long time of our shopping trip reading labels, and sugar is in EVERYTHING. It's no wonder so many people are diabetic.

Tomorrow night's meal is grilled salmon with lemon pepper, brown rice, and baked sweet potato. The next night it's grilled hamburgers on whole wheat buns with tomato, onion, and pickles. We bought some Hebrew national hot dogs and those are the best hot dogs I've ever tasted. YUM. They are also sugar free, so we plan to have them one night this week. We decided we'd have them with sauerkraut, got home and figured out they put SUGAR in the kraut!

I see now why old people don't have babies, because just taking care of a sick dog and taking care of regular household chores has worn me out. I hope the dog feels better tomorrow.

Life Before Computers

When I was a little girl, all the neighborhood children went down to the corner store every week. We bought Kraft caramels for a penny each, a Tab soft drink to take home to my grandmother who babysat my sister and me while my parents worked. We also begged the man to open the soft drink machine and empty out the caps bin (this is when they came in a bottle and you had a slot on the machine to use to open them with, for you really young ones out there) and let us go through them.



We were looking for Royal Crown caps. For six caps from RC Cola, each kid got into the movie free in the summer. When we had our sufficient caps, we all walked about a mile to the theater. On the way, we stopped at a feed store, because they have live baby chicks and let us play with them, and because they had one of those water coolers with the little pointy cups. Then we would go to the Lyric Theater, sit in a seat that had ashtrays with flip-up covers on the armrests.



All movies began with cartoons. You could see at least three or four cartoons before the movie started. And then we watched a Disney movie, usually, not just once, but over and over for most of the day. We'd make sure we walked back to Granny's before time for our parents to pick us up to go home.

On Saturday, when I was eight or nine, my mom would drop me and my friends off at the theater sometimes, and we'd call her from the theater phone (not a pay phone) when we wanted her to come pick us up.

If I hadn't spent my whole dollar weekly allowance at the dime store, I'd have some left to buy a coke, maybe popcorn, or candy, or all three. I was a really skinny kid then, so it was probably not all three.

When we weren't going to the movies (which is still my absolute favorite thing to do, sitting in the theater, watching the big screen) we would climb trees, swing in a tire, watch ants, ride our bikes, and do anything else that kept us outside. Back then, parents ran the kids out the door right after breakfast in the summer, and we were allowed back in to get a drink or have lunch.




So there were all the neighborhood kids standing outside, and we all got together and used our imagination to make up games that gave us a lot of physical activity, like tag, or "mother may I" or hopscotch. We also played a game where we sewed together the ends of a long piece of elastic and did like jump rope tricks with it. If anyone remembers what this was called, let me know.
We didn't have cell phones, or microwaves, or game boys. Morning tv was Captain Kangaroo and Romper Room, then we were sent outside. The only tv shows that came on during the day were Queen for a Day and soaps, and my grandmother dominated day time television so we couldn't have watched it even if we were inside.


At night was when tv was exciting. We watched the wonderful world of Disney, Topo Gigio on Ed Sullivan, Bonanza, The Rifleman, and Red Skelton. I didn't care much for the westerns but my dad did. I loved Red Skelton. I also loved Art Linkletter. But I planned to marry Captain Kangaroo when I grew up. I don't think I ever heard a cuss word until I was nine, when my step-dad said a lot of them. My dad has never said a "bad word" in front of me in my life, or allowed anyone else to without being harshly reprimanded.

I didn't worry about child molesters or other bad guys. In fact, I learned the "facts of life" from a girl friend at a bowling alley when I was eleven. I didn't believe her. Then after I asked a few other friends, I remember being so disappointed. All of a sudden it was like we weren't just put here on earth to have fun. We were suppose to do THAT and have KIDS and there's a purpose to all this. That really disappointed me. Believe it or not, my only question after she told me about the facts of life, was "Well, if men do that to women, then why don't they also do that to men?" She assured me that was ridiculous, that it wouldn't work. I guess that was before Larry Craig and foot tapping was in fashion.

Children were innocent. We didn't see feminine hygiene commercials, or ads about erectile dysfuction, or contraceptives. There were no naked people or nearly naked people on television or billboards. And there was no internet. If you really wanted to know something you had to ask someone else, or look it up in the World Books in the library at school.

Daddies and Little Girls

After falling out of the bed this morning, I figured my day was off to an interesting start. Then the phone started ringing and it was my mom, with my weekly dose of guilt.
"Your sister went out to see your daddy yesterday and he asked her when she had seen you."
"He did?"
"Yeah, and then later she heard him ask his wife what your sister had said about whether or not she had seen you."

He has Alzheimer's. Sometimes he knows me. Sometimes he doesn't. The last time I went, he had no idea who I was. But since I flaked out on the birthday party, I decided mom had made me sufficiently guilty to go out there.

I had a million excuses not to go. Sore throat. Need to straighten up the house. Laundry. Etc.
Cathy would be proud. I left all that and got into the car. I drove an hour or so and pulled into the driveway. He was standing in the doorway, and I think he knew who I was.

We sat at the table. I told him about my kids and their lives. Several times he asked, "Who?"
I told him about my husband and how he was. He had no idea who he was. (He's only met him once.) So then I ran out of things to say.

He began. He told me stories of when he was a boy, and how he helped to pay off his parent's house by growing cotton. It was a very interesting story. He told me how much he planted, how much he paid the "n" word people to pick it. (He uses that word regularly as part of his normal conversation.) He told me how if they didn't pick 300 pounds a day, he didn't bring them back, he'd get other "n's" to pick it. Then he told me how much money he made. How he helped pay off his parent's house. (They had bought 142 acres and a huge two story white house with a wraparound porch for $6000) He told me how much money he made at his first job, and how he invested it. He told me how much interest he was earning and how he always saved. He told me about his brother who he had no respect for because he never wanted to work hard enough to make money. He then asked how my kids were with money. (Fine, Daddy. We're all fine.) We talked money for six hours. Money is his passion in life. Always was. Came before anyone or anything.

I listened, and I was actually interested in some of the historical stuff. It is amazing how much he can recall once he gets the story going. It's just drawing up the memory that is the hard part.

He looked very thin. He didn't look very old. Not to me. He just looked like Daddy.
Then he went outside for a minute and my step-mother said that he thinks I don't love him because I never come out there. I tried to explain to her why, and she said I must have inherited that, because he never wants to leave the house to go anywhere either, and hates crowds, or groups of people at get-togethers. In fact, she said, she tricked him into coming to that reunion thing I missed, because if she had told him where they were going, he would have refused to go. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I told them my husband is having surgery Thursday, but when he gets better, I'll come back. He said, "Who is having surgery? Who is she talking about?"

I said, "Give me a hug. I have to go home. I do love you. I'll come back soon."

He stood there in the driveway and I looked back at him before I drove away. He looks pitiful. He looks lonely. He looked empty. He looks like I feel.

I am going to try to go back. I wondered as I pulled away today if this would be the last time I'd see him. I wonder that every time I go. I even choose my words carefully.
We even talked about dying. I told him I wasn't afraid to die. He said he was.

My step-mom says he never goes to church with me anymore. I said, "I never knew he ever had." She said that yes, for a time he had gone with her. That was news to me. He never went when I was growing up.

I didn't tell them anything about my life or about me. I don't know of anything I could say at this point that would help him to KNOW me. It was very strange today. On one hand he is so familiar. On the other hand, he seems like a complete stranger. But somehow, I think today was good for both of us.

A Kept Woman

I met my husband a little over a year after the death of his wife. She was thirty-seven when she died of breast cancer. She was his high school sweetheart and the love of his life. As with most new couples, in trying to find their niche in life, they had moved many times. He did a stint in the military before ending up working for the Army as a civilian. They were both avid collectors. Of what? Everything. She never learned to drive, but he took her everywhere, and one of her favorite places was flea markets.
When I met him, as I said, she had been been gone from his life for a year, and evidently he never quite got the hang of housekeeping. Or ever throwing anything away. I figured she had gone through this long illness and housekeeping, of course, was low on the list of priorities. I knew their hospice nurse, and she said the house was always very crowded with stuff and difficult to move around in when she was there taking care of his wife in her hospital bed.
So when we began dating, he would take me by his house occasionally, when he forgot something, but he'd always say, "If you want to just wait in the car, I'll run in and be right back." This went on for a year. I began to wonder why he never let me see the inside of his house.
Then one Christmas after we became engaged, his mother came to see him. While we were out to a restaurant with her, she coyly looked at me over her coffee cup and said, "Have you seen his house yet?"
"No."
"Well, maybe you should do that before you two make any decisions."
So he didn't make any dates with me for about a week, and declared the house clean enough to show to me. He invited me in. I stayed one minute and ran screaming in terror. Just kidding. It was junky, messy, piled high with stuff, and messy. Yes, I know I said messy twice, but it was double messy. And this was all after cleaning for a week.
So we had a talk. I said, "Look. I'm a freak. I hate my house to be cluttered. I'm a tosser. If you lay it down and I don't see you pick it up and use it for several months, it's likely to be gone. I clean my house every week and the first step in my cleaning process is to walk around the house with garbage bags. I throw away a lot of what you would call "good stuff." Like if my entertainment center looks too "filled," I will just cull down the books or whatever until it looks right to me. I drove my ex-husband crazy. His last words to me as he walked out the door were, "Well, now you have your little Tara and you can keep it arranged just like you want her and won't have to have my stuff in your way."
I thought, Yes, that's good. But even better, I won't have your sorry ass in the way.....
Ok, I regress.
I wanted him to know how I was. So his mom came back again that summer, and she asked again, "Have you seen his house yet?"
"Yes."
"And I've seen yours. Do you still think you could live with him?"
I said, "Yes, but he has to be willing to live a different way."
She then explained to me that she never raised him to live like that, but his late wife (his mom doesn't mind speaking ill of the dead) never cared if they lived in filth or not, so they did.

So, he had his house. I had my townhouse. Mine was paid for, his was not, so we moved here.
At first, he came with his clothes. He left everything else at the house. His daughter had moved in with her boyfriend several months before we married, so she would go by his house now and then and remove a few things. He just had his clothes here.

A year passes like this. Then another year. He is continuing to pay a house payment on that house and it sits there protecting his stuff from the elements. Now and then he mentioned that he needed to go over there and clean out the house and sell it. Into the third year, I asked him one day, "Are you holding onto the house in case this doesn't work out with us?"

I guess that got him moving. So he declared he was ready to do it. I told him, no problem, I'd help, we'd get this done in no time. So that weekend, I grab a couple of boxes of garbage bags, some boxes and boxing tape, and off we go. I've moved a lot. I always have a garbage bag and a box. Ten things in the bag, one in the box. (I travel light.) It took me about thirty seconds to realize that he was fishing things right back out of the garbage bag. Wrappers, empty candy boxes, things I would consider junk. So I sat back and watched him packing for awhile.

He was taking down each item, and carefully looking at it, through each pile of stuff piece by piece. Very slowly. Very methodically. And then it hit me. This is his life. These are his memories. Every piece of paper, every empty shopping bag, every empty shoe box. His life.

So I told him I wouldn't go back. We'd had the house payment for almost three years now. He'd just take his time and go through it and decide what he wanted to keep. I had attic space for some things. For months, he went by there a couple of times a week and worked at it. I'd go by now and then and see one bag out for the trash. It took him months and months. Finally, one day he told me, "I never thought it would be this hard making these decisions of what to keep and what to let go of."

So we made a deal. He could rent a large storage unit, and put everything in there that was left. Sell the house. A storage rental is much less than a house payment. He heaved a sigh of relief and did that. He said, "Once I get it into the storage unit, I'll go through the rest of it and get rid of it there." Sure.

When the house was emptied, I went in there like a tornado with my playtex rubber gloves, Pine-sol, rags, mop, broom and he went at hiring the carpet replaced, the house repainted inside and out (light beige of course). The house sold three days after it went on the market.

So then we had this storage building. I'm happy to report last weekend (we've been married almost five years now) he finished cleaning out the storage unit and turned in the key. Right now, I can barely fit my car into my garage but he assures me that is temporary, because he's going to take a lot of that to the thrift store to donate, some to the attic, some to his daughter, etc.

My heart aches for him when I think what he's gone through losing his wife and then having to sort through his life possessions like that. He's a glass half full kind of guy and I'm a "let's just throw out the glass, we don't use it anyway" kind of girl. But we have somehow blended.
His mom looks over the situation when she comes. My home is a little fuller, but neat and happy.
I'm glad I'm one of the things he decided to keep.

I'll Translate for You

This is baby for: "I want to go to my Granny's house!"

It's Growing On Me

Don't you just love those Dove commercials. I mean look at that woman. She exudes confidence. She's the kind of woman you hope moves in next door to you and comes by for a glass of wine now and then and tells you her life story.

I'm at that age, when very many women have to make a decision. It's called going gray--to be or not to be. At forty-five, my mom's hair turned silver. You know, like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. At fifty, my granny had white hair. I'm now fifty-one, and after going through hair colors in my life time, ranging from blonde to brown to red, dark to light and light to dark, I had to start asking some of those questions...Is it true men look distinguished with graying hair, while women just look old? Will I look older with gray hair? Do I care if I look older? What's the big deal anyway?

I've been giving this a lot of thought. There are some people who look fantastic gray. I think Paula Deen looks fantastic with her snow-topped hair. Of course, Meryl Streep did in Prada, but Meryl Streep always looks good. Both of those women have makeup artists and hair stylists to make sure their silver locks look healthy and shiny and perfect. Real women like me, who buy Suave Shampoo because it's cheap, and go get haircuts when my hair has that 24 hour wind-blown look....what about us? How does gray hair look on real women?

We all will gray if we live long enough, and we all hope we live long enough. We all will get wrinkles and saggy jaws and saggy other things we don't need to mention. We can battle aging to the death (how's that for a pun) but in the end, we'll lose.
Why fight it?

I came to some realizations. One, even with Suave, my hair looks pretty thick and healthy. It has a little bounce, some shine, and my cut is still working for now. I realized if I was DATING, I would not go out with this hair but would go back to something that didn't quite scream, "How old is she???" when I walked into a room. But I'm not dating.

I found the only man I know for a fact I can get along with and love for the rest of my life without having to argue over stupid, petty stuff. He GETS me. He knows me and he GETS me. We are at that stage in our relationship where if I have to go to the restroom when we first are seated at a restaurant, he can order my drink, my food, and he will pick exactly what would have looked best to me on the menu.

He knows when to talk to me. He knows when to leave me alone. He knows when I am joking around and when I'm dead serious. He thinks I'm funny. He takes my side ALWAYS. (He's even learned some "Alabama speech" from being with me, even though he is from AZ. If some woman says something catty to me, he immediately follows it with, "Well that heifer!")

And he likes my hair. He likes it red, or brown, or blonde or gray or bald. He doesn't care. He's just as proud to be with me at McDonald's when I'm in sweats and no makeup as he is when I actually do dress up and put some on (although no example of my having done that in a LONGGGG time come to me now.) So why care if I look older if he likes it anyway?

I must admit being handed a senior menu in a restaurant sort of threw me the first time it happened, but hey, I got over it quickly. So gray is growing on me, literally.

I got out of my car at the library this morning, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the sun's reflection as I walked by the van parked next to me. My first thought was, "Who's that old lady? Oh, that's me. Well, not too bad!"

Now I'm researching all the old ladies who go gray and grow their hair long. THOSE are the role models I want to find next. I've never been much of a trail blazer but I follow blazed trails effortlessly, most of the time. So what is your opinion? My hair dye has gone the way of the acrylic nails, nail polish, pantyhose, high heeled shoes, and perfume. I guess it's true that women get more comfortable in their own skin the older they get, and in their own hair, too.

EYE IN THE SKY by Noa

My Son and the Blue Angels

This is my son, Chris (J Cage is his "stage" name for his radio show) and his flight with the Blue Angels. His pilot was the late Lt Commander Kevin "Kojak" Davis, who was the Blue Angels pilot that was killed on April 21, 2007, when his plane crashed during an air show. These are the kinds of things kids do that give mom's heart attacks. He also enjoys bungee jumping, white water rafting, being a member of the Polar Bear Club by jumping into freezing river water, and riding through a drive-thru car wash in the back of a pick-up.

This pilot loved what he did, and gave my son an experience he will never forget. Today, as we all experience the sixth anniversary of September 11, I thought I would focus on one great American who gave all for what he believed in.

Britney, Whoopie, Boobs, Gray Hair, and Sauce

My friend who is going through a divorce met with her ex, their lawyers, and a mediator this week. One thing she asked for was half of the medical expenses she has incurred since their separation. The total bills were a little over $300, his part of course $150. His reply was, "No, I'm not paying that. She's got 'em now. They're HER kids, and it's HER problem."


The other night her neighbor came over and said she had seen him come by on his motorcycle, hide it behind her house, and walk around the house a couple of times. Of course, no one was home. She has no idea what he thinks he's looking for. When she told me about it, we both remembered once when I was going through my divorce with the kids' dad, and she and I were at Dairy Queen getting ice cream. We were in the line at the drive thru, when a car pulls up beside us and suddenly snaps a picture of us with a bright flash. Guess he had someone following us to get pictures of me out having some wild affair, but his problem is he didn't know me well enough to know my wild affair is with hot fudge and ice cream. With whipped cream and nuts. And those were the only kind of nuts I was interested in at that time. But we got a good laugh out of it. I told her she'll get through this, and some day it will all actually be over with, but it can't be soon enough for her.


Her biggest concern is that he said to one of her children if she came up dead, he'd get SS benefits and not have to pay her a dime. Now she's afraid he might actually do something. I told her to write it all down in a letter and let me and my hubby put it up in a safety deposit box, in case the idiot does try something.


I watched The View today, and they were going on and on about Britney Spears and her paunch and poor lip syncing at the awards show last night. I'd like to look that good with a paunch, but I do think she could have washed her hair. I feel sorry for her in a way. I can't imagine being her age, having to deal with the press, the money, and the notoriety. I can't imagine having it in the papers every time I went to the bathroom. She needs some serious counseling.

I could actually do it for her. We'd begin with "How to Overcome White Trashy Ways" by an Alabamian who has to live down being from the South daily. I'd also tell her she had made one good move by dumping that lousy excuse of a thing she called a husband, and now she needs to hire a first class nanny and never leave the house without her, while the nanny is showing loving, care to the children, including making sure they are strapped in the car seats. She needs to buy some new underwear and clothing that covers her butt, and wear both. She needs to let her hair grow to some normal color and consistency. And then she needs to dump whatever manager is letting her get by with the press she has been getting.


Whoopie Goldberg also got fitted for a bra today on the View. Seems there was a reason she wore the peasant tops and long, loose vests--she hates those torture devices we call bras. They fit her in one, so now she can tug and squirm and get squished and squashed like the rest of it. I think she should burn it in BaBa Walters coffee cup myself. I used to think wearing one would prevent them sagging down to my waist, but alas, it didn't prevent a thing. I should burn mine in BaBa's coffee cup, too.


So then I flipped over to the Today show, to hear them say that it's now the "IN" thing to wear your hair naturally gray. Hey, I'm "IN" now. Wait until my kids find out.

I found some frozen Italian meatballs in our freezer. I have some spaghetti, but no jars of sauce. I did have some diced tomatoes, which I seasoned with some basil and oregano and am trying to simmer down to something that looks like sauce. If it works, my husband will have it for dinner. If not, we'll have to get take out. Either way, I couldn't care less. ha. At this point, it's the same number of dishes either way.

I hate dirty dishes. Like cooking, but hate doing the dishes

What a Week!

When we got back from the beach, my middle son called and said he was having trouble with our dogs. He took them home to keep at his apartment and we thought it was going to work out fine. They are both tiny dogs, get along well with each other, and he loves having the company. However, it seems one of them had begun to piddle anywhere and everywhere. This from a dog I had housebroken when I got him as a puppy. I realized he had never had to try to "go" on a schedule before. He was used to going to the door and I'd jump up and let him out into the back courtyard anytime he seemed to want to go out. With my son he had to go during a morning walk, then again at lunch when my son came home to eat, at five when my son got home from work, and then again before bedtime. He had also begun to cry at night.

We thought maybe he was going through mama withdrawal, since he'd always been with me. The other dog was doing fine. So I told my son to bring the pee-pot dog back home and I'd work with him and see if I could get any improvement. One thing my son requested was that I always take him out on a leash because he had such a time getting him used to "going" on a leash, and I agreed.

Well, yesterday, I took the dog for a walk in the morning, first thing, and he went. No problem. Then about ten o'clock he made a mad dash for the back door whining and I figured he couldn't wait any longer, so I ran to find the leash. I grabbed it, grabbed the dog, and fumbling with all that, got him outside, clipped on the leash, and all was well.....Until I decided he had finished and we needed to go back in. I had locked myself out. No shoes. No cell phone. No keys. Just a happy dog who got to pee and a mom who was pissed.

None of my neighbors are home during the day so I knew going somewhere to use a phone was useless. I decided I had to find a way to get into the house, since my situation was complicated by having food cooking in the oven and a husband not due home for several hours. Our back door has the top half covered by several small panes of glass, so I thought I'd just find something in the utility room off our garage to break out one pane and get inside. Well, it turns out we have been much safer all these years than we realized, because even with a hammer and my beating on that glass with all my might, that sucker would not break.

I guess it's some sort of safety glass, tempered glass, or something. I was really getting mad by then. It was hot outside, I had upset the dog by making all that noise with the hammer and he was whining. I had to get inside.

So I took a large flathead screwdriver and busted out the side of the door knob latch. (We also have a deadbolt on that door, which thankfully was not latched, so I knew we could secure the door with that until I could repair the knob. It worked and we got inside. I called my husband to tell him how happy he should be that we have such secure glass in our door but he didn't seem to be as thrilled about it as I was, especially when I told him what I had done to the door facing. He also didn't seem to believe that the glass was that unbreakable, so I actually demonstrated it to him with the hammer when he came home.

Then tonight, we were going to go to the temple to a Shabbat service. Well, tonight we got over there for the service that was posted in the bulletin we received last week saying the service was at 8 PM. We got there at 7:30, and found the parking lot full of cars. These folks usually all arrive about five minutes before services, so that was unusual.

We went inside and could hear the service going on inside as we approached the sanctuary, so we turned around and left. I didn't want to walk in and interrupt anything. It's not a short drive there either, so we wasted over a hour getting there. Maybe I was just being grouchy, but that really ticked me off.

I decided to go to the family reunion thing. I'm not sure which is more uncomfortable for me, going through the dread of going or the guilt of not going. I figured the guilt would be worse.

I hope next week will be better than this one.

I did try out a new recipe today. I made apple blintzes. They are made from crepes with an apple filling. It took awhile to make the crepes but in the end, the taste was great. I'll put a picture of them with this post.

450th Post to This Blog- And an Age Reminder

My husband, daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter, and I went out to eat at a local seafood restaurant in Gulf Shores one evening during our trip. The waiter seated us and handed each of us the large folded menu, then gave my husband and I each a smaller laminated menu that he didn't give the others adults.
Guess what it was...SENIOR MENUS. Guess what I did? I ordered off of it. Guess what else I did? I seriously considered dying this gray hair back to some other color.
In the end, I left the hair gray and just pigged out on my stuffed shrimp at a discount of five dollars off the normal price.
I remember the first time my mom was offered a senior discount. She was about my age, around fifty. We had stopped at McDonald's and ordered our lunches, the exact same things. I paid, and then she did. As we walked back to the table, she said, "Hey, you got the same thing I did. Why did yours cost more?" As she looked over her ticket, a look of horror crossed her face and she said, "Oh my God! I got a SENIOR discount!" She wasn't very happy about it. I guess it was easier for me to be happy about five dollars than for her to be happy over 80 cents.

Chillin' At the Beach

I am sitting here looking out at the ocean in Gulf Shores. Gulls are diving and padding across the sand, the little kids from next door are digging on the beach with their pails and shovels and I'm just relaxing. It's funny how you really don't know how much you need a vacation until you get one. We've been spending our days watching the ocean, playing with the grandbaby, stuffing ourselves with seafood, and napping.
We are vacationing in one of those "house up on stilts" that are so famous down here on the ocean, because of the tides, I guess. The only problem is when you lie in the bed at night you feel it shaking just like someone was standing there shoving it with their foot, back and forth. I tried to pretend I was sleeping on a float in the middle of an ocean. That didn't work. Finally, I got up and took an Ambien and couldn't have cared less the rest of the night what rocked and what didn't. It would seem to me a house protected from high water that still resides in a high hurricane watch area would not want to be perched up on sticks that rock in the wind. Creepy feeling. Nice house, though. Even has high speed internet access, we found out today, hence this post.
We're going home tomorrow. I miss being home. Vacations are usually good for me about five days at the most and then I'm ready to go home. I'm a home-body in every sense of the word. I like puttering around in my own kitchen, having my own supply of books I can read, and having my Tivo with my own shows recorded for me whenever I want to watch them. I also hate watching commercials. I had no idea how spoiled Tivo had made us. I realize now I could live fine without telephones (Sorry, Alexander Bell) but I'd go through serious mourning over my Tivo.
Well, a barge is going by, so I'm going to go ocean-gaze awhile longer. Something about sea air makes me so sleepy. A nap won't be far off.

He's Got Gas

Ok, I couldn't resist sharing this one. We were coming home from my son's house, which is about a thirty minute drive by interstate. On our way home, I notice my husband did not get onto the on-ramp for the interstate but instead was going on the two-lane highway.
Me: Where are we going?
Him: Home.
Me: This way?
Him: Yeah, they have cheap gas at the station down here.
Me: Hmmm...Ok.
He pulls into the gas station, which is packed with cars, and finds the only pump available has an out of order sign taped to it.
Him: Well, %^**#!
Me: Can't we just get it at the station by our house?
Him: Wait, that guy is almost done. I'll wait on him.
Five minutes pass...six....seven...Guy has finished pumping gas, has gone inside, and finally comes out with a sack, pulls out. My husband wheels in.
Him: Something is wrong with the pump. It won't take my #$%@! debit card.
Me: Why not?
Him: Says it's not reading it, and I have to go inside.
Me: So?
Him: There's a long line in there.
Me: Why don't we just go home? We've still got a half a tank anyway.
Him: But I wanted to get this cheap gas.
Me: Well how much is gas at the station by the house?
Him: It's $2.58 a gallon.
Me: And here it's...$2.55?
Him: Yeah.
Me: How many gallons does your tank hold?
Him: Fifteen I think.
Me: So you'd be buying a half of a tank, let's say eight gallons, and you'd save...24 cents.
Him: What?
Me: Yeah, you drove the long way home, sat here twenty minutes now, and all to save 24 cents.
Him: You're sure? Twenty four cents?
Me: Yeah, plus it costs us extra for taking the long way home.
Him: (Grunts). I never thought of it that way. (While shooting me that dirty look that says you women ruin all the fun we men have driving long distances and burning up several dollars worth of gas to save less than a quarter. Geez.)