"I'm Just a Girl in the World"

I just joined a fantasy football league.  And by joined, I mean stomped my feet and bitched and moaned until I was begrudgingly allowed to take over an abandoned team.  It only took me about two weeks of whining about it, and all along, I was thinking, "You'll just be kicking my ass every week, isn't that a GOOD thing?"  I mean, I just really improved the odds of winning for every other person in the league!  How can that be bad?

I don't know much about football.  Go ahead, say it.  It's because I'm a girl.  Pfffffft.  I know that I have a team I've rooted for since 1986 that I loyally hold onto, even though they suck.  I know that I like to look at football pants.  I know enough about the rules to get by, and I know team colors and mascots... Hell, I even like watching it!  But what I don't know is the necessary information for competitive play in a fantasy league.  Is that because I'm a girl?  Maybe.  Boys seem to have this innate ability to remember stats and positions and who's injured and who got traded...and I just don't.  I could tell you what I remember, but then I'd get sidetracked talking about Odell Beckham's tattoos, and that's just... not productive right now.  But I'm not sure if it's due to the male/female brain thing, or if it's about the learned skills that society has drilled into our brains.

So, why, then, did I want to play?  Simple.  Because I wasn't asked.  The guy running the thing invited every dude he ran into to play, and treated me like chopped liver.  He said it was because I didn't know anything about football....although he never bothered to ask, and we'd never discussed it. But he didn't ask those guys either...he just assumed they did.  Not because of football knowledge...but because of different...equipment.  Grrrrrrrrrr.

I don't know why I got my panties in a wad over gender inequality for such a trivial topic.  I mean, who really CARES about points in an imaginary league with no real bragging rights for a win?  But it seemed like the more I was denied the opportunity, the more I wanted it.  And the more I was denied that opportunity, the more I wanted to argue about other instances of gender inequality that got me fired up...all of them stupid, and trivial, but somehow really meaningful at the same time.  Like being in a room full of guys and the host asking only the MEN if they'd like a shot of bourbon.  I frigging LOVE bourbon, and I'm RIGHT HERE!  Somehow my skirt, or my boobs, disqualified me.

I was fired up over dress codes last week, too.  Reading articles such as this one and this one and seeing comments from friends who have daughters really made me thankful to have a boy (the responsibility just changes a bit).  I remember being fussed at, shamed, for not wearing a bra in my own house frequently in my adolescent years, and how bad that felt, like it was my fault I had boobs.  Like I was supposed to remember to stop to put a bra on under my pajamas before I went to eat my Fruity Pebbles and watch The Smurfs.  Hell no.  Flagrant issues...by all means, I'll address those.  But otherwise, kids are doing the work I assigned and not bothering me or each other, so I don't care.  If the boys are distracted, give them more to do and whack them over the metaphorical head with a good case of "act like you have some sense."  It might seem like it's about spaghetti straps, but it's not.

It's human to look and appreciate.  That's not lost on me, as a mere girl. After all, Odell and his ink, and those football pants...well, golly.  I do a lot of looking and appreciating, but it stops there. Anyone who says "boys can't help it" is risking a fight with me, though, because boys CAN help it.   They can help making girls feel bad because her boobs are bigger than the other girls'.  They can help not choosing girls to play on their teams...or in their leagues...because they "don't know shit about football. "  They can help assuming that girls don't drink bourbon, and that girls are there to sit and be pretty, but not be distracting, mind you!  There's that double effing standard that means that we can NEVER win, no matter what we do.  They CAN help it, and they need to be taught to, and so help me, if anyone ever says about MY son, "He can't help it, he's a boy," I'll teach everyone in the room how to help it.

I actually started this post with the idea of writing about how I prefer the company of men to women.  About how it's easier for me to be comfortable when I only have to worry about witty banter and not the conversation at a "hen party."  About how I'd rather be clueless and at a fantasy draft than on level ground and at a Lularoe party...or Pampered Chef...or any of those other approved "girl" things. About how that comes from being raised with a pack of wolves...I mean, boys...as an only girl, and from watching the men in my family retreat to the dining room to discuss important family issues while the women did the dishes.  Clearly, they couldn't be trusted with input, but Saran Wrap?  Yeah, we can let them handle that.  It's all of the above, and more.  And I'm just a girl in the world, giving props to Gwen Stefani for today's soundtrack.  (Just press play and turn up your volume, girls.)

When a Guardian Falls

I've been sort of at a loss over how to approach this topic.  If we are friends in real life, on Facebook, even, you might already know that I was devastated last week by the loss of a tree.  Yes, a tree, but not just any tree.  This tree, which I wrote about here.

My grandfather died in 1985, my grandmother in 2002.  Both were buried at the base of this tree, under which I have sat on many an afternoon on my way home.  In the small world that is my life, I pass the cemetery daily, visit from my car as I slow and turn my head toward the graves.  And if the weather suits, or I've had a particularly rough day, or feel the need for some peace and solitude, I make the trip into the cemetery and sit.  That's become a little more difficult lately, as the boy doesn't have much patience for it.  Reverence, yes, but not patience.

Those trips gained much more significance when Edna died in 2009, and when she was joined there by Uncle Bob the next year.  Trips into the cemetery became more frequent, more like a family reunion, a trip through time.  A granite bench was added by my aunt, a loving gesture, and one that allowed me to skip over planting myself on the ground in my work clothes.  It was placed at the foot of the tree, with all of the family in sight, also allowing for the eventuality that some of us will someday be joining them in the family plot.

Through it all, that tree, a sycamore I think, has stood, strong and tall and ancient.  It has always been the most beautiful spot in the cemetery, where many of us in the church community played as children. A former student wrote to me that her husband, also a former student, used to climb the tree with his brothers when they were young, so I know the tree has more significance than to just my family.  But I don't know that any other families have stood together crying and comforting each other at the base of it as many times as ours has.  And for that reason, I always thought of it as ours.  Another friend commented to me that maybe parts of my family members had nourished the tree, and while that sounds morbid, and I think he was mostly kidding and trying to make me laugh when I was upset, there is something to it.

So, the urge to run and protect it, climb into it, was strong when I heard the chainsaw from the school parking lot on Tuesday afternoon.  My sister had texted me, crying, because she had seen already.  She urged me to not go home, to take a different route so I wouldn't have to see.  So, I did the opposite and went straight there...how could I not?  I drove through the wrought-iron gate feeling nauseous, knowing what it looked like from a distance, but knowing that it would be worse up close.  And it was.

The guys working for the tree service eyed me oddly when I jumped out of the car and approached.  I was already crying, and had phone in hand ready to take pictures.  Maybe they thought I was going to yell at them or something.  I tried not to make too much eye contact at that point, wishing that they weren't there so I could sit and cry in peace.  Just before I left, I had a thought...in fact, I had already gotten back into the car and turned it around to leave while my son eyed me carefully from the back seat.  I put the car in park, hopped out again, and this time, approached the guy who looked like he might be in charge.  At this point, I was sobbing, which only got worse as I tried to explain to him that my grandparents, my uncle, my mom...were all down there.  And I asked him for a piece of the tree. (Well, I asked him for a piece of that, thank goodness he didn't misconstrue.)  He was very kind, suggesting that maybe I have their names inscribed on it somehow, and picking it up and putting it in the back of my car, even though I easily could have carried it.  (Damsel in distress, I suppose.  The tree is dead, but chivalry isn't.)  

For now, the pile of tree remains.  My piece is safe and secure, and waiting for me to decide what to do with it.  An inscribed wall-hanging, as Mr. Chivalry suggested?  A table top?  Or simply a memento? That remains to be seen.  But at least I can guard it, my family tree.  

Wednesday Whatevers

Because I feel slightly guilty at wishing for (and receiving) another snow day, when the rest of the world apparently wants to get back to business as usual,  and because I still feel like absolute hell and can't clean my house, which is soon-to-be-condemned, and because my brain is going to turn to mush if I just continue to stream episode after episode of "Justified", I thought I'd at least attempt to write the world's longest sentence a little post.  But the problem is that I've only been out of the house for twenty total hours in the last ten days, and nothing's really happening.  So, whatever!


An old friend found this picture of my mom and me the other day and shared it with me on Facebook.  I'm fascinated with it!  I've been thinking about (and writing about, some) this time period in my life quite a bit lately, so the timing was rather odd.  I'm about Andrew's age in the picture, I think, based on the hair and the glasses.  But what I can't get over is my mom in this picture!  She was going through one of the toughest times in her own life when this picture was taken, but she doesn't show it.  She's sassy--look at those hands on her hips--is it any wonder I stand that way a lot?  And she's smiling, put together, and gorgeous!  I don't tell her enough, but she has always impressed me with her strength and her stoicism and her ability to just do what needs to be done, regardless of her own needs or pain.  She did that for us as kids, and she continues to do so now, for all of us.  I've got a pretty kick-ass mom, and I hope I can do half as well.


My least favorite commercials right now are public service announcements discouraging the use of the word "gay" as derogatory comment.  The commercials are killing me slowly.  They aren't new, which I guess is why they're running during Scooby Doo and Tom and Jerry.  Don't confuse my disgust with the medium as disgust with the message, because that's certainly not the case.  My problem is that they run ad nauseum (no pun intended) on the Cartoon Network and some others of the boy's favorite networks.  He's eight, so Tom and Jerry is certainly appropriate fare, and God knows he hears my potty mouth enough, so that's not really the point either.  What he HAS never heard is the word "gay" used as a pejorative, so the context of Hillary Duff explaining why it was bad was completely lost on him.  We had to have one of THOSE discussions to make sure he knew what the word really meant, why it wasn't a bad thing in any context, and who some of our nearest and dearest gay people are, because he'd never given it a second thought.  He remembered that the biography of JFK that he was reading used the word in a different context, and we talked about that.  All in all, a very teachable moment, so what's the problem?  He now hears, "That's so gay," over and over in the course of the day, when he had never heard it before.  Does that defeat the purpose?  I'm wondering.  The most ridiculous thing about the commercials is that they all feature GIRLS using the word, and female role models pointing out why it's bad.  Hello, Ad Council!  Girls aren't the ones using the word that way; it's the boys!  How about the commercial with Victor Cruz talking to the teenage boys about throwing that word around?  It doesn't exist, and it should, because that's where the problem is.  Okay, rant over.  Until the next time the commercial airs.

I like having discussions with people.  I even like having arguments with people, sometimes, if they're respectful.  The thing is, those people have to be smart people.  They don't have to agree with  me--it's better if they don't.  The point of talking to people is to learn things, and I like to have things to talk about, even if the subject is one that pushes people's buttons or stretches their comfort zone, mine included!  I like to know what makes people tick.  Enough said.  Smart people, engage me. Teach me, expand my horizons.

Does it make me selfish that I'm delighting in the fact that not only is today another day for me to fight off this plague, but that the boy's karate class is also cancelled because the schools are closed?  I know, I know…I'm a terrible mom.  But, see…tonight was supposed to be a belt test, and those make me very nervous.  In my weakened and frail state, I'm not sure I could have handled the stress.  The class being canceled gives the kid another week to practice, to go over his form, and for me to feel more confident that he'll get that purple belt I've been dying to see.  (Orange is my least favorite color, sorry.)  By next week, hopefully I will be feeling better and up to the strain and the stress.  (Oh yeah, and one other thing…JMU Men's Basketball plays at Northeastern tonight, so instead of following the game on Twitter, I'll get to watch the video stream.  But that's totally irrelevant!)

I need to read a book.  I have stacks of them waiting, and one I'm in the middle of on my Nook.  But I can't do that until I've caught up on every single season of every single television series that I've missed over the past three years.  I have this Amazon Prime account that I need to milk for all its worth, for one thing, so I'm streaming away, but I've missed a lot of great things somehow!  First it was two seasons of American Horror Story, then it was on to Downton Abbey.  Once I caught up on those, it was on to Justified (I'm hooked), which I just might finish today, if I'm lucky.  I need to watch Lost, or so I've been told, and I'm sure there are many others I should check out.  Leave me some recommendations in the comments section, peeps.  And it's just a matter of a few days now before The Walking Dead returns.  I just might survive the winter!  I can always read this summer, right?

Speaking of Justified, Timothy Olyphant, the actor who plays Raylan Givens, also starred in one of my former favorite shows, Deadwood.  Which, daggone it, I now think I have to go back and watch again. Good thing he's easy on the eyes.

We Are Family

This is, without a doubt, the latest blog post I've ever written.  It's also, without a doubt, the only (I think) blog post I've ever written while intoxicated.  That's a small miracle in itself, knowing my affinity for the alcoholic beverages, and while it might be advisable to wait until this is somewhat easier to type, I feel the need right now.  So ignore or forgive the typos.  I've fixed more than I've left, I guarantee.

I write this tonight after a night full of Family.  I was about to write "family fun," or "family frivolity," but it wasn't all something I could fit in those categories.  Good lord, that sentence was hard to type.

What I want to say is that I love my family.  Every last, flawed, dysfunctional one of them.  I love them!   They are the ones who made me who I am today.  I'm among the few who remained standing at the end of this evening's function, at the early morning hour of 3:00 a.m.  Part of that is self-preservation--everyone knows that the first person to leave a party is the one that everyone else talks about!  But part of it is about wanting to glean every last moment out of the few occasions that we all have to get together during the year.  I'm not going to leave at 8:30 when I might not see my cousins for another six months!  Life is too unpredictable, and I'm not missing chances.

We gather at holidays.  We rally at times of crisis.  But what we also do, and I know that every family does, is get caught up in the day-to-day where we go weeks or months without speaking or getting together.  It doesn't mean that the love isn't there, but it is a reflection of effort.

Today I cooked, I prayed, I hugged, I ate, I drank, I hugged, I joked, I danced, I comforted, I reminisced, I mourned, I enjoyed, I understood, I loved.  I laughed a lot, and I also cried a lot, more than anyone else.  I cried early on for those who couldn't be with us tonight.  Later on, I cried for those whom I miss terribly on a daily basis, and for those who are facing a crisis of their own.  At some point, I just cried because I couldn't stop.  All of those tears were shed with my family members.

I love my family.  They are most of who I am, and hopefully, most of who my son will continue to become.  I don't like everything about all of them, but I don't have to.  We have shared experiences, but also different perspectives on the same events.  We have differing opinions about things that may happen in the future.  All that being said, we love each other.  And that's really all I wanted to say.

Wednesday Whatevers

I don't have the energy for this.  I'm sort of forcing it, so when it sucks, you'll know why.
But here's what's happening, in all its randomness.

I turned 42.  And lived to tell about it.  No end of the world or anything, which I really wasn't expecting anyway.  It was actually a pretty stinkin' good birthday.  People who were supposed to remember the day actually did...a few that I didn't expect to surprised me with greetings and salutations, and it was just NICE.  And throughout the course of the celebratory weekend, these notable things occurred:

My dad prepared a lovely dinner for the family on Thursday night.
Family from out of town visited unexpectedly, "forcing" us to stay out 'til the wee hours of the morning visiting with them.
We had a very pleasant, although unplanned, Friday evening with good friends.
We spent the day Saturday with family again, enjoying good food and drinks and fun.
We painted the town red...or at least muted shades of mauve and rose...on Saturday night, again with great friends and good music.
We spent Sunday with yet more family.
The overall theme was friends and family--that's what it's all about, after all.
I get tired again just reading about all of the activity.  Right now, hibernating sounds pretty good.

It was also during the weekend that Andrew wrecked a motorized vehicle for the first time when he drove a mini-dirt bike through a rail fence, breaking two of the rails and narrowly escaping a nasty run-in with the barbed wire fence strung on the other side.  Whew, I'm glad I didn't see it!  What I am grateful for, in addition to the fact that he wasn't injured (other than a scrape on his chin) was that he walked away with a healthy fear of speed and a lesson in listening carefully.  And while I wondered THEN where my little boy went, I wondered even more when he came home from school today talking about wanting a leather jacket, one of those leather clips for his pocketknife, and leather pants, complete with "one of those chains you can hook to your pants." Apparently, I'm raising a motorcycle hood.  Fonzi would be proud.

I have a long list of work grumbles that I won't bore the public with.  Middle school drama isn't strictly for the kids, apparently.  But aside from that, I am feeling a great deal of stress professionally.  Okay, maybe I will bore you a bit...without being specific, let me just express the fact that IN GENERAL, it's difficult to go through life always being told what you're doing wrong or what you're not doing and should be.  We could probably all benefit from that lesson for our own workplaces and homes.  I just don't think that constantly pointing out where failures occurred is productive, healthy, or even ethical.  Everyone needs positive, consistent, and fair feedback.  Without specifics, and without even acknowledging that I'm talking about myself here, I would like to say that you just can't keep piling things on to someone's "plate" without expecting that plate to overflow.  It's a little discouraging for the focus to always be on the carrot that fell in the floor, instead of on all of the other things that teachers do well.  We, and the many great things we do during the course of a day...or week...or year...are taken for granted, from the bottom rungs of the hierarchy to the top.  While I don't look for sympathy for doing a job that I love, (and doing a damn good job of it, I might add), I do look for...I don't know.  Understanding? I also don't look for someone or something to trip me while I'm carrying the plate, just to see if I can hold on.  Uggh, rant over.

On a positive note, I love getting coupons from restaurants.  Good job, Byers Street Bistro and Sauced, for sending me $10.00 off birthday presents.   You're damn skippy I'll use them, and spend all the more money for saving a little.  And FYI, marketing people who care about this stuff, the actual postcard in the mail is SO much more effective for this girl than an email sitting in my inbox.  I might use the others too, but I'm more likely to use the one that's cluttering up my kitchen counter!  And when you say "any purchase," you do mean beer, right?  'Cause that's what I'm buying!

Another positive note to end on?  Wednesday dinners are also "whatevers."  It's my Grump Day Hump Day Karate Night Strategy for Survival...so bring on the leftover chili, Mr. Microwave.

A Designated Task

An unfinished project is weighing heavily on my mind lately.  Actually, strike that...it's an unSTARTed project.  My Uncle Bob was a great fan of my writing, even though I'm not sure why or how.  To my knowledge, he only ever read the eulogy I wrote for Granny, and maybe some really bad poetry when I was a girl. Regardless, he was a man of culture and the arts, even as a scientist, so he MUST have known greatness when he saw it.  (Please read that with the intended tongue in cheek.)

Years before we lost both Uncle Bob and Granny, and before the idea of buying this house was ever conceived, Uncle Bob asked me, encouraged me, WANTED me to write my grandmother's life story, if for no other reason than to have the oral history recorded for the youngsters and future generations.  I agreed to do it, and sat with my grandmother on several occasions to do an interview.  

Granny and I sat together a lot, she in the recliner that she spent vast portions of her final years in, and I on the couch next to her.  We would sometimes watch TV together, sometimes crochet, but as often as not, we would just sit together.  This house, when silent, sounds just the same today as it used to--the slightly louder hum of the interstate, the same noisy blue jays in the yard, the faint noise of the compressor in the refrigerator...this house has a "silence" all its own, those ghosts, if you will.  I am very thankful that we weren't cursed with the technology that we are today, otherwise I might not have heard all that I did.

But I digress.  I did interviews with Granny over several afternoons sitting in this exact spot (I'm a creature of habit, and "my spot" hasn't changed in all these years, even though the furniture has.). I recorded her stories with a micro -cassette recorder purchased for that very reason, sometimes asking questions, but mostly just letting her talk. It was clear that she enjoyed it, not just to break the monotony and the silence, but also to put her own unique spin on things and tell the finer details of some of the scandals and mysteries of her life.

So, my research is done, for the most part, other than tracking down some details.  It's a matter of transcribing the interviews and piecing them together with the store of her old photos that I also inherited with the house.  Part of the process was also sitting and labeling pictures, not too hard a task considering her penchance for writing directly on the photo, (she was a labeler, that one) so it shouldn't be hard.

The hard part, though, and the part holding me back (along with a healthy case of procrastination)?  Well, here's  the thing...to embark on the process, I'll have to actually listen to the tapes.  And I'm not sure I can hear her call me "Sister" without bawling, much less listen to her for hours as I type her narration. It's a gift to have it recorded, as it will be a treasure for others in the family to read and know her story, but I just don't have the courage most days to do it, to listen.

But, I need to, and I will, because as the years pass quickly, those for whom the story will have the most significance are also getting up in the years and starting to have their own health issues.  Uncle Bob didn't get a chance to read it, which I will always, always regret, but if I act quickly, the others will.  

Flashback Friday

I think a lot about this house that I live in. It's haunted.  When I say that, I don't mean by ghosts (although they are there too, I think).  Maybe I asked for this, buying my grandparents' house.  Well, there's no maybe about it...in fact, I guess that was the whole point.

My thoughts today center around us "kids".  When I was young, there were five of us cousins, four boys and yours truly.  It's no wonder that as an adult, I'm more comfortable hanging out with guys...it was a matter of survival when I was a kid.

We ran wild.  My PA cousins would come in for the summer, or a holiday, or just because, and all HELL would break loose.  We tramped through fields to explore neglected cemeteries.  We crossed train trestles with rivers below.  We played in creeks running through concrete culverts under the train tracks.  We put all of our pocket change on the tracks to be smashed flat by the trains.  We threw rocks at lazy black snakes dangling from the trees, and we built forts under and against any low-hanging bush or tree that  lent itself to it.  We raced go-carts on the "little road" in front of the house, no helmets or safety gear involved.  We walked to the bridge crossing the interstate and stood for hours getting truckers to blow their mighty horns at us, waiting for the thrill of the ones that honked under the bridge, because it was much, much louder.  

We did other less wholesome things, too.  We stole cigarettes from the old folks and snuck off with them.  I always had a castoff lighter to play with.  We sipped the foam off my grandfather's beers, with permission, and snuck sips of the harder stuff without.  My cousin would sic his dog after me just to make me cry, and I'd be furious at myself when I did.  I learned a lot of really cool cuss words and Pennsylvania slang.

Things changed when we got older.  More "cousins" were added, the "next gen," because even though we were all first cousins, they were much, much younger.  By the time those kids arrived, things had settled down considerably. We were all teenagers and more obsessed by "sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll" than by climbing over barbed wire fences and getting chased by angry bulls.  They were also watched a little more closely than we were in those idyllic years of the 70's.  So, they missed out on some stuff, but I know they also have their own things to remember.

"Honking the trucks" is one of the few crossovers.  That was something that we, as teenagers, could be trusted to do with the little guys, so we'd gather them up and walk with them to the bridge.  Still dangerous, now that I think about it.  I'm not letting Andrew go hang out on an interstate bridge alone any time soon! But they loved it just as much as we did.

It's been awhile since I've walked down there for any reason, much less to stand above the highway and make an ass out of myself.  Somehow, we never cared about that.

Back Atcha, Tootsie Wootsie!!

Sometimes I really just don't know where to begin, and I sit here with my fingers on the keyboard and just let it go...this is one of those times.  I need to do this, but I'm at a loss for words, at least, for words that will be adequate...because there aren't any.

My family and I lost a dear, dear friend yesterday.  And this is where the words fail me, because "friend" isn't good enough to describe the beautiful soul that Bev is.  She has been so much more to us, especially over the last few years, that "friend" just seems to trivialize it.  In spite of her own worries, her own grief, her own family, she was a rock for us, especially for my sister and me.  She was the one who had the strength and the presence of mind, and the good Catholic faith to be able to recite the Rosary over and over as Edna slipped away from us.  How she even uttered words, I'll never know. 

She was the one who promised to be there for us where and when Edna couldn't...and who kept that promise.  She was the one who would send randomly-timed text messages saying, "I love you so, so much!!!" just because she wanted us to know.   She's the one I cry for now, as I sit here struggling to see the screen through my tears.

Bev was Edna's best friend.  She and her husband were married the same year as Dad and Edna.  They taught at the same school together for their entire teaching careers.  They had children at the same time, and both loved books, teaching, and wine.  But most of all, they loved their families, and everything, EVERYTHING centered around that love.  I'd rather call them sisters, because that's closer to the description of their relationship...and in return, that makes us family. 

We were in the car, packed and ready to leave for the lake, when I heard the news yesterday.  Edna's van, that is, that we were borrowing for the trip.  And for some reason, I just could not make myself get out of the car, as if sitting there in the passenger seat made it any better.  And as I went digging in the glove compartment for a drive-thru napkin or travel pack of tissues to wipe my tears, I found a book of Edna's instead.  I don't think those are accidents.

See, there's a very strong, reassuring thought that I have.  Yes, She of No Belief in the Afterlife, She of Little Faith, She of More Questions than Answers!  In spite of all that, I feel...no, I KNOW that Bev and Edna are together somewhere, hopefully drinking wine and cackling as they used to...and watching the cycle continue as their children start their married lives and have kids of their own, building on that friendship that started so many years ago.  And that makes me smile, in spite of the tears.

When I texted her yesterday morning to tell her that I loved her...her last words to me were, "Back atcha, tootsie wootsie!!!"  I'll cherish those words forever.  If there's a lesson here, and there doesn't necessarily need to be, it's to say those words when you feel them, to make sure those you cherish know. 

I love you, Bev.  Thank you for everything. 

Agrodolce

Yesterday was Mothers' Day.  I was treated to breakfast in bed and coupon for a "purple tree" from my two favorite guys, sent and received multiple mothers' day greetings from important people in my life, and stayed in bed so long that my back started to ache.

We met my mom and stepfather for lunch at our favorite Chinese buffet, and for a few minutes, it seemed like Wayne was going to slip into his usual "point out all the negatives" habit.  You know, like, "The crab legs are awfully small," or, "In places like this, there ain't nothin'..." but he settled down, and we enjoyed a very pleasant meal, complete with two of my favorite things, crab legs and sushi.  Ming Garden is like a tourist attraction, with its indoor fountain and koi pond, and fish tanks full of ichthyic creatures (yes, I had to look that up!). 

Much to everyone's horror, I called this the sushi tank--but I was the only one who had actually eaten any.  What were they worried about?

Mom was pleased with the treat and not having to cook, and we left mention of my brother by the wayside for the afternoon.  I had invited him to go, too, in spite of the fact that we aren't speaking, but he chose to ignore the text message entirely and not show up.  He can lie in the bed he's made, though. 

I wasn't quite ready to go home after lunch.  After all, the house was a wreck, and if we went home, I might feel compelled to clean it.  We took advantage of the beautiful, although cool and breezy, weather to head to the park, where we ran into friends of the family having their own Mothers' Day celebration.  The matriarch of that clan, a really good friend, made some well-meaning comments about Edna, and that's where the day went south for me.  In years past, I may have been angry at her for not knowing when to stop talking, but I know her comments came from the heart and stemmed from her missing Edna too, so forgiveness came easily.  The damage was done, however, and I was sad for the rest of the day, in spite of some very lovely moments. 

The beloved swan couple at the park are now proud parents of these fluffy little cygnets.  (I did NOT have to look that up!)  I could have watched them all day, and was happy to find this video so that I can. 

Andrew was excited that the train was open for the season and took two trips around with his daddy while I soaked up the sun and wiggled my toes in the cool grass.  Some boys were splashing in the creek beside me, chasing tadpoles and getting their shoes wet...I had to resist the teachery, mommy instincts to fuss at them for their language when they yelled, "Oh shit! There are thousands of them!"

I saw lots of interesting dogs while we were there, and was struck once again by how many dogs look like their owners!  You know who you are!  One more reason for me to be hesitant to get a dog--although in my case, I suppose any bitch would do.

There was one more task at hand after leaving the park, and that was the cemetery visit.  I was primed and ready for a good cry at this point, and the tears just rolled as I sat on the granite bench and mourned once again.  Does it ever stop?  It's a beautiful spot, but my favorite tree is dying.  I will be devastated when it does, and much of the beauty will be gone then, too.  This tree hugs me and shelters me when I am there, and when it's gone, visiting will be even lonelier. 

We made it home, finally, to the Sunday evening rush to get things ready for the week ahead...dinner made up of appetizer foods and an hour and a half with the heating pad playing Words With Friends and watching a Harry Potter movie with the boy as he cleaned up the devastation of the living room and an epic Star Wars battle.   All in all, it was a good day. 

And as seems to be my running theme, very bittersweet.

The Lake

The lake is many things to me.  On any given day, I have mixed feelings about the money we spend owning and maintaining our little place there, the oft-perceived hassle of packing, getting there, and keeping up with what amounts to two homes, and with the separation from home and activities that happen here without us when we're away.  For the better part of seven years, we've lived a dual life.  Life is different at the lake, for sure, and whether it's spring, summer, or fall, it's a big part of our family dynamic and who we "are." 

The lake has given us many wonderful things.  For starters, Andrew has had the opportunity to swim, to explore, to fish, to drive a boat (with assistance, of course), to rub elbows with the Coasties, and just to be outside doing stuff, which is lost on a lot of kids these days.  The quality time he has spent with his grandparents there is priceless.  He will always, always remember the golf cart parades, the "Wookie hunting" laps around the campground, the bonfires, and just getting to run around on his own and be independent as he traipses back and forth from our place to my dad's, or takes the opportunity to walk back up the hill from the dock on his own.  These days, as he tries to convince us that he needs a dog, he's taken on the dog-walking responsibilities for my dad, and he and Pooch have become great pals.  He's hung out in a "bar" playing ring toss and listening to music on many a summer night.  He knows how to tie off a boat, the difference between port and starboard, and a wealth of boating regulations that many adults would be hard pressed to recite. 

The lake has been a difficult place to be sometimes as well.  Anytime you have a lot of family members in a confined space, or just spending a lot of time together, there's bound to be conflict.  It can be nerve-wracking to try to juggle multiple agendas, to try to appease everyone's moods and attitudes.  I don't know about other families, but we're a testy bunch sometimes (present company included), and you just have to adopt the mindset of letting everyone do their own thing and letting things slide sometimes.  I like that Andrew sees that as well, though, because in spite of the bickering and the eye-rolling, we all still keep coming back together as a family, and that's what it's all about.  Edna's last summer is forever attached to the lake as well, and for me, that's part of what still makes it hard to be there sometimes.  Remembering the late night card games on the deck, her surprise at the purchase of the "new" boat, how she always organized things so well and never complained about the fact that the more of us that were there, the more work she had to do...all of that is hard for me, and I miss her as much there as I do anywhere, if not more so. 

This weekend was a mix of all of that, and more.  We got up early on Saturday morning to have breakfast at a local church that does a fundraiser on the first Saturday of each month.  It's a tradition that we go...it has been for years.  The food is good, nobody has to cook, there's a nice little playground behind the church...all of those are good reasons to go.  But when I've been up late, usually drinking, getting up early and getting dressed to go out is not high on my list of things to do.  I like my sleep, and I like sitting around in my jammies in the morning relaxing.  Can't do that on a Church Breakfast Saturday!  And there's the emotional baggage of remembering that we ALL used to go, and now it's just Dad.  After his recent health scares, it's been in the back of my head that we escaped a close call with him, not once, but several times this winter, and it's hard to watch him struggling with a cane, or losing his balance and just being...frail.  I'm not going to lie..I wigged a little bit Saturday morning, for all of the above reasons, then rescued myself by curling up on the couch with my favorite blanket watching 21 Jump Street and napping for most of the day. 

Weekends at the lake are also for going out.  There's a great place just around the bend from us that we like to go to, not just because of the atmosphere (waterfront, informal, bands most weekend nights), but also because it's close.  We've had a lot of great times there over the years (and through multiple owners and name changes).  Dad and Edna used to babysit for us while we all went out drinking and dancing...in the last few years, my dad hasn't really enjoyed a loud, crowded place anyway, and now that his hearing and perception is damaged, he really can't tolerate it.  So, we all had dinner together on the waterfront patio before we sent the oldest and the youngest home.  My dad had asked Andrew to spend the night with him, and I encourage their quality time whenever I can...besides the fact that it freed us up to stay out late.  We stayed and drank, people watching (middle-aged men in large, frou-frou Kentucky Derby hats and 50 year-old strippers with matching yellow hair, pants, and stiletto heels...she was a hot mess, but that's a different story), and for my sister and me, dancing to party favorites like The Cupid Shuffle and The Wobble.  It was a great night, and a fabulous way to end a day that had started in less than stellar fashion. 

I guess the point of all of this is that the lake is, for me, a dichotomy of happiness and sadness, relaxation and activity, togetherness and solitude...of beginnings and endings...transitions is maybe a better word, since the most important things don't end, they just change.  I vividly remember the "firsts" and "lasts" of so many things.  The beauty of the lake is that there is always a new memory, a new "first" to help ease the sting of a loss.  Here's to the start of a great season. 

Sometimes It's Just a Week

This has been a week of serious ups and downs.  The weather is weird, we've had no snow, and the work weeks just keep coming with no end in sight.  No snow days, warm weather, and looking at the calendar and seeing that it's just January is sort of discouraging.  I don't know whether to hope for a blizzard that snows school out for a week, or for it to just get warm and stay that way in the hopes that the Powers That Be will give us back our unused built in days once the danger has passed.  So, some doldrums have hit, and while they're not big ones, they are the kind that just linger around and pester. 

The week started off with a Sunday night bedtime viewing of Steel Magnolias, one of my all-time favorites.  Shelby's wedding and veil reminded me of my own big, poufy veil, and a conversation with a family friend inspired me to dig out the wedding album.  I don't keep these out in plain sight normally.  I, of course, laughed at this, then went to bed bawling my eyes out, because no matter how many times Shelby dies and Jack Jr. smacks Weezer, it gets me every single damn time.  Julia Roberts, eat your heart out.

Family stuff is kind of weird, too.  I think my dad is seeing someone, but he's being very shady secretive about it.  The last experiment in dating (see this post) was so awful, he swore we'd never know about it when he decided to see someone else, and I think that's what he's done.  I think I'm okay with it, though...as long as we aren't exposed to her, it doesn't really matter who she is, right?  As long as it's not this.

My sister and I, who are normally best friends, aren't getting along very well either.  She's getting married this summer, and we're miscommunicating quite a bit over details like dress shopping and bachelorette parties.  I'm sure she thinks I'm a huge hosebag and just being difficult for the hell of it, but that's really not it.  She gets her feelings hurt and just shuts down, and I'm caught dealing with her well-meaning friends who are trying to intervene and solve the problem.  But that's a post for another day.  I watched Bridesmaids today, and while it took me a long time to actually decide to keep watching it, my issues are very much at the center of that movie's conflicts...right down to the overblown out-of-town bachelorette party that I can't afford.  But oh well. 

There's been some cool stuff along the way, though, too.  I was honored with the "Brilliant Bulldog" award at school on Friday, and while the prize was just a scratch-off lottery ticket worth nothing, it was nice to be recognized and appreciated.  The kids' cheering that was heard all over the school was enough to make me smile for a while.  I wore a sequined sweater to work and actually avoided looking like a dork or a hooker.  (I think.)  And we had another very successful Drama Club meeting before auditions for our production kick off in a couple of weeks. 

 Andrew earned his 2nd degree yellow belt in his karate class on Wednesday, which was very exciting.  I'm really proud that he's stuck with it and wants to continue to progress.  We were strongly encouraged to take "The Killer" (his instructor's nickname for him) to the state tournament in March, and while I have visions of Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita, I think we're going to go. 

JMU basketball season is in full swing...actually, starting into the end of the season.  That's full of ups and downs too, as our team continues to struggle with injuries and a depleted bench.  It's heartbreaking to see those kids out there playing their hearts out (sometimes not very well, but that's a different story) and running into brick walls almost consistently.  But we still go, and I celebrate the victories and the effort.  Plans are in the works to attend the CAA conference again, which coincidentally lines up with the location and weekend of the karate tournament.  Sometimes stuff DOES work out.

 Sometimes our view isn't very good.  :-)

We're into board games as part of our family time lately...well, the boys like to play card games, but I'll stick with the old-fashioned board games that I spent a million hours playing as a kid.  My favorite, and recently purchased Sorry!  was a hit on Friday night after homemade pizza.  While I got my ass kicked for a while...

I finally made it out onto the board.  Mr. Crankypants Six Year-Old, though, took his first trip back to his home base kind of rough. 

 (He's under the table.)

But he finally got over himself, and he proceeded to kick my butt for 2nd place. 

We finished up the week with a trip to Charlottesville for a family gathering...Charlottesville being the center point for people traveling from all over the state.  It was chaotic, and short, but it was nice to see everyone.  We don't see that side of the family enough.  You gotta love the Wood Grill Buffet, though, because where else can you create a dessert like this?

 No, that's not my concoction.  My niece, however, greatly enjoyed it, and when it melted to a thick pile of chocolate goo, she discovered the best way to get the last bits.

Tonight's accomplishments?  Saving the badge of Sheriff Woody, sewing patches on the Karate Kid's gi, and creating a yummy, easy dinner that had Andrew almost licking his plate...okay, licking his fingers that he rubbed across the plate, but same thing.Woody's badge, with its one-sided "buttonholes."  Impossible to sew back on, because there's no way to get a needle through!  Whose bright idea was this?

 Not quite good-as-new, but the best I can manage. 

Dinner...leftover pizza-dough-turned ham and cheese stromboli, and apple slices with my new favorite thing...peanut butter dip!  Like peanut butter pie, only healthier and guilt-free.  Well, until I eat a whole container of it, that is.

And now it's Sunday night once again, my least favorite night of the week.  Grocery lists, laundry, bathtime, harried blog posts while the kid is in the bathtub, and my overwhelming habit of staying up too late watching bad television and starting the week off exhausted.  Oh, and this week?  The added attraction of a Monday-afternoon doctor's appointment.  Whoopee!

Sunday Night Six-Pack

Okay, Sunday nights aren't normally for Six-Packs, but after this week in particular, and the fact that I'm woefully out of bloggy routine, what the hell.  There's a full moon, too, so why not? 

1.  I really, really miss blogging on a regular basis.  So many of my vents and rants take place here, that when I don't get them off my chest, it comes to meltdown status.  Not weepy, sobby meltdowns, but gripey, bitchy radioactive snarkiness that could bubble over at any point.  Right now that's directed at family members.  We have always been somewhat squabbly and quirky, I'll give you that, but since Edna's death, we put the FUN in dysfunction.  Actually, I continually have to remind myself that things aren't worse since her death--the things that are screwed up were that way long before she was even sick...but it's her absence that makes it seem worse.  I won't go into details, but there are members of my immediate family that need a swift kick in the ass reminder that family isn't just about traditions and holidays, but also about the nitty gritty and about being there for the not-so-pleasant stuff.  And yes, sometimes it involves inconvenience and changing one's plans, but SO WHAT?  It's coming from both sides right now, too, which doesn't help. 

2.  I'm in love with several household appliances...my Scentsy warmer and the Nook.  Well, let me clarify...I'm in love with one Scentsy warmer and one Better Homes warmer (read that, cheap Walmart knockoff).  My house smells like oatmeal cookies and gingerbread, and it's certainly not because I'm baking.  And it smells like that DAILY, not just when company's coming over and I light the candles.  It's no small feat in a house like this, either...when you combine 200 year-old house smells with a crotchety old cat who can no longer consistently aim into the litterbox and the fact that I'm a laissez-faire housekeeper, it's a small miracle. 

3.  The Nook Tablet we got for Christmas is my new favorite thing, but like all things--when I do something, I sort of do it obsessively.  So, I've downloaded about 76 books since Christmas Day, and I take personal pride in the fact that I've only paid about ten dollars total for books.  I'm on a quest for every free Nook book there is...so I not only check out Cheap e-Reads, NookJr, and NookTeen on Facebook for the new finds, but I personally search daily for the freebies.  I already have more books than I can possibly read (and even some that I know I'll never read, but I grabbed them "just in case.")  It's a family Nook, but we might have to add a little brother or sister to the family just so we can read the books we have and also play Angry Birds and update Twitter.  I'm really just waiting for the implants into our brains/eyes so that we can be connected 24/7.  Kidding, I think.

4.  College basketball season is in full swing...but unfortunately, our team is not.  I need a win soon, because even though I'll keep watching and cheering, my optimism is waning.  In the past, I could go to games just to go, and have fun, and be pleasantly surprised when we won...but I got used to winning MOST of the time, and that's not happening now.  My Dukes are struggling, and although I'm not calling for the coach's head on a plate like some other "loyal" fans, I really, really want something to turn around.  I'm too emotional about it to be a good fan, though, because I worry too much about players' feelings being hurt, or whether they're discouraged by the losses.  Okay, maybe I'm too much of a GIRL about it.  :-P

5.  I have had bronchitis/laryngitis/sinusitis for what seems like forever.  It actually dates back to before Thanksgiving when I had strep throat and tonsillitis.  I'm sick of being hoarse and coughing, and I should probably go back to the doctor, but there just isn't time.  Between basketball games, Andrew's karate classes, afterschool homework club, faculty meetings, sick and post-surgical parents, a house that's too flipping big and doesn't clean itself, and...oh yeah, and SLEEP...I just can't make the time appear.  So I suffer, and sound terrible, and uggggh.

6.  Andrew spontaneously requested going to his grammy's for a sleepover next weekend, so we're planning a (gasp) night out.  We'll start, of course, by watching our team get pummeled win at home, then hopefully we'll head out on the town, if we can manage to stay awake past 10 p.m.  It's really sad, and probably a sign of old age, when it sounds like too much effort to go out and I'd just rather come home, snuggle up with the  Nook and a snack, and get a solid twelve hours of night's sleep.   

More Heartache

Uncle Bob

1943-2010

Forever in our Hearts