So Thankful For...

A couple of weeks ago, my phantastic photog phriend, Veronica, took my family out into the woods and shot us over 400 times (in a pleasant way).

Here are some of the results:



Isn't she absolutely beautiful? (...and sweet and smart and funny and kind and...)


I asked Ronni to get a few shots of Tobias's signature hair swoosh. (It just grows that way and only on the right side.)


Beforehand, I thought about our family's uniqueness so we could take pictures that reflect us.

We like to play croquet.

I love the lighting of this one:


(No, none of these mallets is the one Tobias used to dispatch the rogue rat's "soul".)


(That's a top hat in Tobias's hand, in case you're wondering. Yes, the boy who carries a briefcase to school often wears a top hat...)


Yay, I got it through the wicket!

This is the look I often have on my face while playing croquet (or anything else that requires any athletic skill):

Jeff wanted to incorporate paper airplanes.


I'm so glad he thought of it, 'cause some of those shots turned out really cool, like this one:


Of course, we had to take some that captured our essence of goofiness.


Here we are imitating jack-o'-lanterns:



...and, as a parting shot: Beware the coming zombie invasion!!!:


(You've been warned.)

One Haiku

I'm going to subject you all to another poem, but this is just a little, tiny one.

Conceptions and Death

Present, I was, at
Some souls' packaging, but at
Nary a sloughing

You have to love the simplicity of a haiku.

Love and Loss

Not a very original title, I know.

I have no specific plans for what I'll write as I begin typing this, so it's bound to be disjointed in the end. Sorry...

Just last month, we visited Grandma on her birthday in her little apartment at the assisted living home where she lived. We asked her all sorts of questions about her life.

When she was about three, her younger sister was born there in the family home. Grandma saw her aunt standing in the kitchen, holding a little baby and she thought her aunt had just taken the baby out of the oven like a loaf of bread.

She remembered when World War I ended! Yes, that's WWI, not WWII! She was just a little kid and she stepped out into the street in front of her house. All the neighbors were outside, happily yelling, "The Kaiser's dead! The Kaiser's dead!"

Her father suffered a horrible bout of the Spanish Flu that killed millions of people around the world back around 1918. He lived for another three years, but he never recovered, so a subsequent illness ended his life. Grandma remembered going into the room where he was lying in bed and talking to him. He must have known he was soon leaving Earth when he told her he wanted her to be a good girl. She said that for years after that, she thought that he was the one watching her from heaven instead of God.

Her mother made her and her sister wear sunbonnets on the two mile walk to school. However, her mother never knew that there was a certain tree a couple of blocks from the house where they would stash the bonnets until the afternoon walk home.

At thirteen, she claimed to believe in Santa Claus because she feared she wouldn't get her stocking filled if she fessed up.

A few years ago, I wondered if Grandma had struggled with her body image as most girls/women are prone to do, so I asked her, "Grandma, when you were a teenager, did you feel attractive?"

The little embarrassed smile I'm so familiar with crept onto her face. "Yes," she said.

Delightfully surprised, I said, "Really? What about you made you feel attractive?"

The shy smile continued to grace her face as she responded, "My shape."

Ha! I was so amazed to hear a former teenager say that they liked their body as a teen. I unabashedly asked if I could see pictures of her as a young woman, expecting to see a Marilyn Monroe look-alike with my grandma's head.

Looking at the pictures that she brought out, I saw that she had been a well padded teen, about 25 pounds overweight by today's standards. How wonderful to feel attractive and still be able to eat. :) Good for her.

Boys did indeed find her attractive. She said, once a young man came to visit and when he was about to leave, he went around kissing the entire family goodbye and she suspected it was all so he could kiss her as well.

She dated a bit and one night she kissed a fellow goodnight when he walked her to the door. Entering the house, her disapproving mother said, "When I was a girl, we only kissed a man goodnight if we were engaged to him."

"Well, Mother," she responded, "I guess I'm engaged to half the boys in town."

(Poor Great-Grandma May! I wouldn't enjoy hearing Delaney say that!)

There are so many questions I wish I had asked.

Last month, Grandma went to the hospital with breathing problems. They drained two liters of fluid out of her left lung. We looked at the nasty fluid in the bottles that the nurse had not yet taken away and she was right when she said, "That looks like something out of a spittoon."

That spawned another story. She said that when she was about 8, she would visit a neighbor lady. They'd sit out on the porch and talk while the lady chewed tobacco. The lady had positioned a spittoon several feet from her chair and she would amaze Grandma by accurately spitting into the spittoon every time. Grandma said she loved visiting that woman! (I wonder what her teeth looked like. :( )

Anyway, Grandma was in the hospital for a few days. A week after she was discharged, I took her to see her doctor for what I thought was a post-hospital check up. I didn't realize that he was going to make an announcement of such magnitude.

He told us that some testing had been done on the fluid taken from her lungs and that cancerous cells were found. Their presence in the fluid meant that it was stage four. He said that he could refer her to an oncologist, but he wouldn't recommend it because any subsequent treatment would probably end her life more quickly than the cancer itself. She agreed that she didn't want treatment.

After he left, I asked, "How do you feel about that, Grandma?"

As cheerfully as ever, she answered, "He didn't say anything that bothered me a bit. I've had a wonderful, long life and when it's my time to go, it's my time to go."

This pleasant response gave me the courage to ask her a few days later, "How would you like your memorial service to be?"

I took notes as she thought things through. She chose the place, the officiating pastor, the songs to be sung and she said she didn't want her casket to be there and she didn't want anyone to be sad. She emphasized this by declaring, "I don't want it to be called a memorial service. I want it to be a celebration service."

I'm glad that I asked her for input when I did, because soon after that she began to decline rapidly. My dad and I went to make plans for her burial and I had questions for her about how she'd like her gravestone to be, but when we got to her place, we could both see that it wasn't the time to bother her with such matters.

(A few days later, I picked out her gravemarker: black granite with a flowered border and her full name with "Loved by All" at the top. What a strange task, to choose the most substantial physical signifier that a person had lived at all. I felt deeply honored yet equally saddened.)

By last Friday, she was in a hospital-type bed in her bedroom. Seeing her there and how frail she looked, I thought that she would never leave there again. She was still determined to get things done though her physical limitations were immense and her mental limitations were growing.

I saw that on her lamp table, she had put together a bunch of cards and letters. Most were sealed, addressed and return addressed. In the stamp corner, she had written the date when she wanted that particular card to be sent. The final one is dated 12/30. She was thinking of others even at that point! She wanted to make sure that all of her grandkids and great-grandkids received a birthday and/or anniversary greeting from her in 2009. So thoughtful. That precious stack of cards is now in my house and I will send them out at the proper times.

At one point on Friday, she told me to bring her her checkbook. I felt a little odd doing so, but whatever she told me to do, I did. By this time, she couldn't see much nor write clearly, so she said I needed to help her sign some checks. My heart sank. I didn't want to tell her "no", but how weird of a situation is that?

She was as stubborn as ever and kept asking me, "What letter of my name do I need to write now? Is my pen in the right place?" I humored her by answering her questions as I saw a childish scrawl appear on the check. No one is ever going to cash that, I thought.

She clumsily flipped to the next check and started in on that one. Oh, no! Not another one!

Imagine my horror when a caregiver came into the room to give Grandma some medicine. There I was, hunched over a dying woman who hardly had the strength to wield a pen, talking her through each loop of her handwritten name on a blank check. Honestly, you guys, that's not how I roll...

The caregiver stood right next to us, ready to give Grandma the meds the second Grandma was done with the task at hand. I took advantage of having her full attention by asking Grandma, "What are these for, Grandma?"

"Give them to your dad," she responded.

"What do you want him to do with them?" I asked.

"Tell him to pay my expenses."

Whew! At least it was clear that the whole check-signing business was not my idea!

I stayed with her a few hours on Friday, but didn't return on Saturday, knowing that my dad and his wife would be there for at least a while and thinking that the hospice care she signed up for would be in full swing.

Oh, how I regret that. With hindsight, I will do things very differently if I ever have to go through hospice with a loved one again. Please take note: Find out what care exactly your loved one will be receiving so that you can make up for any lack. There are different levels of hospice care and when Grandma was evaluated on Friday she didn't need the most intensive care, but she went downhill very quickly over the next day. Although, she was being cared for, she would have been much more comfortable, I believe if she had gotten more attention.

On Sunday, I returned. Grandma was agitated which is quite unusual for her.

At first, she said that six different church groups had come in to meet with her. One was a Catholic priest who had offered her her last rites. (Grandma was never Catholic.) This story seemed strange yet plausible, but as she went on I realized she'd been hallucinating. She's always been a calm woman who has never been prone to exaggeration.

"Aimee, you need to go to the front desk and tell them that I'm still here. They think I died last Tuesday and they haven't brought me any food or medicine since."

Oh, God, help me...This was almost the lowest point of this entire experience. I had been there many times for long periods since Tuesday and had seen the care that she was being given. How do you convince a hallucinating person that what their brain is telling them is true is not true? Even if I somehow convinced her that it wasn't reality, who knows what her brain would tell her next. Also, how sad if one of her final interactions with her granddaughter was one in which her loved one didn't believe her.

I hurried off to the front desk so that her brain would see that I was trying to do something about her upset.

After that, I spent several hours with her, watching her sleep, feeding her little tiny bits of strawberries, bringing her water which she drank with a straw, seeing that her caregivers were coming and going to tend to her.

Monday morning was the absolute worst.

After dropping Delaney off at school, I went straight over to be with Grandma. When I came in, she was sleeping fitfully. When I smoothed her blanket out to make her more comfortable, she awoke with a start and frantically tried to tell me something. Her speech was very slurred at this point and I couldn't understand what she desperately wanted to tell me.

"Bring me paper," I figured out she was trying to tell me.

I did and she began to trace letters with her finger on the blank sheet. I wrote each one down as she went, but about four letters in, I realized it was hopeless and began to cry.

"Grandma, I'm sorry, but I can't understand you. " I wept and touched her hand.

She wasn't finished though. She wanted a pen, so I gave her one.

By this time, one of her caregivers was there and she and I watched together as Grandma carefully wrote one letter at a time. It took quite a while, but I eventually discerned that she was trying to write, "Been here since Saturday..."

Oh, God, help...she still thought she had been abandoned for days at a time, even though I had been there for hours the previous day and Dad and Donna had been there after I left.

I just cried and tried to reassure her that people knew she was here and we were all caring for her.

After her message was conveyed, she calmed quite a bit and began to sleep. I wasn't going anywhere. Every time she woke up, I wanted her to see me planted right next to her. At one point, she did wake up, hollering, "Pain!" This is a woman who has been on pain meds for years for her bad legs, but had never complained in my presence about actual pain.

Things settled somewhat after the hospice nurse came to evaluate her. She said Grandma was ready to be put on 24 hour care and that she would start on morphine immediately to ease her pain.

Everything was much better after that. Grandma was still in some pain up until the end, but I could see that she was sleeping much more soundly and she no longer seemed to feel desperate to communicate.

One powerful example of what kind of woman Grandma was involved her introduction of me to others. Ever since she moved in to her assisted living home, if a caregiver came into her room while I was there, Grandma would always introduce us to each other. She didn't look at the workers as servants to meet her needs, but as people to relate to and interact with. Therefore, I met a number of the people who helped Grandma with laundry, meals and transportation. She treated them all with respect and kindness, and she wanted me to know them as she did.

Even in her final days when she could barely speak, if there was a caregiver on one side of her bed and I was on the other, she would say to the woman, "This is my granddaughter," and to me, "This is Pam."

Here she was, dying, and yet she was still thinking about others and wanting to make them comfortable. If there was ever a time that it was allowable for someone to be focused on their own self, it would be then, and yet she wasn't. Amazing...

One of the most touching moments on Tuesday was when the ladies from her meal table came in to say goodbye. She had sat with the same group of women for meals over the past few years at the assisted living home so they grew to be quite close.

All very elderly themselves, they crowded around her bed, each approaching her one at a time. Grandma could barely open her eyes, but she nodded and smiled as each woman grabbed her hand and told her who they were. They said some things to which she responded, though unclearly.

When I walked them out to the hallway, I saw that all three of them had parked their walkers in a row along the wall. That helped me to smile through my tears.

Another thing that was very "Grandma Hazelish" was the fact that she had had a pedicure in the few days before her drastic deterioration. (She was always careful about her appearance, not in an uptight, don't-touch-me-because-you-might-smudge-my-make-up-sort-of-a-way, but rather because she simply enjoyed being pretty.) So the last week of her life, freshly painted red toenails peeked out from under the sheet at the foot of her bed. She knew she was leaving and she wanted to look good while doing so. Several people who came to see her noticed and smiled about it.

Tuesday and Wednesday, she mostly spent sleeping. Her only communication methods were barely perceptible nods or shakes of the head, raising of eyebrows and an occasional moan.

I held her hand, stroked her face and softly sang praise songs, hoping that the gentle interactions would be reassuring to her.

It actually reminded me very much of when my children were newborns. It was a sweet, quiet time in which very little happened for hours and hours aside from me trying to convey to a helpless person through touch and gentle sounds that they were deeply loved.

There was nothing else I would rather be doing for those many hours on those two days. I'm so thankful that I was able to be there and love her in whatever practical opportunity presented itself.

I left on Wednesday afternoon at 2:30 to pick my kids up from school, planning to return the next morning as soon as I could.

My dad called at 8:00 that night to tell me that Grandma had passed away fifteen minutes earlier. It was such a relief to know that she was no longer in intense pain and her brain was no longer telling her that she had been abandoned. She was now with her Creator Whom she had worshiped for decades.

This has been a painful and amazing week. I saw death in a new way. I feel like someone pulled back a curtain and gave me a view to a part of life that I'd never seen before.

I loved my grandmother so much and am so thankful for all the time I was able to spend with her.

Pretty Hazel

1911-2009

A Poetic Purging

Alright. I'm finally doing it.

This last week I posted a bunch of my poems on an online poetry site since no poetry journals will publish them. (What? Me...bitter? No, no. Certainly not.)

Therefore, I am posting them here, too. I figure it's a safeguard for me to publish them online in two different places.

I realize that most of you have little or no interest in poetry. (Actually, I often don't like reading other people's stuff, either. Isn't that horribly self centered of me?) So, please just bear with me and pass over the subsequent poems like any other moldy cheese. :)

Okay, here we go...

A Glimpse at the Possible

A Glimpse at the Possible


He stopped offensive spiders from dancing-
Squashing their clockworks into bitter juice--
Such smears on walls and floors gave me no pause

But a statue, I was, at a mallet
Arching through his universe at a rat

This was not Alice’s birded croquet
(The reality of pests is darker)

His target had trespassed, pilfered kibble,
Awoken us with squeaks, scratches and thumps--
Damage to wiring was unknown, but feared

The rodent’s eviction was imminent-
By death or by capture, we would quit it

Our traps collected no creature’s carcass-
Our wall pounding just bruised our futile fists-
Poisons placed like a molester’s candies
Brought not ruin to the marauding sprite

Our deliverance was its bludgeoning-
Our gangly champion, a son, aged ten

As some brutish bile was loosed in his blood-
An ancient switch flipped--the berserk occurred--
His synapses fired a cacophony-
Savage voices urging in a new tongue--
Wild blows were meted out by meatless arms

The furry vermin twitched its last spasm

The boy who eats spinach at my command
Insisted that death inhabit the corpse

In motherly arms, even Vikings cooed--



When Tobias was 10, we had a rat living in our walls and garage. It was destroying things and we were determined to kill it. The successful attempt involved Jeff stunning it by shooting it with a paintball gun and then Tobias hammering it with a croquet mallet. (Don't tell your PETA friends.) I watched this horrific display from outside, through the garage window. I just remember seeing my cute little boy turn into a crazed killing machine, wildly swinging a game's mallet down on a furry bit of vermin. It astounded me that he could become such a primal creature right before my eyes. Anyway, now that you are all completely disturbed by my family...

A Mole's Removal

A Mole’s Removal

The nub of pinky fingertip
Proportion earned its end.
Its obscene jutting out from flesh,
Our senses, did offend.
A merciful syringe of drug
By Doctor’s hand dispensed
Desensitized the evictee
Though muscles all were tensed.
Then pinched between phalanges two
And pulled out awkwardly
With hacks and sawings, scalpel dealt,
Was felled the fleshy tree.
A liquid, red contingent rushed
To well up in the void.
To keep those troops within their bounds
A bandage was employed.
The bit of ugly tissue was
Precisely exorcized
And ostracized from components
Of which Jeff is comprised.


December 3, 2007




Years ago, Jeff had a huge mole removed from his back and I watched the entire disgusting process. He still has a big scar that he'll show you if you give him 50 cents. (Just kidding.)

Hemicorpectomy

Hemicorpectomy

The amputation of a half-
Historically wooed-
Enacts a full dismemberment

As is sought solitude--
Content no longer with the pledge
Told when one once was wed-

Omit each other legally--
Flee to a frigid bed--

Dull hacksaws drip with vital gore
Insisting one be two--
Void’s wanted where a lover was-
Obituaric view--
Removal of a living mass
Can not be precise--
Excision’s cutlery is lax



November 14, 2008



Do you see the hidden message? By the way, "hemicorpectomy" means to cut a body in half.

This Present Sadness

I'm sad.

I introduced you to my grandma in this post and this post.

Recently, this dear sweet lady, "Pretty Hazel", was put on hospice.

She has lived an astonishing 98 years.

Her attitude is amazing. After the doctor told her that she had stage four cancer, I asked her, "How do you feel about what he said, Grandma?"

"He didn't say anything that bothered me a bit," she responded, cheerfully. "I've had a wonderful, long life and when it's my time to go, then it's my time to go."

This cheerful perspective gave me the courage to sit down with her a few days later and ask her if she had any specific desires in regards to her memorial service. She had all sorts of ideas! We figured out where it'd be, who'd do what, and what songs would be sung. (Actually, she figured it out. I just took notes.)

"I don't want there to be any sadness and I want it to be called a "celebration service", not a "memorial service"," she said.

I responded that I didn't know how well we could deliver on the first part of that request, but that we would call it a celebration service.

Now for more practicalities like caskets and morticians.

I'm so thankful I'm able to be helpful by doing some of the detail work, but I confess I feel quite inadequate to do so.

Friends, please pray for me as I deal with that which must be dealt with. Pray for wisdom for me in this unfamiliar funerary world and that I would be able to honor God and my grandmother throughout this entire process. May God be glorified in Grandma's death just as He has been in her life.

Hmmm...I'm sad, but that sadness is tinged with thankfulness and hope.

A Four-Legged Clover

This is Clover.


He lived in a tank on top of our pink toilet.


(Don't worry. He assured me that he always closed his eyes at the appropriate times.)

He lived with us for over two years. Shortly after we bought him, someone informed us that our ownership of him was probably illegal because he was such a little guy.

"No way!" I said. "We bought him in Chinatown. He was right there next to the ninja stars and the fireworks and the butterfly knives and the...oh...uh...um...nevermind..."

Since then, he has grown into quite a lovely specimen of God's design. However, he was outgrowing his tank, as you can see in the second picture.

A couple of months ago, Delaney was becoming very concerned about him. Just getting a larger tank wasn't an option because his water needs to be changed every day and it would simply be too heavy to lift.

She worried about his physical needs being met and his general happiness as a turtle...

...living in a small tank...

...on the back of a toilet.

We thought through multiple options of what to do with him, but all of them were either implausible or unacceptable.

"Dumping" pets in the wilderness can cause ecological disasters by upsetting the delicate balance of the present eco-system. None of our friends wanted to take on a half grown turtle and all the responsibility that came with it. (In fact, during that time, one of our friends called and asked if we wanted their turtle!) Jeff suggested that we fill up our backyard's broken jacuzzi and just let him live back there. Delaney was determined to keep him from that fate.

She kept talking about the dilemma of Clover and fretting so I could tell that she was really bothered by it.

Normally, when I face a puzzling situation, I pray and ask God to provide a solution and I've taught my kids to do that, as well.

Well, I was hesitant to pray with Delaney about the turtle issue because...

(Okay, this is the part where I have to be transparent with you all and give you a peek at what a lame-o I truly am.)

...I was hesitant because I couldn't see any way for God to answer that prayer and I didn't want Delaney to be sad/mad/confused with God if He didn't provide an answer.

(Ick, I don't like the way that looks now that I've typed it, but that's my faithless little heart for all of you to see.)

For a couple of days, I struggled with this.

We always pray about problems we have...

But how can He possibly fix this?

Well...He's God.

My little mustard seed of faith won out and I finally prayed with my daughter something like this, "Father, please provide a good, safe, legal place for Clover to live where Delaney will feel good about leaving him."

Shortly after this hard-pressed little prayer, we had lunch with our friends, Scott and Carolyn. They are always great about engaging our kids in conversation and somehow Clover and his dismal situation came up.

I don't recall exactly how it all went down, but by the end of lunch, it was determined that Scott's workplace had a turtle pond where Clover would be allowed to live out his days as the turtle that God intended him to be.

Yesterday, we took Clover for what would be his final ride in the car:


We met up with Scott and Carolyn at their house and drove over to the pond so Delaney could check it out. Well, any reluctance she may have felt at rehousing Clover at this particular pond vanished the moment she saw it.

It was a veritable pond-dwellers Shangri-La.


The pond is well tended and there are plenty of other creatures to keep him company.


All the turtles were hiding, we think because it was an overcast day, but do you see the little tan frog in the pic below?


(If I swam all day and ate bugs, I'd want to live there.)

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

The final lifting from the tank:


It was a good thing that I had my camera ready, because a second after Delaney put Clover down on the rock, he ran and jumped into the water. (Okay, maybe he didn't actually jump, but he did run. I have witnesses.)


Upon entering the water, he promptly disappeared, probably determined that no human hands would ever seize upon him again. (He never did seem to like us very much, not that I blame him due to the fact that we housed him in a tiny tank on the back of our toilet. Such treatment is bound to result in ill-will.)

We left Scott's workplace with thankful hearts and exceedingly happy for Clover.

(My only anxiety is wondering how the other turtles will accept him. He may lack proper turtle social skills due to his former lifestyle.

Have you seen the new guy?

Yeah...what a weirdo...)

In case you missed it, the moral to this turtle parable is: Don't hesitate to pray about things you don't automatically see an answer for. (Yeah, yeah, that's kind of the whole point of prayer.)

Have patience with me; I'm still learning.

"(He) is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think..." Ephesians 3:20a.

Tofu Time

We knew it was coming.

Therefore, we prepared an answer.

That way, when Delaney approached us and informed us that she'd like to become a vegetarian, Jeff and I knew exactly what we wanted to say.

She has never liked meat. (Except for bacon, the downfall of many would-be-vegetarians. She can eat that stuff by the pig.) She has found other flesh tolerable in some forms or others, but for the most part, she just doesn't like the stuff. It's always the last thing on her dinner plate.

I've learned to divvy up her little portions of meat into tidy, fat-trimmed bite sized pieces. She still manages to tear them up further, declaring that there are indeed little bits of fat left on them that have escaped my watchful eye and sharp knife.

In a way, it was sort of a relief when she came to us and said, "I want to be a vegetarian." No more discussions about lipids, real or imagined. No more seeing her still sitting now all alone at the otherwise cleared dinner table, chewing and chewing and eventually gagging on her few little bites of detested animal flesh.

We asked her what her reasons were to determine if her desire was born out of a moral conviction or simply a physical repulsion by meat. It seemed to be the latter which makes things a bit easier from a cook's point of view.

We told her that was fine as long as she was ready to eat plenty of alternate sources of protein in order to stay healthy and get what she needs for her ever-stretching frame. (She grew a whole inch between July and September!) One other stipulation was that she would be a virtual-vegetarian meaning that there will be times (like when we go to someone's house for dinner) that she simply has to eat what's available, animal source or not.

She agreed.

The next time we went to the Waba Grill, she opted for tofu instead of her usual chicken. It was her first sample of the bean curd which is celebrated by some and reviled by others. We all watched in anticipation as she took her initial nibble.

"Hmm...it's alright," she said, chewing. "It doesn't really taste like anything."

The slimy texture soon got to her, though. A few times, I caught her involuntarily shivering after taking another bite of the stuff. Some tofu is definitely better than others. :)

I bought some veg products at the store. They carry facon (you know, fake bacon), tuno, stakelets, chik'n patties. It's like revisiting old times since Jeff was a vegetarian for five years. The only ones I ever really got used to were the veggie burger patties, but even those tasted like...well, like fake meat.

We'll see how long this lasts, maybe a week or maybe 80 years. I don't mind either way, as long as she's mindful of her body's nutritional needs.

Crinkly and Lightly Waxed

Ah, yes...

The management is looking out for me.

So kind of them.

I always feel so protected when I have one of those micron-thin pieces of paper between me and the contagion that is brewing and breeding on the surface of a public toilet seat.




(I must confess I do use them...)

My Latest Fashion Dilemma

I am no fashionista.

If I was, I would undoubtedly squeal delightedly over the following photos:



Whatever...

Ahem...regardless of my lack of true fashion sense, there are a few fashion rules that I do know:

1. Don't mix "busy" tops with "busy" bottoms--If you're wearing a floral, plaid, striped or any other "busy" top, counteract the "busyness" by wearing a solid colored bottom. The reciprocal is also true. Too much busyness is visually obnoxious, even if all the colors match.

2. If it shouldn't be seen, keep it covered--Pregnancy turned my belly into a Thomas Guide's worth of stretch marks. Therefore, I will not wear low-rise jeans. (Yes, yes you're very welcome.) If someone has an obvious "muffin top", then crop tops aren't their best option. If one's glutei tend to sag a bit, then short shorts should have no place in their wardrobe. It's nothing to be upset over. We've all got less than fantastic aspects to our figures, but that doesn't mean we have to stock our closets with burquas and mu-mus (sp?). Just figure out what ought to stay covered and keep it under wraps.

(Thinking...thinking...)

Okay, so I only know two fashion rules.

Now, on to my dilemma...I can't figure out what socks I'm supposed to wear with my mules?

I refuse to go sockless in anything but sandals. (My poor feet don't need to add "have the odor of a city dump" to their list of unfortunate attributes.)

Are there specific "mule-shoe socks"? I tried on nearly all the socks I own and they all look ridiculous:








(Feel free to snicker.)

Do some of the above look cute and I'm just oblivious, 'cause I'm just not seeing it.

Suggestions???

Confessions of a Reluctant Housekeeper

My abhorrence for cleaning goes way back.

When I was about five, my exasperated mother (love ya, Mom) shut me in my room and said I couldn't come out until my room was clean. I remember falling to the toy and clothing strewn floor, sobbing and thinking, "I am NEVER gonna get outta here!"

I don't recollect how that situation ended up, but I'm quite certain it wasn't with a truly clean room.

Many years later, Jeff and I were checking out an apartment into which we were considering moving. My mother-in-law happened to be with us, so imagine my horror when Jeff walked into the kitchen and loudly called out, "Hey, Aimee! There's lots of counterspace in here for stacks of dirty dishes!"

Thanks, Babe.

On many a Mother's Day, I've been known to make one simple request: No gifts, please, just someone else clean the shower so that I don't have to. (Seriously.)

Back in our impoverished newly-married days, I actually cleaned a few other peoples' houses to earn some money. (Ha ha ha--That's a good one!)

I decided to end my ill-suited entrepreneurship when a lady called me back to reclean a few areas in her home. I hadn't tried to do a sloppy job. It all looked clean to me! (It was certainly cleaner than my own house.)

However, I realized that my lack of true understanding of cleanliness could easily be interpreted as trying to rip people off, and that's not very Christ-like, so after I cheerfully went back and tried to improve on my first attempt, I threw in the towel...and the mop and the scrub brush...

Poor Jeff. He does have a good cleaning eye, so life with me is less than sparkly. Sometimes I'll enter the living room to see him dusting the furniture.

"Doesn't this drive you crazy?" he'll ask, showing me the big smears of dust on the dust rag.

Uh...not really.

I do think, though, that even Jeff would agree that I've improved a bit over the years. (Or perhaps he has simply given up after 16 years of marriage...I'm not sure which.)

Don't get me wrong. My house isn't disgustingly filthy. I'm certain that no visitor has ever fearfully lowered their hindquarters onto my couches, wondering what lurks between the cushions...half-eaten candy bars perhaps or...small mammals. Neither does anyone need to fear using my dining ware or eating any food I prepare. (I use lots of hot soapy water on a daily basis in the kitchen.) If something spills, I clean it up immediately and if I ever detect a foul odor emanating from somewhere on the premises, I will diligently seek it out and obliterate it promptly.

I do clean...just rather reluctantly.

Dust collects.

Spots on the tile floor remain there for awhile (unless they are sticky).

Our shower looks like the before example on bathroom cleaning product commercials. Even when I do clean it, it never quite achieves the sparkling appearance of the after on the same commercial.

And all of this, brings me to the real purpose for this entire post. I want to share with you something clever that my ever creative daughter accomplished, but I had to ready you for the unfortunate state of my tile in the photo you are about to view. (It honestly doesn't look nearly this bad in real life. The flash seems to have intensified its putrescence.)

First, I must explain what you are about to see. You know how when you wash your hair, a bunch of it falls out and sticks to your hands? Well, Delaney has a tendency to transfer the hair from her hands to the shower wall where it clings until I remove it when I'm showering. (Yes, she seems to have inherited my negligence in cleanliness.)

A week or so ago, she called me into the bathroom after having finished her shower, pointed at the tile wall and happily said, "Look at what I made!"

In order to discern her piece of "art", you will definitely have to click on the photo below to enlarge it. Her carefully placed hairs define the outline of a specific object. Can you tell what it is? It was quite remarkable in real life. (Oh, and don't be surprised by the squalid state of the tile grout.) Happy viewing!

A Doggone Miracle

Every now and then a product comes along that must have its praises sung. Today that product is...

...the Gentle Leader dog collar. (Sing! Sing!)


This thing is amazing.

Duncan, our rambunctious 8 month old puppy, is very difficult to walk. He pulls whomever is walking him along at dangerous rates of speed. I don't know how many horsepower he is packing, but I think he could pull a toboggan to an Iditarod victory single-pawedly.

He has gotten so strong and determined that I got to the point where I wondered if it was bad for my body to take him for a walk. Knowing he needs exercise, I went to the pet store and bought him a "correction collar". (That's the nice name for a choker collar.) You know, it's like a chain and it tightens on the dog's throat if the dog pulls. The unpleasant sensation of being strangled is supposed to motivate the dog to stop pulling and to instead, prance along at a leisurely pace.

Well...it helped a little bit, but not much.

Duncan simply grew accustomed to not being able to breath while he yanked our arms out of their exasperated sockets. We, the walkers, not only experienced the physical pain of near dismemberment, but also the social embarrassment of walking a loudly gasping dog AND the guilt of being a bad dog owner because the desire to ruthlessly yank on the leash in futile attempts to tame the wild beast was sometimes overwhelming.

Then...the Gentle Leader came along. I won't bore you with the specifics, (I'm not sure I even understand the specifics), but as you can see, the collar goes over the bridge of the nose and around the base of the skull, sort of like a horse bridle (though there's nothing in the dog's mouth). The leash attaches to a ring under the chin as seen below:

(Ignore the blue collar. It's just there to sport his tags.)

Somehow, this new arrangement of things makes it virtually impossible for the dog to pull.

I'm telling you, it works. On Duncan's very first walk with the new collar, his pulling lessened about 90%. Additionally, his crazy, nearly rabid response to other dogs we encountered on the walk improved greatly.

He did paw at his face and rub his nose in the grass quite a bit the first few times he wore it because it was a foreign object, but you could tell it wasn't hurting him. Now, whenever he sees us coming at him with the collar in our hands, he happily sits down and stays still while we affix it to his head because he knows he's going on a walk.

Walking the dogs is fun again!

Beeping Update:

Andrea, perhaps you were right and it was a neglected water softener, vying for attention. Oddly, since I wrote that last post, I haven't heard a single mysterious beep from next door. Maybe our new neighbor is one of this blog's 5 readers and she felt compelled to stop the beepage.

(Yeah, right.)

The Case of the Beeping Neighbor Lady

There is a house right next door to us that is positioned on its lot in such a way that its inhabitants can bring us much grief. You see, our house is a mere four feet from their backyard. More specifically, my bedroom window is only a dog-run away from whatever is happening next door.

In our six years here, there have been some trying times due to this unfortunate arrangement. If there are nice quiet neighbors living there then all is good, but if the home is inhabited by people who like to smoke pot in their backyard with their 5 charming friends and loudly role play comedy routines at 2:00 in the morning...well, you get the idea.

Several months ago, we noticed that the house was for sale and we fervently began praying for neighbors who don't have excessively noisy dogs, don't throw drug fueled gatherings, don't blast music late at night and don't mind a 14 year old next door banging away on a drum set for about an hour a day. (Yes, I do see the element of hypocrisy in that last sentence.)

I'm very pleased to report that all of our pleas were answered. A nice woman moved in a few weeks back whose dog barks about as often as our dogs do, who does watch TV late into the night, but not at unnerving volumes, and who says she loves music, so Tobias's drum pounding doesn't bother her a bit!

There is one little bit of mystery, though. Almost every night since about the time she moved in, I've heard a strange beeping sound. It is a medium pitched beep that lasts about half a second and repeats every 7 or 8 seconds. It goes off at all hours of the night. My hearing is a bit better than Jeff's (fewer concerts attended, perhaps?) so he didn't discern it for a while.

"Right there! Did you hear that? Oh, wait, wait.............there! Did you hear it that time?" I'd ask, laying next to him in bed.

He would patiently assure me in a muffled mouth-in-the-pillow voice that no, he had not heard it and promptly fall asleep.

I knew I wasn't going crazy, but I was happy that he knew I wasn't nuts when he finally did say to me one evening, "Hey! I hear your beeping sound!"

I've been tempted to yell out, "Popcorn's ready!" and listen for a microwave door to slam shut and the beeping to cease. But somehow, I don't think anyone eats popcorn every night.

Seriously, I have no idea what it is and although she's a nice woman, I'm not about to ask. Nancy Drew could probably tactfully figure it out somehow, but her I am not.

Double Take

Is that a panda?

Nope, it's a...



...poodle! (No, really, it is.)

So are all of these:






Pretty amazing, huh? (The panda is my favorite.)

Olfactoral Enlightment

I wore glasses from the age of about 7 until I was 13. Once I began wearing contact lenses, I discovered something...I didn't like my nose.

It looked fine from the front and I knew I should be thankful for its smelling capabilities, but once the bridge of my nose was liberated from the burden of spectacles I saw that the bridge had a distinct bump. Since then, I have tried to face cameras straight on when my picture is taken to keep my shameful feature from being accurately documented.

Something happened a few days ago that lessened my mortification over my bumpy profile.

I read an article about a new cosmetic procedure on noses that costs a fraction of rhinoplasty (aka a nose job) and doesn't require any cutting of bone or cartilage. It's for people who don't want to whack off major portions of their face, but rather who would like to smooth out little bumps or fill in little divets.

That's me! I thought and read on.

This is achieved by injecting "fillers" such as Restylane into specific spots around the unwanted bump to smooth out the overall line. I guess that technically you're making your nose a little bigger!

The cost of this procedure was low enough for me to at least want to educate myself more, so I googled (you have to love the availability of info online) some cosmetic surgeon's offices to see before and after pics.

Now comes the shocking part. (Shocking to me anyway.) Looking at picture after picture, I saw a bunch of decent looking noses in the before shots and a bunch of slightly altered noses in the after shots that certainly would not be described as vastly improved.

There were some testimonials, too. One gal said that catching sight of her profile used to send her into a tail spin for the rest of the day (or something to that effect).

Wow! I thought, seeing that her before looked just as good as her after. I guess I need to get over myself. So my nose isn't perfect. So what?

Additionally, I looked at pictures of rhinoplasty patients. The funny thing about that was that it appeared they had all been given the same nose! Apparently, the surgeon only had one pattern to follow when wielding his scalpel and reshaping noses. Seriously, all the patients looked like they could be siblings.

Please don't misunderstand...I'm not anti-cosmetic surgery. I understand a very unendowed woman wanting to actually look like a woman and I have witnessed some afters that made me want to give the surgeon a standing ovation, but looking at all those photos made me realize that my nose isn't hideous...and the bump probably keeps my sunglasses in place, too. :)

(However, you will notice I did not include a picture of my profile in this post!)

Sixth and Ninth

Today is the day the kids have been dreading all summer long...the first day of school.

I'll show you the cute, normal child first:


Here she is, ready for the sixth grade, complete with her homemade jingle bell necklace. (I wonder how long it'll be before her teacher asks her to remove that.)


And here is the equally cute, but abnormal child who insisted on carrying a briefcase (which he purchased at a garage sale) to school:

I recommended that he wait a couple weeks to exhibit his true nature (weirdness, that is) and utilize the backpack with which we provided him, but he wouldn't hear of it. Doesn't the briefcase go perfectly with his skull t-shirt and shorts? (Ha!)


Aren't you curious about the briefcase's contents? I knew you would be, so I photographed them:


Note the wadded up gym shirt next to the insulated lunch bag. Oh, dear, there's no room for text books! Perhaps today is the only day that a briefcase would be practical. Good thing he's making a fashion statement while he can. :)

I can't wait to hear all the details of how their first day went...

I Am Ruined

Something happened yesterday.

Something wondrous.

Something astonishing.

Something...regrettable on a few levels.

Whilst visiting Jared and Lena in San Diego, the subject of our love for good chocolate came up in conversation.

Lena's eyes began to glow as she turned to Jared and said with a hint of mischief in her voice, "We should take them to Eclipse."

Thus began my ruination.

Since I was a small child, I have loved chocolate. Back then my object of affection was milky and mild, but as I matured, I began to appreciate the more defined taste of pungent and dark confections.

This place, Eclipse, to which we wended our way yesterday, was stocked with chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, but not chocolate for the faint of heart.

They had the most exotic concoctions I've ever heard of. Unbelievable. In fact, I won't even tell you some of them because you might wrinkle your nose and decide to go check your emails instead of finishing this post.

Though I can not vouch for everything sold by this chocolatier (I tried none of the baked goods nor the truffles), I can say (with as much emphasis and exuberance as your imagination will allow) that their chocolate is by far THE BEST I have ever had in my ENTIRE LIFE.

After sampling four different flavors of their chocolate bars (which are all made there in the little shop's kitchen) I felt as if I had used my taste buds for the very first time. Seriously.
...And my foremost thought upon swallowing the fat-laden wonderment was--How can I get more of this?

If crack cocaine came in chocolate form, this would be it.

Yes, I am ruined.

Dove, my former paramour, is now a paltry offering.

See's I now render as a second rate product which will do only in a chocolate pinch.

But now...now my allegiance is to Eclipse, a hardly known brand which is quite pricey and can only be purchased at a tiny shop located hours from my home. Alas...

The four flavors we had the extreme pleasure of tasting yesterday were: Sea-salt Nib (through which Eclipse gets about 50% of their sales), Orange Peel Anise (Jeff's favorite), Blackberry Sage and Gingerbread Crumb (my favorite).

Weird? Definitely, but weird in a marvelous, bewitching sort of way that one will never forget...can never forget.


No, I did not receive free products from Eclipse for penning such a glorifying review on this obscure blog of mine. (I wish!) I typed this up because I couldn't keep myself from doing so. And, in case you are wondering, it's not just me. Jeff is head over heels for this stuff, too.

Join us in our newly acquired vice if you will (2121 El Cajon Blvd, San Diego), but be warned, it will awaken you to a whole new world fraught with impending dangers (a fatter butt and a thinner wallet). Visit there at your own risk.

Day 1

Our much anticipated vacation began around noon on Monday. (I've found that I sleep better the night before if I know I'm not leaving on a trip until later on the following day.)

Here we are, about to pull out of the garage:


(Try not to notice how much I resemble a Brontosaurus in this particular pic.)

We drove deep into the Cement Jungle which confused Jeff considerably. As I doled out the directions, he kept saying, "I have no idea where you're taking us." Of course, this pleased me greatly.

Finally, we ended up at the parking lot of a major airport, though not the same one as last year. Naturally, my family assumed we were about to climb on a plane. I did nothing to discourage them from this notion.

At one point, Tobias asked, "Should I put my Swiss Army knife in my checked luggage instead of my carry-on?"

"Yeah," I said. Hee hee.

The gig was up, however, when I asked the shuttle driver to take us to the car rental area.

Last year, the only cars the rental company would allow us to take and leave out of state were ones that got 17 and 18 miles to the gallon. We chose the SUV and although it guzzled gas, it was nice to have all that room. I was ready for the same thing to happen this year, but it didn't. This year, we were given a Pontiac Vibe.


All of our stuff fit in it perfectly. Good thing we didn't bring one more bag!

Off we went through the yucky traffic and smog. A few hours later, we saw this:


My family ate here a few times when I was a kid. I have fond memories of finding Hap-Pea and Pea-Wee at the bottom of my bowl of soup and I wanted to share that with my family (although I'm the only one who ordered soup this time around!)


The kids posed as the pea-splitting duo:


After dinner in Buellton, we continued north to Santa Maria where we played some miniature golf. Jeff played the worst game of his life, but it could have been due to his form (or lack thereof):


I had a special surprise planned for the final adventure of Day 1. You have to see it to truly appreciate this famous landmark in San Luis Obispo. It's...




...Bubblegum Alley!


Unbelievably, this five-foot wide alley is completely plastered with decades' worth of gum that thousands of people have smashed onto its walls.


Don't worry, Jeff's only trying to gross you out. (Is it working?)

Seriously, there must be millions of pieces of chewed gum on those walls. (After we left, there were four more.)

Some people have created little works of art:


Tobias played limbo with a fresh wad that stretched from wall to wall:


Sorry, folks, just a tacky bit of unecological, true Americana that families such as ours get a kick out of.

...and that was Day 1.