Do Dried-Up Prunes Have Creative Juices?

As I was struggling to design a scrapbook layout today, I thought of the term "creative juices".  I'm not sure what those consist of, but I'm pretty sure menopause dried mine out.

This is My Blog and I'll Complain if I Want To...

There has been a lot of heated discussion on the Cricut messageboard in the last few days because of the new Cricut Circle membership club.  I for one was a little annoyed that I wasn't in the first round of invitees because of the way it was promoted (Provocraft made it seem as if many of us were being excluded).  But I wasn't angry with any fellow messageboard members because of it. However, I was dismayed to read a lot of name calling and general disrespect of others.

I'm not perfect (as any of my children would gladly testify), but I would also never intentionally say something hurtful to anyone else just because our opinions happened to differ.  I've seen people verbally attacked because they were upset at not being invited to join the club, and others have had their choice to join ridiculed.  For the most part, though, what I saw were people voicing their varying opinions in a respectful way.

I am greatly distressed at those people who feel it is their personal responsibility to correct the behavior of everyone else.  People complain about others who complain, which I find to be utter nonsense.  I'm sure I don't need to explain why that's so wrong.  If I'm on a messageboard and don't like what I see, I move on to something else.  If someone mentions they spent money on something I wouldn't buy, or spent more money than I think something is worth, or they buy something expensive even though a few days prior they were complaining about their personal finances, I don't feel it is my responsibility to make judgments about their personal choices.

What has really disturbed me the most, though, are those self-righteous people who, in a very judgmental way, chastise others who are complaining about minor things because "there are bigger problems going on in the world".  Yes, I realize people are dying, people are fighting cancer, people are facing unemployment and foreclosure on their homes, and the world generally sucks sometimes.  We all have hardships from time to time.  Not everyone who is facing difficulties has the desire to inform the world of those problems.  It doesn't mean we aren't dealing with trials and tribulations of our own.  Sometimes when life gets to be a little too problematic we choose to deal with it by focusing on something that isn't as serious.  It doesn't mean we are trivializing anyone's problems, especially our own.  We just need an outlet for our stress and anxiety. 

I remember when I was in the ICU waiting room while my sister was hospitalized and not expected to live.  She was only 42 years old and had suffered complications after a relatively-minor surgery.  The rest of the world kept going.  I couldn't comprehend that other people were laughing and enjoying themselves while my world was falling apart.  But I didn't lash out at them. 

Seven years later, I was sitting in the same ICU waiting room after my mother had suffered a brain hemmorhage.  Again, I watched as other people laughed and enjoyed light-hearted conversations.  It's surreal to watch the world go by when yours feels as if it's crashing down around you.  My mother died two weeks later, and I was devastated.  It was difficult to watch the rest of the world go on as if nothing tragic had happened, but I didn't climb a clock tower with an automatic weapon.  I understood that with six billion people on the planet, there are six billion different life experiences.  If someone is having a good time and I don't feel like having fun at that moment, I step away.  Likewise, if someone is complaining about something that I think is trivial at that particular moment, I don't reprimand them--I distance myself from the situation if possible.

The world will never be an easy place in which to live.  Evil exists.  People can be unkind.  Sickness and death will never go away.  Even innocent children suffer.  You and I might disagree in a most profound way.  But let's respect each other and try our best not to make life more difficult than it has to be.

Complaining About Complaining

Don't you just love it when someone complains about someone else's complaining???  Especially when they throw in comments like "put on your big girl panties".  Makes me want to take a dump in my big girl panties and toss it in their direction.

My Non-vite (or Un-vitation) from Cricut

Well, the fine folks at Provocraft have joined the ranks of the high-end clothing designers in attempting to divide us into classes--those who matter and those who don't.  I don't.

When I first toyed with the idea of buying the Cricut, I hesitated because of the ongoing expense of buying cartridges.  But it was such a fun crafting tool that I let myself get drawn in.  In the 18 months since I bought my first machine, I have purchased over 60 cartridges, two more cutting machines, two copies of Design Studio software, a Cuttlebug and  a YourStory machine.  Somehow, this doesn't qualify me for inclusion into the exclusive "Cricut Circle". 

This really shouldn't bother me because it's a marketing ploy, the same one used by top-of-the-line handbag designers who charge a ridiculous amount of money for a bag that, although well-made, isn't really that much better than one that can be purchased for 90% less.  I'm no psychologist, but I believe I understand the concept that by marketing a product only a select few can buy (whether for financial reasons or simply that it isn't available to the "masses"), you create a frenzy where people will do almost anything to own your product so that they can feel like a member of the "special club".

It sucks.

Yes, I feel excluded.  It's irrational, but it feels like a slap in the face that I wasn't included in the "top 3% of loyal customers" (or whatever verbage they used to make the invitees feel like plunking down $275 to be part of the club). 

So thanks Provocraft for making me feel like the high school girl who wasn't invited to the dance.  I think I'll take my cartridge money and buy a big ol' freezer-ful of ice cream.

Dinner and a Trip to Costco

I've never been one to attend "events"  Unless by "event" you mean early dinner on Saturday followed by a trip to Costco with two kids in tow.

I want to be the type person who goes to "events".  Maybe it's because I've spent so much of my life watching daytime dramas (aka soap operas). Everyone on those shows goes to special events on a regular basis.  Doesn't matter if you're rich or poor, you'll be invited to all the formal affairs, and you'll go dressed to kill (and sometimes you do).

Every day I get those email "invitations" to spend money on some sort of bargain merchandise.  I think the only requirement to receive these "special invitations" is your willingness to hand over your email address.  They figure once they have that piece of information they'll keep tempting you with their wares until they break you down.  Today's special was Badgley Mischka eveningwear. I have long dreamed of owning one of these gorgeous gowns.  To hang in my closet.  I don't do "events". 

Like most young girls, I dreamed of a day when I could be "glamorous".  Have perfect hair and makeup, wear my beautiful gown, and go somewhere special on the arm of a handsome prince man.  Even my wedding wasn't that fabulous.

I've scaled back my dreams.  Now I just long for a romantic dinner where I can wear a simple dress and my husband presents himself in something other than faded jeans and a t-shirt.  And a babysitter would be nice.

As disappointing as the realization is, I'm pretty sure that when they were designing their beautiful gowns Mr. Badgley and Mr. Mischka didn't have me in mind.

School's Out for Summer, Again

Now that the kids are out of school for summer, rather than whine about it I'll focus on the positives:

• No more fighting to get the kids out of bed (at least not before noon)
• Laundry can wait--they'll just get dirty again anyway, and no one's around to call child-protective services
• With a little cooperation from the kids, I can sleep 'til noon
• No homework to cry about (and the kids won't have to stress about it, either)
• I don't have to drive to pick anyone up in the afternoon, so happy hour can start at lunch
• There will now actually be an audience when I rant and throw things
• I can justify spending all day by the pool because I'm "watching the kids"
• August will come again

Pimp My Cane

I never wanted to need a cane.  When the physical therapist told me I should start using one, she might as well have handed me a hearing aid and a box of Depends. But I stopped on my way home and bought it anyway (the cane, not the diapers).

As soon as I got home I started practicing.  The better I can walk with it, the less attention I'll draw to myself.  If I could fade into the background completely you'd get no complaints from me. Using the cane at home doesn't bother me.  Using it in public does.  Yeah, I'm vain.  

As soon as my 11-year-old granddaughter (the one who knows everything) saw me with the cane, she couldn't resist pointing out the obvious:  "Nothing personal, but that cane makes you look like an old lady."

I'm not dealing well with this "aging" thing.  I'm not real thrilled with the alternative, either. 

Well, I've been thinking.  Maybe I can make the cane look a little more "hip".  (Hip. I hope that isn't the next bone I break.)  Lets see-- I could hang some glittery streamers from the hand grip.  Or what about a cool paint job?  Maybe some red and yellow flames up the sides.  (Oh wait, that was an episode of House.) Who am I kidding?  Nothing is going to hide the fact that it's a cane.

So yes, little Miss Know-it-all, I am getting old.  Nothing personal, but when the time comes you're first in line to change my diaper.

Physical Therapy or Cricut Cartridges?

I had my third physical therapy session on Thursday.  My understanding was that I would have two sessions per week, but I was never told for how long.  I guess as long as I was willing to pay, they'd find something to keep me busy.

The first two visits were helpful, even if the therapists were sometimes rude and condescending.  On the third visit I had yet another therapist. She was less insulting, and actually complimented my ability to walk with my new cane.  But I can't say she was especially helpful.  For the most part she had me repeating the same exercises I was doing at home.  At least I think that's what she had me doing.  She was busy with three patients at once, so I was never quite sure what her instructions were before she was on to the next person.  And she didn't seem to know what I had done previously even though she had my chart in front of her.  Based on the few questions she asked, I guess that's because the previous therapist failed to document much of anything.

By the end of the session, when I wasn't given any new exercises for home (heck, I wasn't even told to continue the ones I was already doing), I had pretty much decided I could finish my rehab at home in front of the tv.  And as I was paying my copay on the way out, it occurred to me that for what I paid out-of-pocket for each visit, I could be buying myself a new Cricut cartridge.  Now that would be money well spent.

Demoralized, But Not Defeated

Today I walked into my second physical therapy session feeling pretty darned proud of myself.  I left feeling totally lame (yeah, I mean it both ways).

A week ago I went for my first session.  Just five days earlier, I had gotten the okay from my surgeon to start bearing weight on my leg gradually.  No more than 25 to 50 pounds for the first week, he said.  The doctor had instructed me that after the first week was behind me I could start trying to wean myself from the boot and crutches, one at a time.  He seemed to indicate that within a few weeks I might have accomplished one or the other, but not necessarily both. In light of the weight restrictions,  I was quite surprised when on day one of therapy I was told to try walking without my crutches.  According to the doctor it was still too soon to put my full weight on my left leg, but I did as I was told (frankly, I wasn't thinking about the doctor's instructions at that point).  The physical therapist worked with me through a series of exercises, showed me how to walk on one crutch, and advised me to wear my boot for protection if I was going outside my house.

Back home I started doing my exercises twice daily, just as I was told.  I stopped wearing the boot almost immediately (I HATED that thing!), and within a couple of days I ditched the crutches, too.  Try as I might to increase the flexibility and strength of my ankle, about all I could do was hobble around the house.  Still I thought I was doing pretty well for someone who hadn't walked in seven weeks. 

My second physical therapy appointment was scheduled for this morning, less than two weeks after my visit to the doctor.  And I wondered...should I wear the boot?  Walk in on crutches?  No, I decided there would be no steps backward for me.  I was going to limp in on my own two feet with my head held high, and if the therapist reprimanded me for not taking the proper precautions this early in the game, so be it.

Little did I know I'd have a different therapist today.  Maybe she thought I was several months post-op.  After all, I wasn't wearing a boot or walking with crutches.  Or maybe I just looked like someone who needed a verbal smackdown.  But almost as soon as the introductions were made, the belittling began.  It wasn't so much what she said as how she said it.  "Is that as far as you can flex your ankle?  Your goal should be that the left ankle bends as far as the right!!!"  "If you keep walking with that limp, you're going to have hip and knee problems, too!!!"  Lady, did I just walk into physical therapy or a faith healing session???  Did I miss the part where, through the power of God, you smacked my forehead with the heel of your hand and told me to throw down my crutches and walk???  I had been doing everything I was told.  But if I hadn't been told yet, I had no way of knowing what to do.  And if I already knew the proper steps to total recovery, would I be paying out of my own nearly-empty pockets for the privilege of driving out of my way to sit in a crowded room practicing what I could do in the privacy of my home,  for free???!!!

I did learn a few things today:  The stride I take with my right leg should match the left; a cane will make it much easier for me to walk correctly; I should walk as slowly as necessary so that I don't limp; and I should have known all this before I entered the Hallowed Halls of Physical Therapy.

Smack me down as many times as you want.  I'll get back up.  And when I have the strength, I'll stand firmly on my left foot and kick your ass.

LOST: Third Time's a Charm

I got my wish.  The series finale was replayed with commentary.  Still, it wasn't what I had in mind.  But in The End (pun intended), it was what I truly wanted all along.

The pop-up comments really only served one purpose--to remind us of previous events that tied in with what was currently playing onscreen.  While this was helpful, it didn't give any new insight into the creators' minds. However, realizing just how much I have forgotten from one show to the next (not to mention from season to season), I am excited at the prospect of watching the entire series again to gain new perspective.

We all wanted answers.  We were promised answers.  Even though the questions weren't answered as we expected, we got what we needed.  Would it really have been as gratifying if we had been told what it meant?  Or is the satisfaction found in our own interpretations?  Isn't it much more rewarding to think and discuss what it meant to us?

And so after watching The End for a second time, my verdict is that it is probably the best ending to the best drama ever seen on television.

Pain, Pain, Go Away...

...you'll be back another day.

I feel an apology is in order even before I start my latest rant.  I've whined plenty about this broken ankle. But after almost eight weeks of agony, how much pain is one wimpy woman expected to take?   Menopause, with its associated hot flashes and "mood swings" (aka psychotic breaks), was enough to deal with, or so I thought. Then in the midst of that came the tumble down the stairs that gave me my first-ever broken bones. 

Six weeks post surgery and I was starting to feel I might actually walk again.  Or at least limp from place to place.  Today I decided I might be pushing myself too hard in my desperation to get back to my normal life (not sure why I'm in a hurry--I rather enjoy sitting in front of the tv all day "incapacitated").  My ankle ached after my morning exercises, so I thought I'd go soak it.  In the pool.  While laying on a float.  Yeah, that's my kind of therapy.

I had (possibly foolishly) been trying to walk without assistance. Because every muscle, ligament and tendon in my ankle and foot was crying out to me to stop the insanity, I decided to break from the stoicism and actually use one crutch as I worked my way to the bathroom to change into my swimsuit.  Mission accomplished, I set my crutch against the sink while I brushed my teeth.  How this happened I'll never understand, but the crutch slipped and slammed into one--and only one--spot:  my extremely sore and swollen ankle.  Pardon my language, but it hurt like a son-of-a-mother.  I actually cried like a baby.  My dear, sweet husband came to my rescue and helped me back to my seat (yes, after eight weeks of living there, the prime spot in front of the tv is now and forever mine). 

Certain my bone was protruding from my flesh, I was actually afraid to look at the damage.  Mark convinced me that, as much as I was in pain, there was really no way an aluminum crutch could have seriously re-injured my ankle unless someone had bashed me with it.   So I iced my ankle for a while, cried a little longer out of the frustration of it all, then headed outside for some real physical therapy in the form of a nice, relaxing dip in the pool. 

Please, dear Lord, save me from myself before it's too late.

Get Well Card made for me by Dianna

My sister, Dianna, (who is totally responsible for my current crafting obsession!), made this adorable card to boost my sagging spirits (does everything have to sag???)

Her very talented daughter, Kayla, drew the chair and ottoman -- I couldn't believe they weren't die cuts!  I love the magazine and glasses (captured my daily routine perfectly!), and of course she placed the cell phone within easy reach (my ankle is broken, not my vocal cords!)  And to round it out, the cast on my leg and expression on my face perfectly reflect the past several weeks.

Thank you, Dianna and Kayla!

My New Best Friend

Okay, she's my physical therapist.  I wasn't expecting to like her.  I was told physical therapists were torturers.  I imagined Sayid from Lost when he was "employed" by the Republican Guard.  Let the fun begin.

To be honest, I felt sick at the very prospect of going to therapy.  After seven weeks, my ankle still hurts. And it's swollen.  Between the loss of muscle in my calf and the swelling everywhere below, I look like I'm being held up on my left side by a 4x4 fence post.

Was I ready to have some sadist get his/her kicks at my expense?  Not a chance. Yet in the back of my mind, I'm not ready to give up the dream of some day walking again.  On my own two feet.  Suck it up, Vanessa.

I'm home again, thank God.  My foot is elevated and covered in ice.  Before I left for my appointment today, I scooted up the stairs on my butt, hopped around to find my clothes, balanced on my right foot while I dried my hair, then cinched up my big black boot and walked to the car on two crutches.  By the time I got home little more than an hour later, I was walking on one crutch and taking the stairs on my feet.  Hallelujah, sweet freedom!  Back to my own bed at night and my craft room during the day.  Thank you, Julie. And you helped me accomplish this with only minimal torture.

Crap.  I guess that means it's back to cooking and cleaning again, too.  On second thought, I might have overdone it today.  Maybe I should slow down this recovery just a bit.

LOST...TAKE 2

Wow.  What a ride.

After my initial disappointment and much contemplation (during a sleepless night brought on by emotional exhaustion), I've changed my opinion of last night's Lost series finale.

IT WAS BRILLIANT.  Sure, I still don't know exactly what it all meant.  But I'm convinced anyone who watched it won't quickly forget.  Do you think there is one viewer who isn't discussing it today, or at least searching online to read other viewers' interpretations and opinions?  Anyone who ever cared even slightly about the series is thinking and/or talking about it today.  And missing it already. Now that's great television.

The pieces of the last six years weren't all neatly packaged and wrapped up with a pretty bow like I had desperately hoped.  Admittedly, the final scenario was the equivalent of a pretty package.  But all wrapped up neatly?  Not quite.

As I watched the highly-anticipated conclusion last night, fully expecting most of the loose ends to be tied up and to walk away with a full understanding, I'll admit I was disappointed even as I sat bawling at the beauty of THE END.  I wanted to know the significance of all the very-detailed events of the past six seasons.  Much as has been the case over the years, it all flew right over my head.

I could spend months analyzing the meaning of the show, the meaning of life in general, and whether the journey is as important as the destination. But right now, all I want to know is what the writers and creators were thinking. After all, if I simply wanted to ponder the meaning of life I wouldn't waste time watching tv.

So to the producers of this wonderful, exhilarating experience, I have one simple request. Please, please, PLEASE give us one more look into your brilliant creative brains. Replay that heartwarming, tearjerking final episode with your famous commentary to explain to us mere mortals just what you had in mind.

But most of all, thank you for six wonderful, thought-provoking years of pure entertainment.

LOST ?

Yes, I still am.

But I thoroughly enjoyed the journey.

Simple Thank You Card for A Daughter Who's Simply Sweet

The card itself isn't anything special, but I think the story behind it is.

My daughter was feeling lonely.  She lives seven hours from her hometown, and her husband of only eight months is serving in Iraq.  My husband and I thought it would be nice to visit her with our granddaughters (who live with us) during their spring break.

When we arrived at our daughter's house after a long drive, we were totally surprised to learn that she had made reservations for her dad and me to have dinner at one of her favorite restaurants (her treat), while she had a girls' movie night with her nieces.  Always one to appreciate what others have done for her, she wanted to show us her gratitude for helping her out over the years.  (Of course we've only done what parents are supposed to do, but who could turn down such a wonderful gesture?) And she knew we really needed a romantic night out.  It was such a sweet, thoughtful thing for her to do, so I wanted to make a card to show how much it meant to us.

Fast forward five weeks, and the card finally made its way to her.  In my defense, I started it the day after we returned home.  I also broke my ankle that evening, so the card sat unfinished for several weeks until I could finally hobble to my craft room and make a streamlined version of what I had originally planned. (It's amazing how little one can do when crutches are required.)

As for details of the card, there isn't much to tell since I had to keep it pretty simple.  I was limited to the paper and embellishments that were within easy reach. The flowers were from a bargain bin at Michaels, with a gem glued to the center.  I used an EK Success border punch on the front, and added a phrase and its corresponding shadow from the Cricut Stamping cartridge.  I can't remember the brand of paper, but it was double-sided cardstock I purchased a while back at Costco.

True to her sweet, appreciative ways, my daughter promptly called me upon receipt of the card, and raved about how beautiful it was and how talented I am.  Didn't I tell you she's a sweetheart?

Life's Little Ironies

As I continue through the healing process, unable to do much more than dent the sofa cushion, I've had time to ponder many things.  Today, it was the ironies of my current situation.

A few months ago I packed up all  my "thin clothes" along with my expectations that I would ever lose any weight.  Since my accident I've lost 10 pounds. But now I can't climb to the upper closet shelves to retrieve the boxes of previously-outgrown clothing (yeah, I was still clinging to the hope that someday I'd wear them again).  Besides, except for medical appointments I haven't been outside the house in six weeks.  Most days I don't even bother getting dressed.

Before I broke my ankle,  I couldn't find enough hours in the day to work on my scrapbooks or try any of the other creative things I wanted to do.  Now  I can't clean house (let's pretend I ever did), cook dinner, do laundry, or any of the other chores that took up all my time.  Plenty of free time now, but no way can I navigate my craftroom on crutches or even sit upright long enough to create anything other than a swollen leg.

The weather's warm and the pool is open. Most summer days I won't allow myself the luxury of lounging poolside when there are so many other things that need to be done. Now that I can't do anything but lounge around, the doctor has banned me from the pool and ordered me to wear my fancy knee-high (sun-blocking) boot all day. 

My husband has expressed his willingness to serve as my personal slave, to bring me anything I need or to do anything I ask. But now he's so busy taking care of the mundane tasks I usually do (not to mention his real job) that he has very little time to rest at the end of the day.  I might be selfish, but even I can't ask him to give that up just so I can feel like Queen for a Day.

And as mentioned above, I've inexplicably lost 10 pounds.  Prior to my tumble down the stairs, I worked out like a mad woman several times a week in a desperate attempt to lose the weight that was standing between me and total happiness.  It was somewhat of an obsession. It took up what little time was left after all the previously mentioned chores.  And as much as I was clinging to the hope of being thin again, those fat cells were clinging to my body with just as much determination.  Then within a few weeks of my injury I realized I was losing weight.  Go figure.  I'm unable to do anything more strenuous than hobble to the bathroom a few times a day, and I've accomplished what months and months of exercise couldn't do. 

Okay, it's not all bad.

Mood Swings and Meltdowns

I can usually handle a lot.  Okay,  maybe not.  But play along.

At the moment, by the grace of God, I'm calm.  I haven't thrown anything or yelled at anybody.  All day.  Well, I slept until noon, but it's all been good since then.  And the kids are home.

What, pray tell, happens to the female body at menopause???  Or more precisely, the brain?  There are moments when dropping a potato chip on the floor can cause me to fly into an uncontrollable rage (and I don't just mean when it's the last chip in the house).  Other times, someone can knock an entire cheesecake to the floor through sheer carelessness, and my attitude is "Whatever, I didn't need the calories anyway."  (Yeah, that one's still hypothetical.  But you get the idea.)

Please, dear God, stop the hormonal fluctuations.  I promise I'll do good things.

What Can Twenty Dollars Buy?

My youngest granddaughter had hinted for days that she had a special Mother's Day gift for me.  She loves to make things--pretty pictures, cards, even the occasional popsicle puppet (I promise to elaborate some day).  I expected something along those lines.

Yesterday, as I lounged on the multi-purpose space I've occupied for the past 5 weeks (yes, I'm wearing a hole in the sofa cushion), I heard Avery come into the room wishing me a happy Mother's Day, and commenting on the "fancy wrapping" on  my gift (this is a common statement in my family since it seems to be hereditary to "wrap" gifts in whatever bag the merchant put them in.  I'm glad we taught her well).  I prepared myself to exclaim at the beauty of whatever gift awaited in the plastic shopping bag. 

The twinkle in her eyes was telling.  I knew this was a very special gift.  It made no difference what was inside the "fancy wrap".  But first, there was an adorable, handmade card to "oooh" and "ahhh" over.  She showed me all the details she had carefully crafted.  After sufficient time had been spent admiring the card, I gingerly opened the bag to reveal my gift:  a specialty cookbook with a variety of one-dish recipes.

To be quite honest, I wasn't sure what to make of this gift.  I wasn't always a good cook, and for many years it provided a good bit of humor for our family.  But miraculously, over the past several years I realized I really could cook--sometimes even well.  Did Avery think otherwise?  Or perhaps, having heard my husband and me remark on how my cooking had improved over time, she thought a new cookbook would be the perfect gift for a talented chef.

No matter. My husband then told me the story of the purchase of the book.  Avery had come home from school asking her grandfather for twenty dollars.  The school was holding a book fair, and she had found the perfect gift for Nana.  As she told him what she had in mind, he explained that maybe she could find something a little less expensive, especially since we have implemented a new rule that the kids must do chores to earn money to purchase gifts. 

A few days later, as she was getting ready to leave for school, Avery reached into the cabinet where she keeps her money and pulled out a twenty.  "I'm going to buy that book for Nana today", she told her grandfather.  Once again, he tried to convince her that she didn't need to spend so much to make me happy.  But she had already made up her mind. For whatever reason (and it no longer seems important), the cookbook was the perfect gift, and one she had chosen especially for her Nana. 

Who knew that only twenty dollars could buy such a priceless gift.

A Girl Needs Her Mom

Technically, I haven't been a "girl" in a long time.  But I'm as lost without my mother as any young girl would be.  It's only been three years since she died unexpectedly, and I still can't wrap my mind around the thought that I'll never see her again.  At least not in this life. Today I wish with every fiber of my being that I could pick up the phone and call her.  I'm ashamed to say I didn't make enough of those calls when I had the chance.  I'm sure Mama forgave me.  I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself.

The relationship between a mother and daughter is often complicated and frustrating, but almost always comforting and filled with love. Well, eventually.

I wish I could spend Mother's Day with my mom.  But even if she were still alive, I probably wouldn't.  She lived a six-hour drive from me. (And let's face it--life gets in the way of what we really want to do.)  If you think about it, I'm only a heartbeat away from her. (My last heartbeat, of course.) As much as I miss her, I think I'll stick around a little longer.  I like to believe my kids need me as much as I need her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

Deterioration

After I broke my ankle, I never stopped to think of all the ways my life would be impacted.  Good news--I've lost about ten pounds.  (How, you ask?  Who the heck knows.  But some things are gifts and we shouldn't question.)  But on the downside, everything is falling apart.  My life, my house, my body.

I was old and withered already.  Well, I was slightly plump, so the withering wasn't quite so noticeable.  Ten pounds lighter and everything sags.  I thought losing weight would erase the jowls I was sporting below my face.  Nope.  Without the fatty underlayer, they just hang a little lower.  Likewise, my boobs.

Yesterday I decided my surgical incisions were healed enough that I could safely take a bath without encasing my leg in a garbage bag.  (Yeah, it was just as pretty a sight as you are imagining.)  With a clear view of both my legs in a side-by-side comparison, I realized what just one month of inactivity can do to muscles. 

For the past few years, in a desperate, futile attempt to regain my youthful, (almost) thin body, I've been working out regularly.  I dropped a few pounds (eventually) and although I was still mostly a short, wide ball of flab, I was rocking some well-toned calves.  But now my left leg looks as if it is attached to the body of someone who has been bedridden for twenty years.  And since my right leg has been doing all the work, it has become even more muscular.  Now I know how those women who test a new product on only one side of their faces must feel.

And no, as a kindness to anyone who might read this, I will not post a photo.

He'll Always Be My Daddy

Today would have been my daddy's 79th birthday.  He was only 53 the last time I saw him, only a couple of years older than I am right now.  And I still  miss him terribly.  He had cancer, most likely beginning in his lungs, but undiagnosed until his brain was affected.  He fought with everything he had for over two years, but cancer beat him in the end.

My daddy was the funniest man in the world.  At least to me. He could tell a joke like nobody I had ever known.  We kids would laugh hysterically and ask him to tell it again.  Even though I can no longer remember all the punch lines, I can still hear him delivering them.  And I smile.

Daddy wasn't perfect (is anybody?), but he loved us and we knew it.  Life dealt him a few blows along the way, but he always came through for us as best he could.  We didn't have much money, but when we needed something he found a way to provide.  Sure, life wasn't without a great many disappointments, but Daddy did his best to shelter us from all that he could.

My grandmother, Daddy's mother, died unexpectedly in 1982.  He took it hard.  He always looked after his mama and was living with her at the time of her death.  When he started losing weight shortly afterward, we assumed it was depression.  But it became obvious after a few months that there was more going on.  My normally thin father was becoming gaunt. 

Eventually, my father was hospitalized, but the only diagnosis we were given was "anorexia".  No cause was given, and at the time I didn't realize there was a difference between his diagnosis and the more well-known "anorexia nervosa".  I thought it was a silly diagnosis for a slender, middle-aged man.  In hindsight, I have no idea why more testing wasn't done to determine the cause of his weight loss.  He continued to get sicker, thinner and more dehydrated.  Several times he was hospitalized, and his condition would naturally improve after receiving intravenous nutrition, so it seemed to confirm to the doctors that his illness was due to depression over his mother's death.

Finally in the spring of 1983, my sister insisted he be evaluated at the large hospital where she worked, rather than the smaller neighborhood hospital which had so far failed to diagnose my father's underlying illness.  I was planning to be married on March 18, 1983, and was so hoping he would be well and home in time to walk me down the aisle. But shortly after being admitted, he had a heart attack and lapsed into a coma.  The doctors insisted he wouldn't recover and advised us to remove him from life support.  But we weren't ready to give up on him just yet.  And sure enough, after a few days he regained consciousness and we had our daddy back.

My fiance and I decided to go ahead with our wedding a few days later, and my brother would stand in for my father and walk me down the aisle.  Before heading to our honeymoon, we visited Daddy at his hospital bed.  I was so optimistic!  Daddy was alive and now I had another wonderful man in my life.

My happiness was short-lived.  A few days after returning from our honeymoon, I received the call that devastated me--it was cancer.  Treatment was possible, but unlikely to be successful long-term.  But Daddy wasn't ready to leave his family behind. He would fight with everything he had.  He was sure he could beat this ugly disease.

As painful as the treatments were for him, and as painful as it was to watch his decline, I am so grateful for the time we had.  Daddy got to meet my baby daughter (although she was scared to death of his bald head!), and he started attending  church for the first time in his adult life.  Eventually, he accepted Jesus Christ as his savior, and that gave us all a sense of peace regarding the uncertain future.  And when on December 23, 1984, it was obvious he could fight no more, we were finally ready to release him back into the arms of his heavenly Father and into the peaceful existence that had eluded him during his short time here on earth.

Happy Birthday to the most handsome man in uniform!

If I had a time machine...

...and could go back four weeks, maybe I could afford to retire to the Caribbean!  (Well, only if I could see what was ahead and make a few changes, but let's pretend...)

Each day my mailbox holds another disappointment in the form of a medical bill or Explanation of [no] Benefits.  I'm starting to think that my upside-down journey down the stairs could be the last trip I take for a while.  A few more unreimbursed medical expenses and this adventure will rival the cost of my daughter's wedding.  (At least that was money well-spent.)

What if, instead of spending all this money for the pleasure of lounging on my sofa/throne and barking orders at my (poor, overworked) husband for 2 months, I could make a downpayment on a beachside house in St. Croix?  Heck, an oceanview tent would be better than this.

Maybe I'm complaining too much.  After all, I didn't come out of this empty-handed.  At my last doctor visit, I was given this fine piece of footwear to wear this spring:

It's open-toed, too.  Just right for the season.  But I'm curious (and somewhat afraid to know)-- exactly how much would it have cost me to get a matching pair?

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Two Things I'll Never Understand

First up, pot fillers.  To begin with, they aren't cheap.  From my (really) quick research, the price of the faucet itself can range from a couple hundred dollars for a stationary fixture up to a thousand bucks for the fancy, flexible ones.  Add the plumber's costs and well, my family could have eaten out quite a few times for the same price.  But forget the financial aspect.  What exactly is the benefit?  Sure, I can drag my empty pasta pot over to the stove and fill 'er up right there at ground zero.  Seems like a good idea.  Until the pasta's done and I'm left with a big ol' heavy container full of boiling-hot water.  Where's the receptacle in which to dump this?  Oh yeah, it's across the room.  Underneath my other faucet.

But on a more serious note, I just don't understand why seemingly sane people tell their business to total strangers on the world-wide-web.  Sure, we all get involved in these online-communities and think we're talking only to friends. Really close friends.  But we tell these "friends" things we wouldn't tell many of the real people in our real lives.  Somehow we have this sense of security and privacy in our cyber-neighborhoods, as if these thousands of strangers will keep our secrets.  We want to believe these people really care about us, and at the same time we have a sense of distance and anonymity that makes it easy to spill our deepest thoughts, fears, and family dysfunctions.  From what I've read, true friendships do sometimes develop through these internet connections.  But posting an intimate story to friends on a messageboard is the equivalent of writing a personal email to someone, then hitting the "send to all" button.

I've learned from experience that the things we divulge in our own little internet communities (the ones we think our families and friends will never see) might be seen by our loved ones when we least expect it.  For example, I belong to a crafting messageboard that I visit for inspiration and camaraderie.  Yes, I have an avatar photo of myself, but due to its size and other factors, I doubt it could be used as an identifying tool in a police investigation.  And I have no real personal information listed in my profile.  But somehow my sister found me on that site and sent me a "gotcha" message.  I have no reason to fear her reading anything I might have posted, but I dare say there are others who would have a lot of 'splainin' to do if they were "found" by family and friends.

What I do understand is our need to be noticed and appreciated, and sometimes even to feel a "virtual" hug.  This world in which we live can be big and cold. And lonely. So yes, I have posted about happy things I wanted to share with someone. I've posted about misfortunes and disappointments when I needed some kind, supportive words.  And I occasionally post a project I've completed (this one is rare because I rarely complete a project) in hopes of receiving a little validation for a job well-done.  But before I type the first word, I try to ask myself how I would feel if my husband/child/sister/friend/pastor were to read my post.  Sure, sometimes I post something that wouldn't pass muster with someone, but my primary concern is that no one in my life would ever be hurt by reading something I've written.  Or embarrassed.  No matter how angry I might be at that person.  Because the reality is that as easy as it is to type our thoughts and hit "submit", those comments are probably just a few clicks away from discovery by someone we know.