As If To Prove My Point...

...my 12-year-old granddaughter made the following comment yesterday, upon learning we had planned a short vacation:

"Do we have to go to the beach?  It's so boring!!!

(Please refer to my last post titled "What Happened?", paragraph six, which begins, "After having children...")

Please dear God, let me hang on until my sixties.

What Happened? (Or why you should never calculate the time you have left)

I swear, someday I'll post about something I've handcrafted (not just the pathetic excuses I craft to explain why I'm not actually making anything).  But this is more fun.  Or more cathartic.  Well, at least I don't have to get off the couch.  I love my laptop.  So here's my latest realization for all it's worth.

Last night was another late night spent watching old episodes of Roseanne.  (Okay, after I spent too much time and money shopping online.  Again, I love my laptop.)  I was noticing how young some of the characters and guest stars looked, so I opened up my laptop (yep, love this thing!) and started checking their ages.  This required a little math, but I handled myself pretty well given the time of day and my lack of sleep.  The episode I was watching was from 1992, eighteen years ago.  As I was attempting to do the calculations, it dawned on me that those eighteen years went by pretty fast.  I remember very clearly what was going on in my life in 1992, and it seems like only yesterday.  With this came the sad realization that eighteen years from now (which will surely go by even faster than the past eighteen) I WILL BE 70 YEARS OLD.

70 YEARS OLD.  Now that is a sobering fact.  (For those of you who lack my math skills but are dying to know how old I am, I turn 52 this year.) Of course, with this realization I had to take stock of what I've done with my life so far.  Mostly it has been spent  wasted dreaming of a better future.

My childhood was spent dreaming of the day I'd be an adult and could make a happier life for myself.  When I was grown and had my own family, we wouldn't bake our cake mixes.  No, we'd enjoy the batter right out of the mixing bowl the way God intended.  I don't remember a lot of other specifics (or at least any I'd be willing to share).  Just knowing my children and I would eat cake batter with a spoon was enough for me.

As a young adult with very little money, I always dreamed that some day my bank account would be full. I never let myself get too consumed by the day-to-day pressures of adulthood or the things we had to live without.  I knew someday it would all get easier.  And it did.  Well, for a while at least.  Until the real-estate bubble burst, taking my retirement funds (and all the rest of our money) with it.

After having children and realizing it was freakin' hard work, I held on (admittedly by a thread) knowing that someday the nest would be empty and my husband and I could relax and travel the world. Okay, maybe only a couple of times a year, but it would just be the two of us.  No kids whining about how boring Hawaii is or how they wish they were at home hanging out with friends.  And if the kids matured on schedule, we would find ourselves in a kid-free zone before we turned 50.  Hallelujah!  Still young enough to get around without scooters.

Now that my forties are behind me, I find myself raising my two grandchildren.  It will be at least another ten years before the youngest leaves for college. I want to be happy that I'll still be in my sixties when I finally have my freedom.  But I'm already tired.  My joints hurt when I walk.  I've lost my enthusiasm.  And my nest egg cracked long before the kids flew away.  So I'll try to hang on for a little while longer, content (for the moment, anyway) that at least I still have a nest.

All My Children

My husband has seen the evil in me and claims to love me anyway.  And how do I reward this wonderful man?  I treat him like one of my children.  (The details aren't important.  Okay, the details would embarrass me.)

Around 3 a.m. I had to venture upstairs to yell at my 12-year-old granddaughter, who seems to think because it's summer she can stay up all night listening to her tunes.  And singing along... loudly.  And because she's practically a teenager and thinks like one, I don't feel comfortable knowing she's awake and unsupervised.  (I knew there must be some really good reason I couldn't sleep at night.  I thought God was mad at me, but really in His infinite wisdom He was looking out for me by helping me look out for my impressionable grandchild.)  Anyway, I was feeling bad for yet another day spent yelling at my long-suffering husband.  As I started back down the hall to watch some late-night tv, I had this overwhelming desire to go kiss my husband on the forehead as he lay sleeping.  (Well, that and I just needed to check that he was still breathing.)

It occurred to me that I really do treat him like a child---I yell at him all day to pick up his stuff, tell him when he's done something stupid, and fuss at him when he doesn't put his dirty cups in the dishwasher.  Then at night when the house is quiet and he's sleeping soundly, I look at him in awe and wonder how I could have ever been angry at this sweet person.  Then I kiss his cheek and make sure he's breathing.  Just like any mom would do.

It's All in a Day's Work

What was I thinking, actually paying for physical therapy when there are endless opportunities to stretch and strengthen my ankle right here at home???  Cooking, cleaning, laundry, chasing after kids...the list goes on.

I'm thinking of breaking another limb so I can get a break of a different kind.  And this time I'll be in no rush to resume my normal activities.

Deceived with Surgical Precision

I had my final visit with the orthopedic surgeon yesterday. Each visit revealed a little more truth regarding my recovery from a broken ankle.

First visit (pre-surgery)

Doctor: "Your ankle is broken in three places. We can put it in a cast without surgery, but you'll most likely develop arthritis at some point.  I recommend surgical repair with the insertion of a metal plate and screws to pull everything together. You're young...blah, blah, blah...and we want to keep you that way" (My husband was in the room and says there was "and active" in the middle of that sentence, but I had heard all I needed. The surgery was going to keep me young.)

Me: "Okay. Surgery it is."

Second visit (post-surgery)

Doctor:  "Everything looks good. The bones all came together nicely. Sometimes the metal plate bothers the patient and they choose to have it removed after six months."

Me:  "No way in hell is that gonna happen."   (Well, that's what I was thinking.)
 
Third visit

Doctor:  "Everything is looking good." (No idle chit-chat; he's a busy man.)

Me (As he's escaping out the door):  "So when can I expect the swelling to go down?"

Doctor (no doubt thinking, "Damn! I almost made it out the door"):  "I cut my thumb about twenty years ago. It still swells, but I'm the only one who can really tell. Your ankle will probably be the same. It might swell the rest of your life, but most likely you'll be the only one who notices." (For once in my life, it isn't about my vanity. It hurts when it swells.)

Me: "Oh."

Final visit

Doctor:  The x-rays look good. Your ankle will probably never be as good as before, but if it gives you any trouble call me. You might feel pain when the weather changes. And because you have small ankles, you might find that the hardware bothers you. Some people choose to have it removed six months after surgery." (Sorry doc, you'll have to pay for your own vacation home. I can't imagine a scenario where I'll willingly undergo more surgery.)

Me:   "What about the swelling? How long until it goes down more?"

Doctor: "That's probably the best it's going to get."

Me:  "What about the numbness on the top of my foot? When can I expect  that to get better?"

Doctor (doubling back from the hallway):  "When we cut through nerves, sometimes they grow back together.  Sometimes they don't.  You'll know within six to nine months."

Me:  (Frankly, I was too stunned to speak.  Besides, the doctor was already down the hall dictating his notes for my chart.)

What happened to my arthritis-free, active, youthful happy ending???  Seriously, I like my surgeon and he's really good at what he does, which I'm sure is why he's so busy.  But I guess at my first visit I should have barricaded the door and asked more questions.  I don't like unpleasant surprises.

So three months after my fall down the stairs, I've learned these truths: I will probably never recover full use of my ankle, I'll have swelling for the remainder of my life, my foot will most likely stay numb forever, and I now have the ability to forecast the weather.  And I'm still three months older.  So much for staying young.

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!