Wildflower....

My girl will reach a milestone at exactly 8:05am this morning when she turns the big 2-5.

As her mother's daughter she's counting days until her Social Security retirement benefits start.

Wondering what color to dye her gray hair?

And what would be a better choice a three leg cane walker or just the regular wheeled variety?

Seriously... I have wrinkles older than her.

But that age obsession thingy....appears it's passed on just like the love of blue cheese and black licorice.

About twenty years ago Susan (you may know her as that hunk of no reading cow dung dear sister o mine that can't manage to devour this delightful blog) decided to ditch me and go live with Marmie in the OC.

The very day Susan hightailed it outta town Googie and I sat on a curb and watched as Susan's car pulled away and headed down our street.

As much as I hate to admit this in print (the evidence thing) I thought I was going to lose what was left of my mind if I had to navigate everyday life minus my sister in my hair.

My little girl and I sat thigh to thigh on the curb in front of our house waving until Susan's car was out of our sight,

Googie watched closely as I wiped tears that were spilling faster than I could catch them.

After about ten straight minutes of listening to the hysterics she put her pudgy lil arm around my neck and squeezed in tight to my cheek,

then whispered into my ear....

"Don't worry momma" she said "I will be your sister now".

That right there is just a sprinkling of what this girl does for me (and for many others too) day in and day out.

She faces, every. single. day. the challenges of a debilitating illness with courage and grace.

She is ever changing and growing.

Learning to become a Doula and a Photographer.

She's a free, and gentle flower, growing wild.

And I am more proud of her than words could ever express.


Happy birthday baby, you're all that... and a bag of chips.

xoxo

BAH HALLOWEEN-

I feel I'm nearing the point of not turning on my porch light for Trick or Treat-ers anymore.

My bones creak and groan with even the thought of getting up and down from Daddio's Lazy Boy chair to answer the door.

I'm about ready to punch the next pint sized terrorist that kicks my door or lays on my doorbell.

(The candy lady's old bladder does call every now and again)

I don't mind passing the goodies to the kids over 16, seriously, I simply look past the lip and eyebrow piercings and the tatts and drop in a miniature Milky Way bar.

But the babies...

the toothless babies may just be where I draw the line.

A friend at work and I shared old lady horror stories yesterday of our Halloween adventures.

I too had (several, actually) young-ins pass me their own bag and then another bag saying "it's for my brother/sister"... pointing to a baby in a stroller.

Not a toddler mind you... the babies in those strollers still smelled of afterbirth.

Should there have been a warning issued to the parents piloting the stroller...?

"Hey, can that kid, the toothless one, chow nuts yet?"

"The coconut in this Almond Joy may prove a choking hazard for those with only a suckling instinct"....

When, when exactly when did I become such an evil spirited old bag?

A work in progress I guess.

Tell me your Halloween tales..

Or am I alone in my misery?

xoxoxoxoxox TGIF

Who let the dogs out....?

Daddio's band had a gig playing for a Halloween party this past Saturday. He went as the GEICO caveman and for once in his short life, he felt comfortable in a costume.

So comfortable was he, even in the preparation of this event, that his jovial, prepared self invited any and all of "us" to come join the fun.

Marmie and I had plans to hang out, meaning that the two of us needed costuming.

If there is one thing I inherited from my mother, it's the knack of being able to think up some goofy Halloween costumes on the fly.

A couple of years ago Daddio and I had gone to a Halloween party dressed as teen thugs...  the "costumes" fooled some close family members.

(In their defense, the party was in the dark back yard and Daddio and I kept a low profile as we mingled...)

I decided to recreate this old favorite...

I borrowed an old pair of Bear's baggy jeans and some boxer underwear from the neighbor kid.

The jeans were large enough for me to yank em down around my hip bones with the "porkies" sticking out the top.

Marmie had a like pair (although with her 4'11" [on a good day] frame she had about a foot of extra material pooled on the bottom, I sloppily rolled it up a few times..giving her an extra goofy look.

We be saggin...

For the top half, I wore an old shirt of Bear's ( I swear...I don't recall Bear being a thug, but you know what they say about the third kid and the pacifier on the floor, same principal I guess when it comes to dressing your baby...the first one gets the Carters and the OshKosh b'gosh and the third one get the gun garb and the spikes...shrug)

Here was Marmie's look....

We added some neck tats...

Some flashy footwear and a couple of chains...

Marmie and I got to our first party...it was held in a community center where there was also a wedding reception going on at the same time...the parking lot proved to be pretty funny. It was quite dark and Marmie and I kept our skull and cross boned bandana wrapped heads tucked chin to our chest low..

In the bathroom of this facility the classy dressed female wedding guests wouldn't make eye contact with us.

Not sure if they should pull their purses closer or laugh....

One never knows, even on Halloween.

When we got to the club where Daddio was playing we walked in and stopped at the check-in table, again with our hat bills tipped downward...

"Should I card em?" a man standing near the table asked the seated woman taking the entry fee.

I glanced up at her from under the bill of my hat...

"NAHHHHHH" she said after getting a good look at my mature face.

Wanting to be really authentic before we left I took a picture of the two of us with my I phone (of course it was taken where else?? in the bathroom...tee-hee).

I told Marmie to put on her toughest face...and we would have pursed our lips and made gang signs if I could have thought of any...

PS...Joyce Ann thinking of you (as always this time of year). What are you going as...???

PSS...to any of my old friends and family reading this, quick, where were you 30 years ago today??

Give up?

Daddio and my wedding.

Happy Anniversary to us...

PS...Daddio..you make my heart sing and my old legs dance, still.

xoxo

A universal rating system...

Soaking in a hotel hot tub in New Mexico, Marmie, my dear step-sis (the best travel companion ever) and I shared easy conversation.

We were alone in the tub, but soon were joined by a young woman who'd just (effortlessly) swam about a hundred laps in the large swimming pool located next to the jacuzzi.

When she was done with her swim she climbed out and walked over to where we sat.

I couldn't help but think about the the movie "10" and actress Bo Derek. There is a line in the movie trailer that says something like "In a world where women are rated 1 thru 10, this one is an 11."

With a wide smile and a cheerful "HI" she climbed in.

The four of us sat and traded small talk.

We learned she was there with her grandmother.

The two of them on a road trip for her grandmother's 70th birthday.

They were in New Mexico to see the Albuquerque International balloon fiesta a "have to"on her grandmother's bucket list.

Being a "Grandma's girl" myself, I ate up every word this pretty thing had to say about her wonderful relationship with her cool grandma.

I totally got her.

She talked about her work and her family. We learned that she had three sisters, one of them her identical twin.

There is something to be said about the beauty of youth.

The flawless skin, the bright white teeth, the perky everything.

I had an instant of wishing for a fountain of youth.

When it was time to go we said our goodbyes and headed off toward our rooms.

"Good lawd that girl was pretty" I said to my sister (not that stinkin no good fer nuttin Susan, the other one, the good one, the one who reads this blog)

"Seriously, she was stunningly beautiful" I continued.

"Yeah" she answered "and can you i-ma-gine that there are TWO of them running around on this planet !!??"

Talk about kicking a girl when she's down (around a number -2 and counting backwards).

Happy Tuesday to you.

Thanks for visiting this blog.

xoxo

"24" revisited....

The 16th of October always brings me a (HUGE) bit of anxiety.

The day my brother got into a motorcycle accident that took his young life.

This October 16th marks the 24th anniversary of his death.

Which means that today he's been gone as long as he was here.

In order to allow others to feel my pain I say things like "Bear, can you imagine losing Googie or Prince Buttercup? Googie is 24, the same age as Uncle John was when he left us, could you imagine life without her?".

He frowns at me and shakes his head.

This puts things into perspective for me too.

Because sometimes I feel like it was so long ago that maybe I'm not remembering things right...

Things like how close we were and how HUGE his loss was.

I don't doubt it, ever, its just that the passage of time has a muting effect.

So when I ask Bear about Googie I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

I know what it is to love a sibling for 24 years.

That's a long time to forge an awesome relationship.

And an even longer time to miss it.

PS...Yo, bro John, I sooo know you would read this blog if you were able, can't say the same about that bimbo sister of ours. There are so many times I wish you could be here to gang up on her with me. I miss those days, and she is long past due a real good ass kickin... just sayin.

24 years in Heaven, you lucky dog, you! xoxo

Auto pilot...

The Princess Buttercup lost her mother on Friday.

The suffering had gone on so long that a merciful passing was the prayer.

According to witnesses, in the minutes before she drew her last breath, she raised both her arms.

She stretched them to the Heavens.

In a strong, sure voice she proclaimed, “I’m going home”.

What a gift to my bonus child.

And to my son who witnessed this passage, gaining a renewed belief.

God is good.

I'm typing this post sitting on an unfamiliar bed in a strange town (Elk Town? Oklahoma) right dab in the middle of my road trip. I'm sick at heart that I can't be with The Princess Buttercup and the family at this time. 

I'm with my mom, holding her tighter than usual.

The funeral is this morning, please say a little prayer for a dear princess and her heartbroken dad.

Thanks...
xoxo

Preparing for takeoff....

My daughter in law's mother is dying.

Actively dying as I type this post.

I've never met such a fighter, or someone with such a good attitude about the shitty "cards" she's been dealt.

She worked a lot longer than most people with stage four cancer do.

She smiled a lot longer too.

I'm ashamed of myself that I didn't get to see her more often.

It's really really hard and I'm a wuss.

I'm also ashamed to admit that truth about myself.

I bought a recordable story book that I wished I could have had the nerve to take to her house.

I've had it for over a year, I bought it when I learned how sick Princess Buttercup's mom was.

The book sits on a dresser in our computer room, right in plain sight, it daily reminds me of all of my shortcomings.

Be brave, live life.

Part of living is dying.

"Just do it" the book says to me.

Every single day it says to me "you are running out of time".

Our children, Buttercup and his Mrs. don't have children yet, my plan when buying the book was so that Princess Buttercup would have a story book, being read by her mom to share with her future children.

It was a grand plan.

And in a perfect world it would have been perfectly executed by a emotionally strong, healthy friend of a dying woman.

Obviously, she was not me.

My daughter in law's mom is awake every 4 hours or so. Hospice has instructed them to religiously keep on the medicine schedule.

These days it's all about pain managment.

Excruciating pain that causes agonizing screams if too much time passes between doses.

My daughter in law is too young to lose her mother.

Then again, every child of every age is too young to lose their mother.

I have to muster up all my courage to visit today.

This time there will be no saying "maybe this next treatment will help".

Mustering up the courage to say goodbye is nothing in comparison to my friend's courage in leaving her daughter and husband.

She has no choice.

That breaks my heart.

I want to tell her what a good girl she raised.

And selfishly I want to ask her to tell her daughter that it is okay to let me love her and care for her like a mother does, that it won't be disloyal to her.

I have to put on my big girl panties and my game face.

Googie said to bring the book.

Be brave,  live life.

Thank you for listening.

One whole week....

It's been a week since I've posted on my blog.

One whole week.

I apologize if you dropped in to read a sec and was disappointed.

I read a couple of blogs religiously and when I click on their space over and over and over again in the course of a week (and sometimes loooooonger than that even) and see the same ol post, I'm not gonna fib, I get irritated.

I think to myself what a frickin lazy azz, what in the hell can that woman be doing that she can't update her blog, does she not understand that there are people coming here looking for things to read, pictures to gawk...? Is there not some kind of contract betwixt writerandreader...? Who can I call to tattle on her? Her sponsors, the ones located on the sides of her blog posts...hmmm.

I usually pretty quickly come (back) to my senses and think... yikes, I have no sponsors.

And who in the hell put the peanut butter in the fridge?

Now what was I thinking?

Life is taking some interesting turns.

In the course of one week...one of my favorite blog writers has not posted.

And neither have I.

I still return, hopefully, every day to inquire if she's returned.

I hope you and I can have the same setup...?

This past (and present) week in my life...

My dad is improving. Now if I could get his (very depressed) brain on board, we'd be jammin.

My darling Daddio is starting a new job. You may or may not remember (if you don't remember, it's probably because I didn't mention it) that he left his old job for a new job then left his new job to return to his old job...

confused?

Join the club.

It's all good though, because when daddy ain't happy ain't nooobody happy.

So when he leaves his old new job for a new new job which could (and probably would) result in him going forward and then taking some sideways steps forcing him to be choosing a completely different path toward the same job but in a different place and back to the old job in the same place...

Does that make any sense at all...?

Of course not.

Understandably, I have whiplash.

And a nervous stomach.

Which could also be due to my over thinking what I'll need to do, bring, pack, stash, cook, pay before leaving on the cross country trip to fetch my mother from the jaws of her empty and lonely house all in the effort to bringing her sweet self back to dreary, frigid MI.

Where she desperately loves a handful of it's residents, but just as desperately hates mostly everything else about the place... (I get it Ma, seriously)

This week will bring Road Trip to California preparations to a frenzy.

What with packing, stocking the Casa Koby with easily prepared/reheated/mowed right from the can/ chow, toilet paper, and other such necessities,

things like lots of free flowin money and a couple of important instructions to Bear need also to be put into place.

Instructions to make life livable in my absence.

"You are in charge of your dad this week"

"Allow me to teach you how to iron your dad's work pants"

"Remember, when you pack dad's lunch that he likes the stems picked off the grapes"

"Don't stand at the door in your pajamas to wave him off in the morning, it embarrasses him terribly"

"I normally spoon dad to sleep every night, that won't be too much to ask, right?"

To which Bear responds...

"Oh h-ell no, it's every man for himself next week, dog eat dog. Your husband is on his own".

And the band plays on....

I'll update as I can, and I do thank you from the bottom of my busy bee heart for understanding.

xoxoxoxox

Post Script....If I'm gone too long, please call my sponsors and complain.

They say it's my birthday....

Daddio said yesterday that from now on we're going to reverse our ages.

So for example, say someone was turning.. 51, they would claim they were turning 15.

I'm so on board.

Except for the years when the second number is larger than the first.

I woke up this morning to a delightful coffee pot note...

Inside it read....

It contained a couple of handmade coupons...

(ps...I'm getting an iphone for my birthday)

(and a back rub...tee-hee)


You know you're getting old when you get that one candle on the cake. It's like, 'See if you can blow this out.' Jerry Seinfeld 

The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate. Oprah Winfrey 

The more I praise and celebrate my life, the more there is in life to celebrate...

I love listening to the richest woman in the free world gush wisdom.

Lately, there have been days when I wouldn't wish my life on my worst enemy.

But you know, I woke up this morning, was able bodied enough (barely, you may remember that I'm suffering from Plantar Fasciitis and also from a fracture to my tailbone) to get my ass outta bed, I got an awesome birthday card, ate a candy bar for breakfast, went outside and stared at the stars in the sky.

I thought about my step dad (whose birthday was also September 24th)and how much we all miss him.

He was a gift to my mother and to our family.

I thought about my dad, it appears he is healing.

I thought about my mom, I am leaving on the 6th of October to go to California to fetch her and to bring her "home".

I thought about my wonderful husband, my awesome kids (including the bonus ones).

I thought about how I have the best siblings (including the bonus ones)

I thought about how much I mostly love my job.

And what a nice house I have.

And I thought about my dear dog.

And this blog (and how I may have missed my Poet calling)and all those who stop by and read. 

And this much loved computer,I thought about how truly I do adore this machine(who also celebrates a birthday today) on which I am typing this amazing post.

And in spite of all the bitter, I do have more sweet, much, much more sweet than most people I know.

This morning, at 5am when I ventured outside to let the pooch out to potty there were lots of stars in the sky.

I went back in, got my camera from the counter, I wanted to capture what I was seeing.

I fiddled with the settings and set it in Fireworks mode.

Lots of bright stars appeared to be moving, flashing and shooting.

I said a little prayer for an easier year.

And wished Garry, my dear friend, a Happy Birthday too.

Arrgh....Some days

This morning I woke up full of stories to spill.

Tales to tell.

Words to write.

Before I could tap one key I made the fatal mistake of clicking on Facebook (that awful, awful, rotten stink'n place) where I saw that a young friend had lost his dad.

And I was too sad to do anything other than write him a looooooooooong (probably waaaaaaa toooo loooooong) message about death and dying and survival and such.

But before that, before all that took place I wanted to put something in this space so that you didn't waste your time coming here...

I had some things to say, to share.

First of all, I wanted to tell you about my mother-in-law and my young neice going to the movies. And about how they waited in line (for like forever) and how when they got to the cashier they were told that they only  take cash as payment and so her bank card was pretty much useless in this situation. I would tell you how my mother-in law surveyed her surroundings, looking for an ATM or a bank or a small pile of cash laying on a seat somewhere... and how she came up empty handed. I would tell you how it's hard for my mother-in-law to walk and how much she was dreading walking back to the car, holding hands with a disappointed grandchild. I wanted to let you know that all turned out wonderfully when a man, a stranger with a small boy, put some money in my mother-in-law's hand and said "please let me pay for you".  She gratefully took the gift from the man and promised him to pay it forward (she even told him how much her daughter-in-law loves stories and tales such as these..and oh yes, yes.. I do I do I doooo-ooooh)

I really wanted to share that bit of uplifting news with you.

And then I read about Zach loosing his Pa.

And the bitterness of life made me forget all about the sweetness of it.

I hate it when that happens.

RIP Zack's dad...you have a helluva great son, but I know you already know that.

Thanks for listening.

Free falling........

Ever feel like the life boat you're in, the one you're holding on dear to, is either going to spring a really big (gashing, gushing, gouging) leak or tip over and pin you underneath....?

Last night I had a horrific dream.

In the dream I was riding along a California highway.

Daddio sat in the driver's seat and the older of his two sisters rode shotgun.

I was hiding in the backseat.

Every now and then I would lift my head and peek out over Daddio's shoulder, looking at the beautiful.

(no, I didn't forget a word)

He and his sister road mostly silently, every now and then saying "oooohhh" and "ahhhhh"

"look at that" or "haaaaaang on".

I didn't have to look to see what was happening, I could feel the car rounding steep corners.

"Slow down" I yell "you're going to kill us".

We're going over the side of a mountain, I am certain.

Or we'll fall into an ocean.

At any moment the earth is going to quake and the entire car will slide into a giant sink hole when California splits wide open.

Then later in my dream I find myself in the front seat, hunkered down next to Daddio, his arm heavy around my shoulders.

"Ohhhhhhh, look at that" he says as the car sails around yet another corner, this one steeper than the last.

As the car turns, I peek out from underneath Daddio and can see nothing but sky.

Then an edge.

I close my eyes because I don't want to see what's beyond the edge.

"Look at that" Daddio says, pulling me in tight.

When I do open my eyes I can only think of the car going over the edge.

Falling to the rocks and water below.

In my dream I force myself to go beyond my apprehension.

I force myself to keep my eyes open.

Pushing past the intense fear I'm feeling.

It's so bad I hold my breath and stiffen my body against Daddio's chest.

Just as suddenly as the fear threatens to swallow me whole, it lets me go.

The sights I'm seeing are taking my breath away, but this time, it's in a good way.

What is my dream saying?

That the car could go over the edge whether or not I look to see...?

True, but when I do look and see I'm delightfully and amazingly awestruck by the beauty of the view and the experience.

The good the bad, the bad the good.

The life boat I'm in, the one I'm hanging on dear to, could possibly spring a really big, gashing, gaping leaking hole,

it could tip and hold me underneath,

or, I could muster all my strength, wiggle out from underneath and allow myself to raise to the surface.

Toward the light,

up and over the edge

where there could possibly be...

more beauty to see and experience than I could have ever imagined.

Sounds like a plan.

Thanks so much for loaning me your ear (eyes).

Sorry I can't credit where I found this photo,
 Google Images dropped me like a hot potato before I could capture the link.

PS... To Marmie and LD... I am sooo looking forward to our adventure..the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful.

Whatever it takes....

The rehab center where my dad is currently trying to rebuild his life is connected to a nursing home.

The residents of both facilities have free reign of the hallways and since there are no definitive boundaries they mingle.

On a recent visit I was on my way out of the building and walking past a slew of wheelchairs, I came upon one, whose occupant was flagging me over.

A waif like creature with hair the color of storm clouds.

She wore a sweatshirt that looked like it belonged to her dad, the material falling in layering waves on her tiny body.

"Pick me up" she asked, with her veined, bony arms extended.

I smiled and kept walking.

"Pick me up..." she said again, a bit louder this time.

I stopped and acknowledge her outstretched arms.

"I can't pick you up dear" I said.

"I'm allowed to do that".

"PICK ME UP !!" she demanded, her rising volume gaining the attention of the other visitors in the small hallway.

"No, no honey, I can't pick you up" I said shaking my head.

For a split second she appeared to accept what I was saying.

Then she threw her head back and out from her mouth came a scream that could have woke China.

The scream,  "WAHHHHHH WAHHHHH WAHHHHH sounded exactly like an exaggerated, cartoonish version of a screeching toddler.

"Wahhhhhh, wahhhhhh, wahhhhhh" the antique baby cried,  her mouth open in a HUGE circle shape

The unexpected intensity of her expressed unhappiness and the absurdity of the whole situation almost made me laugh out loud.

Totally inappropriate, I know... but sometimes you just can't help what you just can't help.

A nurse who'd been sitting behind the desk and witnessing the whole exchange shushed the woman and said "she can't pick you up now".

Which, for the moment, seemed to pacify the crybaby.

Yesterday, I took my dad outside for some fresh air, we had to walk past the tiny woman again sitting in her chair near the door.

"See that little old lady" I whispered in my dad's one good ear "that one over there" I said, nodding in her direction.

As we wheeled by I told him the story about how she'd acted when I wouldn't pick her up out of her chair.

"Yeah" he said " I met her the other day in the dining room" he continued. "she wanted to eat my food, I pointed to the kitchen and told her that there was more in there."

"All hell broke loose"he said.

"She screeched like a banshee" he laughed, shaking his head.

"How embarrassing" I replied.

"Yeah, it sure was" he said.

Later, I laughed as I shared with Susan (my sister, the one who doesn't read this blog) our experiences with the old lady.

She told me she knew exactly who I was talking about.

Seems the whole family has raised the ire of this pint sized screamer.

Susan and her daughter walked past and answered an innocent enough sounding question...

"How old are you?" the senior asked my niece.

Her answer of "fifteen" unleashed the yowling beast.

"It came out of nowhere" Susan said.

Keeps ya on yer toes.... we both agreed.

It also gave me thoughts of my own personal "old lady bag of tricks"... (which is filling by the day.)

                                                    Video borrowed from YouTube...
                                               

Some love for his Ma.....

Any of you that read this blog with any regularity know I've got it bad for my kids.

They are, frankly, the best kids ever.

(don't noooo-body be actin a hater and say to themselves (or to me via private message) " her (your) kids ain't kids" or some other such nonsense..yer kids are yer kids are yer kids..matters not if they wear dentures and have gray hair or get a senior citizen discount...they still be yer kids...so shove a donut in yer pie hole and move on)

(I apologize for the above statement, it's early and I'm obviously crabby)

Allow me to get sidetracked here for a moment...

I took a little tumble down a few flights of stairs steps the other morning, I guess it was more of a slip-n-slide rather than a tumble.

When Bear didn't wake up (not to find me in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, mind you...NO, neither he or (that hard sleepin) Daddio of his heard the earth move nor felt the house shake...)

Whatever.....

Serves me right, if you're gonna fall down the stairs you should do it when people are awake, can witness, or at least her your cries of "Double-U-Tee-Eff", and appropriately feel really sorry for you.

So, as I lay alone on the floor, soaking wet (not only from pissin my drawers, as luck would have it I happen to be carrying a cup of water, which ended up dripping down my back, and running into my eyes. It soaked the front of my nightgown, from the top to the bottom, it also made a mess of the floor and wet the small rug that was near enough to catch some of the water)

(How the hell an inch of water could wreck such havoc and make such a mess, I'll never know)

So as I lay on the floor, soaking wet...and feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I did a quick inventory of my nearly 43 (my blog, my addition) year old bones.. they all felt in one piece, except for my tailbone.

Which ached like the dickens.

My trusty pooch noticed me laying there...she came, sniffed the situation, slurped up a bit of the water on the floor near my hand and waited (not so) patiently for me to notice that she was doing her pee-pee dance.

Once up I hobbled to the bathroom mirror, hiked up my nightgown, and surveyed the damage.

There didn't appear to be any.

(I'll have to see what Google has to say about invisible bruises)

No outward signs of damage... hmmm.

Well, I have then no explanation as to why I'm hurting so.

Anyway, back to my kids, my wonderful children.

Last night I sent Bear to the market to fetch some coffee filters.

I set up the coffeepot, placed a cup of fresh grounds nearby, added the proper amount of water, hit the "Delay" button so I'd wake up to the aroma of a fresh pot of Folgers.

I asked Bear to add the filter, then the grounds.

This morning I woke just the way I imagined..

I walked (very carefully) down the (steep, slippery sonofabeep) stairs.

Bear had followed all instructions and my pot of coffee was ready and waiting for me.

He'd also written me a lovely "coffee pot" note...

One of my favorite things ever..

A note from my treasured youngest son.

I could hardly contain myself as I limped (remember the big fall, right) to the light to better read the coffee pot "love note"....

"Good Morning" it said simply...

(Hey Y-O-U negative nellie naysayers you, you all know the rules here, right?... My blog, My take on shit).....

Gas money to you all....make it a great day!!!

Sensitivity training......

I've about had it with (mostly young) interns, fellows and residents... "doctors" in various degrees of their training.

Doctors "to be" aren't much different from the kid at Micky D's that wears the "have patience with me I'm a trainee" button, except that they don't wear a button.

You can be patient at the fast food counter when it takes the newbe forever to find the "no onion, light ketchup" option, you can be patient when you confuse the hell outta them when you hand them over different money then they've asked for, expecting to get different change than the register tells them is owed... you can be patient when you both smile and shrug shoulders as they stumble.

A night and day difference in a hospital setting.

A screwed up burger with extra onions and light mustard verses a screwed up treatment or a messed up fight for your life....

not weighable.

My dad's continued, very long, seemingly never-ending running streak of really shitty luck recently gave him a doctor in training that could barely manage to say "hello" in English...

couple that with my dad's one good hearing aid (low on batt-ries + old, poor quality equipment = he misses a lot)...

... add to that hot mess his being hopped up on treated with Morphine and you got yerself a little problem in the communication department.

When my dad told me what was said and I tattled on the trainee to his supervisor words weren't needed to convey to me that the trainee was in deep poo.

His supervisor's slack jaw, pop eye'd response said it all.

He then contested/corrected/backstroked/damage controlled every thing the trainee had said (or rather, tried to say).

Yesterday, my dad and I spent the better part of the morning in the emergency room.

He slept, I mostly listened to moans and cries of patients in surrounding rooms.

Separated by dingy, orange/green striped floor to ceiling curtains.

These emergency room slots were smaller than one of my bathrooms.

The chair I was sitting in hit the curtain of the room next to me, and my dad's bed was nearly as close to our neighbor, the patient on the other side.

When I tried not to listen, I would doodle heart shapes in the small notebook I carry to doodle small heart shapes in.

I had lots of pages filled.

In the room behind my chair was a mother and her daughter waiting for test results.

I knew both these things because that is what they told the hospital worker who stuck her head in to refill supplies.

While my dad slept and I scribbled heart shapes I heard some people enter the room next to ours.

A man's voice introduced himself as one of the doctor's on her case.

He also identified himself as an intern.

He told the mother that the source of her severe back pain appeared to be coming from some lesions on her spine.

"Any history of cancer?" Doc jr asked.

"Nope, none" answered the patient.

"I fell some time back" the old woman continued "when was that? she quizzed her memory...

"In December, yes, it was December" she determined.

"I think there was a little snow on the ground" she remarked.

"How long has your back been bothering you?" Doc jr asked.

She answered in an unsure way, again attempting to put time and incident together.

"When we see lesions like this" Doc jr said "they normally indicate cancer" he told the woman and her daughter sitting in the room next to me.

I stiffened in my seat and my pen stopped making heart shapes.

The old woman, panic rising in her voice asked the doctor what he meant.

"I have cancer?" she said, her voice cracking.

"Well" Doc jr said "we don't know that yet. We are going to put you through some tests and see if we can identify a source. The cancerous lesions are not the main cancer, in our experience, so there must be something else in your body, another source, a large mass, something like that" he went on to explain.

"Someone will be in to admit you to the hospital" he said, leaving the room.

I sat stiff in my seat as the mother and her daughter in the small room next to mine comforted each other.

I couldn't not hear their muffled cries.

Or hold back my own.

What in the hell is wrong with the training these new doctors are getting.

Why, I wonder couldn't that news be delivered when they were sure or knew more?

Maybe they wanted her to prepare?

Maybe Doc jr was practicing.

Fuck.

I hate hospitals, and heart shapes, and bad news, even when it's not mine.

Thank you for listening.

xoxo

Lost in translation....

Yesterday an old loveable came to visit.

I love it when they stop by and tell me how things are going.

This particular young woman was quite a hot mess when she was in my class...she's still in our program, just not in my part, so lots of time passes between our visits.

I'm always surprised (sometimes delighted even) by her metamorphosis.

She's lost a lot of weight, and while she used to be a chubby girl that hid her confidence under roomy tee shirts today she displays lots of it, most of it in the form of gush-y cleavage oozing from the inside of a too tight, cherry red colored tank top.

(Concerning her confidence and oozing boobage...this is my observation, not my personal belief.)

I listen to the stories about how much she's changed.

How things have improved.

She dates a guy from our program. He is one of my favorite loveables of all time. A young man I'd let Googie date if she were younger, single and interested in teenage hoods.

Her dad hates the kid.

"If he were white" she tells me "my dad would be okay with him".

Her dad tries to bribe her to dump him. Offering her clothes and drivers education and all kinds of high dollar things if she will.

She tells me how wonderful her boyfriend is and that to her he is worth giving up everything for.

I think of Daddio and me when we were that age.

Daddio was worth giving up things for....

And I loved him enough to go to teen/parent war any day.

Thankfully, there were no wars to fight, nothing for him to prove.

They liked and trusted him. And he would have (like Dr Laura likes to say) swam through shark infested waters to bring me a lemonade.

My young friend tells me that her guy, the love of her life, recently moved from the state.

He's in another town looking for work and a new place to hopefully lay roots.

I ask her if she's going to join him there.

She nods her head, and her eyes sparkle when she gushes "yes, as soon as I can".

"I'm going to get a job and we are going to make a life for ourselves, a better life than we had here. I won't have to listen to my dad and we can be together with no problems. I love his family so much" she says "his mother is the best cook ever, they had me over for the holidays and I didn't want to leave" she continued.

I work while we talk. She chatters on about this boy and her days in my program.

She thanks me for "teaching her to cook so many things" and tells me that she has no mother to teach her those things and that she appreciates how much she learned.

She offers to help me finish up with some dishes I'm washing.

I take her up on it.

We laugh when she asks me if I remember how much she used to fight me about doing dishes.

I tell her that she doesn't stand out much in that department as none of the kids like to do dishes.

A staff member comes in and he and I talk a minute, the girl steps out of the kitchen.

When she comes back in, she's holding her phone.

She pulls the phone away from her ear and tells me that she called her boyfriend and he wants to talk to me.

I'm thrilled to talk to him, it's been a couple of years since our last conversation.

I question him about his life and I'm happy to hear him say that he's doing well.

Working hard and making a new life for himself.

I ask him about the girl and his plans for her to join him.

He hesitates, then says "I have no plans for her to join me".

I glance up to see an ear to ear smile, she's nodding her head up and down.

"I can't wait to go be with him" she says when I hang up the phone.

"You have any backup plans?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Words Marmie told me never to use....

September, I can't wait....

It seems like just days ago I was looking forward to summer.... and in just a few days it will be September already.

This summer has been one I won't be sorry to see go.

September has always been my rejuvenation month.

And I am praying that this one follows suit...and allows me to step out of my current skin and into something a bit more comfortable.

A birthday of note.....

My blog will be 1,095 days old tomorrow.

Hitting the big 0-3.

Thank you for reading, commenting and all that jazz.

I have a couple of goals for the coming year...

The biggest is to hit (at least) 100 followers...

So if you read this blog with any regularity, would you consider becoming a follower...?

I want to keep up appearances and the more followers a blog has well the more followers a blog has.

A member of society..... (teeeee-heeeee)

On a silly sidenote...

Daddio and I went out to grab a bite of grub on Saturday night.

The venue we chose was one that sits on the intersection of two very busy roads.

We pulled into the restaurant parking lot the same time as a young woman.

We parked our cars and got out at the same time.

I watched as she struggled getting some stuff from the back seat of her tiny car.

When she stood up she had her purse hanging from one arm, in both hands she carried a large wrapped package.

In the crook of one arm she also carried a large blow-up penis.

It's not everyday you see a cute young girl in heels nonchalantly making her way across a parking lot hugging dear to a big pink tallywhacker.

I guess the funniest thing about it was that she was all business... like she had no clue she was carrying a big huge plastic dick.

She was oblivious to the stares and snickers of the people in the parking lot.

A woman on a mission.

She walked to the door and struggled to get in.

The couple of men at the door wanted to open it for her...but as she got closer to the door, so did the bobbing private she was carrying.

And most guys that I know will do anything not to touch a penis that doesn't hang on their own body.

The guys bobbed and weaved to prevent getting hit by the one eyed monster.

The girl didn't miss a beat opening her own door and stepping inside.

(Daddio and I followed her in)

The two hostesses got bugged eyed and then giggled and pointed her towards the back of the restaurant where it appeared there was a penis party going on.

The hostesses and I looked at each other and cracked up.

They were young and giggly and the laughter went on for a minute or two.

Then, I kid you not, one said...

"I would have waited until I got inside to blow that thing up"....

"Now that would have been quite a show" I replied.

****When after 15 minutes of waiting for our server to come and greet us and coming up bone dry Daddio said "lets hit the road...those girls got one look at that thing and they've lost their heads"..."

Brain dick dead I like to call that.


*****Thank you dear readers for your contribution... I write, you read.

Its all good, and I thank you.

Image "Borrowed" from A Bookworms World
tee-hee

PS... if you've come here from another blog, please look around a bit, there may be something for everyone.

Take me out to the ballgame...Scotty beam me up...Calgone take me away

I've been spending lots of time with Susan (she is my sister who cares not to read this blog...it truly is okay (you BIMBO) since her not reading lends itself to her becoming fodder for my blog.

And all the while she is totally unaware that she is subject to scrutiny, one sided opinion(s), the butt of many jokes and so on...tee-hee).

Anyway,  since our father has been so ill this past year Susan and I have been pretty much connected at the hip.

The two of us have mostly always been great friends. There were a couple of years when the most contact we had was chasing each other around the house catching the other by the hair..we did always reconnect though, as Marmie had us cleaning piles of our mixed hair from the stairs.

My sister and I share a trait (a quirk? a personality malfunction) which finds us in giddy hysterics at the worst possible time(s).

(Googie has demonstrated symptoms of this same issue)

Susan's quick wit and unique take on the world combined with some serious sleep deprivation can quickly spell disaster..

Or a pretty huge, embarrassingly loud, cackle fest.

This last all- night-er we pulled at the hospital is a stellar example of what I'm talking about.

We'd been at the hospital for hours, maybe 11 or so and our dad had not really gotten much treatment or a firm diagnosis.

Susan and I waited outside his room (really just to gather a breath, it's hard to watch a loved one suffer).

The frustration of the whole situation was forging a destructive path on my emotional well being and I was beginning to show signs of an explosion.

(Think Shirley McClaine's reaction in the movie Terms of Endearment when her dying daughter doesn't get her pain shot in time... see here)

After so many hours had passed and no one seemed to be doing much of anything Susan decided it was time to take matters into her own hands...

"I'll get us some quality help" Susan said.

She held up a pretend microphone and paged us a team of doctors.

"Paging Dr Larry"

"Dr Moe"

"Dr Curly"......

We (quietly) laughed so hard I peed my pants and Susan started her trademark "laugh-cry"... she laughed/cried so hard the tears rolled down her face...

Susan put her head down and her whole body shook with her hysterics.

A nurse, sitting at the station across the room took note.

She thought Susan was hysterical for other reasons and came over to calm her.

"We're doing the best we can" she said softly.

Susan caught the quick flowing tears that gathered under her eyes.

She wiped and nodded and bit her lip to keep her composure.

I hid in my sweatshirt neck and breathed my own BO... it worked like a sobering slap in da chops.

Stress relief comes in all forms.

Just sayin yo.

Slick, you ain't.....

I'll admit it here, out loud, for the first time that I have shower anxiety.

I totally blame it on Alfred Hitchcock, Janet Leigh and the shower scene from Psycho.

(If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend that you do NOT)

I don't like taking showers when no one else is home to help prevent Norman Bates (don't look him up) or any act-alikes from invading my bathroom space.

While I'm showering I always imagine I hear things.

The thought of which causes me to open my eyes in order to scan the small area where I stand naked and poised for victim-dome.

Which leads to shampoo and/or face soap entering and stinging my eyes.

Forcing a total head submersion (including both ears) under the shower stream.

Leading (of course) to total blindness, deafness and a vulnerability I'd rather not have (or even think about having).

So yesterday, for the millionth time this scene, in all it's insane insanity, played itself out.

I was under the water rinsing the soap from my eyes.

With that accomplished I tilted my head all the way back, stuck it under the shower head and rinsed the shampoo from my hair.

For a single solitary 30 seconds or so I was off guard and totally enjoying a moment free from thoughts of being attacked and stabbed to death in the shower.

As I brought my head forward, I slid my hands down from the top of my head towards the ends of my hair to get most of the water out.

Instantly I froze and took note of my surroundings.

 My eyes confirming what my gut had just told me.

Something/someone..??? was in the bathroom with me.

And that something/someone was attached to a cell phone that was being held up over the shower curtain recording my every move.

In an instant I did a memory scan (did I just wash my butt twice while on camera...?)

I bit my lower lip and without saying one word I looked straight into the camera and shook my head.

Wordlessly I picked up both hands and flipped the camera off.

F-u style.

The perpetrator had no idea that I was on to him and that he was being observed.

I watched as he silently pulled his recording device from the spot above my head.

I gave him a second or two to get out of the bathroom.

While he was outside the door reviewing his "catch",  I was on the other side of the bathroom door planning my retaliation.

I'd left the shower running and hid, dripping wet, behind the bathroom door.

It didn't take him long to watch the small film, see that he'd been caught, and turn to come back into the bathroom.

The counterattack was unexpected and (I might add) hilarious.

He fought me for all he was worth.

I punched him and called him names like "pervert" and "faaaa-reeeeeek".

I yelled "that'll teach ya" as I slapped at his head and tried to bite his arm.

After more than 30 years you'd think he'd learn.

Don't trip on the pee...

Susan (you may know her as my sister, the one who doesn't read this blog) and I spent one whole entire night at the hospital recently.

There is something quite odd about sitting in a foreign place and watching the sun go down and still being there to watch it rise hours later.

Our poor, poor dad is sick a-gain.

We've all been so disgusted with the treatment our local hospital has been giving my dad that we decided in advance that if he needed to be hospitalized again that we would take him to a nationally respected teaching hospital located in the middle of the "D".

A beautiful hospital surrounded by blight and homeless people.

The busy Emergency department would only allow one of us in the Triage area.

I drew the short straw and went in....Susan took a seat in the waiting room and pulled out some homework.

I found our dad laid out on a shabby stretcher in the middle of a bustling hallway where he' d been dropped by the EMS workers.

Next to him was a young thug laying on an equally shabby stretcher.

Next to the thug was a Police Officer, who it appeared, was keeping watch.

For once I was thankful that my dad is half deaf and can't hear many things outside a very close range.

Eavesdropping I learned that the young man, (in addition to having one of the foulest mouths I've ever heard) had been the victim of police brutality... he'd been roughed up, pepper sprayed and taser-ed.

He claimed they (The PoPo) had robbed him of his diamond pinky ring, and his pocket roll.

He alternately boo-hoo'd about getting his gun swiped and trying to strike a plea bargain (with the baby-sitting cop who couldn't do anything with that if you bribed him).

The bloody red eye'd boy was attempting to get the cop to get him out of his impending CCW charge.

The punk rambled on and on and on and the officer and I would occasionally trade glances and roll our eyes.

When the baby criminal paused for a quick breath I scanned the dump for something else to take my mind off of being there.

I spotted a creature with long, bright pink and braided (think Wednesday Adams) hair.

She wore a long, colorful (mostly pink) pinafore.

Ruffled white anklet socks and Mary Jane shoes.

An equally cutesy purse swung from her forearm when she skip-walked through the hallways of the ER.

When she pranced near enough for a closer inspection I almost laughed out loud.

She had gray roots beneath her colorful braids. Crows feet, a wrinkled forehead and lots of vertical lips lines... this babe was as old as time.

Susan (who'd seen the cartoonish doll in the outside waiting area) and I later compared notes about our common "what-THE-heck" when we overheard the ancient "girl" talking about being there with her mother.

I have no doubt, not a single one that any living mother of someone this old would have been GWR (Guinness World Record) worthy, fo sure....

Tramp stamps, bursting, tattoo'd cleavage and big booties covered in small thongs (peeking out from too tight too low trousers)  were abundant in the waiting area.

And so were the men that appreciate that kind of stuff.

Hoooo-hoooo-hoooo-ly cow.... the place was buzzing with people you'd hope to never meet in a dark alley.

While my dad rested with his eyes closed I entertained myself watching people try to dodge a large stream of light colored pee that was rushing toward a drain on the floor.

(* I knew it be pee because... [not just because I happen to be a knowitall, but because] the staff kept whispering (THIS LOUD)  that there was pee on the floor)

After calling at least 10 times to the housekeeping department and being ignored a nurse finally opened a large blanket and stuck it over the pee.

Then people could walk/trip (and ohhhh did they ever) over the blanket covered pee-pee on the floor.

Shame on me, I know.

Here, in this place, at this very time to stand guard over a potential malpractice victim (he's been through the ringer folks) and all I do is bobble-head over the whole room and take notes for my blog.

Survival friends, survival.

xoxo

Les incompetent....

I like to stay under the radar when it comes to certain things.

I like to fly low and steady attempting to not attract attention of any kind in certain circumstances.

Mostly, I don't like people knowing how old I am or how lame I can be.

My boss's boss asked me to do him a "personal favor"... he needs me to work the next three Friday's.

It's not the fact that I have to put my second "job" on hold or anything (although that really IS a super pain in the keister not to mention a pretty big cluster flup).

Making up for lost time on Saturday is not really all that big of a deal...

 (frickin hell to da yes it's a big azz deal...)

So while I'm totally being asked to be put out and put upon..."they" are my bread and butter, so I need to just suck it up and when they say "JUMP"... I must respond WTF "HOW HIGH ??"

It's not so much that I have to be there on Friday...mostly all working stiffs work 5 days a week.

The problem is WHAT they have me doing.

Kayaking .... week one we were going to Kayak.

I'm all about depending on me/myself/I .... but me/myself/I in a little floatation device being in total charge of me/myself/I and having not one single solitary outdoorsy type person to help out by sitting in the boat and doing everything while I hang (white knuckle) on to the sides with my eyes glued shut had me more than a little shook up (not to mention heart palpitations, which were lots).

I think my boss' boss could see that he was asking for a donation of my left kidney....

or for me to Pole Vault across six cars lined up side to side.

He could see me squirm (the tears streaming down my face didn't hurt either).

"Please don't make me go in a boat by myself" I silently begged

"Surely, I'll paddle (if I get the hang of it) right into International Waters (Canada is our nearest neighbor) or out to sea...

They'll find me days after the trip, one pinky finger gouged into the side of the kayak hanging on for dear survival, lips parched, severely sunburned and half eaten by whatever kinds of huge (whiskered) fish hang out in the deep, deep, dark waters of the Huron River...

Or the boat just may capsize, I won't drown, but I'll sink to the bottom and end up with dirt in places ladies shouldn't have dirt."

By a stroke of wonderful luck our kayaking trip was cancelled due to a forecast of heavy rain.

Daddio hugged me tight and said "they really have no idea how great it is that this event has been rained out, they don't want someone like you on a kayak"

(the man calls a fig a fig)

I nearly cried tears of joy at the change of plans which included a Movie with the group.

I like to watch movies, but don't go out to see them often. I don't like that I can't pause the show and take a tinkle break or get some diet ice cream or chocolate bars. I don't like that I may have to share the armrest with a total stranger or hear/smell someone enjoying their last meal of popcorn..

(crazy knows it...just sayin)

I figured I could get over myself and my idiosyncrasies for a couple hour movie.

Anything would be better than kayaking.

My group and I got to the theater late and had to walk in with the movie already in progress.

I found myself leading the way into the theater.

In my own defense I will say that I had no idea my "night blindness" was so advanced.

Or that the stairs were so far apart.

Climbing mostly blind to the top seats of the movie theater had me using my foot like a red tipped white cane...tap tap tap... okay there it is, you can step now...tap tap tap....there is the next one... and the next and the next.

Even though I couldn't see my hands in front of my face, I'm quite sure lots of people (including my boss' boss) saw me go down on all fours like an ape to keep from tripping.

Next week the plan is to go fishing.

I'm not sure if I should pray for rain, or not...?

We can poke your eye out with a rusty screwdriver or we can poke your eye out with a rusty screwdriver...

Arrgh.

Walk a mile in my pumps (or just a foot or two)....

Ohhhh, my dogs are barking.

They've been barking (loudly and incessantly) for a couple of months.

Over these past several months I've developed a HUGE calf muscle (that sideways looks like really fat turkey drumstick) on one leg.... a result of trying to walk on the side of one foot.

All because of a really shitty, rotten and nastily foul foot aliment called Plantar Faciitis.

Another gift of (menopausal weight gain) middle age.

The saying "feet don't fail me now" had never even crossed my mind as mine had always been very very kind to me.... they were good and sturdy and able to carry me, plus 23.81 #'s (collectively at birth) of babies, an over- the- years steady weight gain all happily supported (usually) by some super cute yet totally un-sensable shoes... mostly heels (and high ones at that).

My feet rocked.

As good as my feet were fundamentally and structurally, they were not ever pretty to look at and have always caused me a fair amount of embarrassment.

Fred Flintstone flat... ruddy colored vienna sausage like toes...

Like putting lipstick on a pig the shiny bright nail polish and neat home-done pedicures were basically a moot point.

A waste of time and money.

Still though, as ugly as they were, they totally had my respect and my undying gratitude for their loyal performance(s).

Until lately.

Lately I want to chop the whole foot off and put an end to my pain.

I hate the mo-fo's....

Since I saw my doctor about my aching foot and the exercises he gave me to try didn't work I've had all kinds of fantasies about asking him for a referral to a foot specialist.

There are lots of em... one peek in the pile of colorful advertisements that come through the mail and in the Sunday paper will find that every other advertisement is for a "foot job" repair all done by a miracle man Doctor of Podiatry.

I was on the elevator the other day, on my way to visit my ailing father.

I entered on the ground floor with the intention of going up to floor number 7.

A man and another woman hopped on board and pushed the floor buttons.

She was headed to floor #2.

The man to floor #8.

I was going to seven.

I'm not going to sugar coat this.... I get elevator anxiety. I smell things, I hear things and I often stifle giggles (thinking almost automatically about an old Peter Seller's "Pink Panther" movie, see clip below, tee- hee) ...

I look around so as not to look around...kwim?

A ride that far in an elevator is usually excruciating (at best) for someone like me.

I notice (while NOT looking around) that the man is a doctor...a Podiatrist.

I almost want to take this opportunistic moment to ask him about my barking dogs.

Since the elevator appeared to be stopping at every floor I had lots of time to try and get up my nerve.

I glanced over at him and noticed that he was looking down.

It didn't matter who was getting on or off that elevator the doctor was busy with his eyes elsewhere.

I followed his stare and it stopped at my feet.

I wondered if he could just somehow "tell" that I had foot problems.

Were there telltale signs that an expert could spot...?

His gaze didn't appear official.

Maybe he was thinking about how goofy and ugly my feet were...?

My initial response was to hide my toes... the more he stared the more I tried to nonchalantly curl them up under my sandal straps.

The harder I drew them in and up the more I felt a charley horse cramp beginning to creep into the bottom of my bad foot.

Suddenly I got the feeling that this guy was a bit of an odd ball.

Suddenly I got the feeling that he didn't find my feet repulsive at all....

Suddenly I got the feeling that I was on the elevator with a Podiatrist with a foot obsession.

And not in a professional way.

When I stumbled off on the 7th floor I wanted to find a place to wash my feet... they felt dirtier and uglier than usual.

I'm not joking when I say I felt totally violated.



On a lighter note... (please turn up your volume and listen carefully)

What I did on my summer vacation....

My loveable load has lessened, so much so that at this very moment I only have one.

(poor kid)

He comes to me after the academic potion of his day and believe me when I say "poor kid".

Not much could be worse for a punk rotten kid than to have to play nice with a cray-cray old woman who loves to hear herself babble.

In an effort to keep ourselves busy and get something accomplished we started off making mini meatloaves.

I sent the loveable to the big kitchen to fetch some eggs.

This kid's ADHD is the WORST I've ever encountered so I often find myself breaking down chores and being annoyingly through in my requests..

"Please go to the large kitchen and get a half dozen eggs. Don't let the eggs fall on the floor. Could you take a bowl, so you don't have to try and carry all 6 in your hands. Please don't get lost in the freezer. And don't touch anything else in there. Walk, don't run in the kitchen, Miss Sue doesn't like it when we run in her kitchen"

He stops twirling in circles and looks at me.

I point toward the bowls, he picks up three different sizes, one at a time and says "this one?"

"what about this one"

"this one or this one"

"Pick a bowl kid, any bowl and go get the eggs" I advise.

He comes back with an extra egg and it turns out to be a good thing when he begins to juggle three and drops one on the counter.

"Good thing you had an extra one" I say "don't do that at home, luck will have you having just enough and then you won't be able to make your recipe"

While we gather ingredients to make the meat loaf mixture, he takes a momentary "time out".

With a large spoon he "stirs" inside the huge metal bowl, which is empty.

His actions make quite a racket, but not as much as when the bowl spins off the counter and hits the floor.

(the sound rattles the metal fillings in my teeth)

"Wow" I say "lucky for you that bowl is empty".

He smiles and nods his head.

He dances back and forth, hops on one foot, then the other as we put the seasonings and the meat in a pile in the middle of the big bowl.

Like a race horse ready to run he leans and gestures his body forward, it's evident he can hardly wait to dig his gloved hands into the bowl to combine the mixture.

"Be careful" I say "go slow" I caution.

He dives in, both hands, up to his elbows.

A blob of the meat flies out of the bowl and hits the ground.

Shit, I think.... you need to frickin S-L-OOOOOOOOOOOO-W it down kid, slow down, slow down.

"Stand still" I say as I go near his feet to gather the ground beef off the floor.

He backs up from the bowl to give me room.

He steps on my pinky finger.

His size 13 shoe makes an impression.

I wonder if my nail will turn black and fall off..?

A sticky clump of meat mixture falls from his extended hands.

It falls in my hair.

"I'm sorry" he says, then as I stand up he reaches to get it out.

"I'm good" I say, backing away from his meat covered gloves.

I pulled out as much of the sticky burger as I can and back to work we go.

I leave him alone for a minute to get a cloth from the back room.

When I round the corner entering the room I see him lifting up a volley ball sized hunk of meatloaf mixture high above his head. He was just about ready to toss that into the air when I yelled for him to stop. He jumped so hard he knocked over the plastic measuring cup.

It bounced off the floor and hit my shin.

The cup doesn't break... I'm not too sure about my shin bone.

"YOU OKAY?" the lovable asks.

"I'm (FLIPPIN AZZ) fine, I'm good, put the meat back in the bowl" I respond.

While I look at the recipe for a baking time he shapes the meat into baseball sized mounds.

I want to scream "STOP PLAYING WITH YOUR MEAT"...

but I don't because I've done that before and not had the best reaction.

We end up having a lot of class time left when I make the executive (saving both our azzs') decision to finish the meat loaf (MYSELF) in the morning.

What to do what to do what to do.

"Ever make cupcakes?" I ask.

I send him, along with 17 "rules" to gather 6 more eggs from the big kitchen.

He brings 7, just in case.

We use a box mix, I like to teach them how to read the directions figuring that this is what they will most likely bake at home.

I tell him to always read left to right..following the band across the top of the cake mix box showing the ingredients needed and how much of each.

He chooses to use brute force (instead of the scissors sitting next to him) to open the plastic bag containing the dry mix.

The bag pulls apart sideways and half the mix poufs into the air and into both our faces.

As I wipe up the mess I'm not paying attention when he says "One cup of oil"....

Just as he's about to pour it in it hits me that that doesn't sound right.

"Wait a minute" I yell...

Oil sloshes sideways and over the edge of the cup's rim when he jerks his hand back to "STOP" like I order.

The oil hits the counter and threatens to go over the edge onto the floor.

I mop up the oil watching closely while he finishes with the next few additions.

"Have you ever used a hand mixer?" I ask him.

I demonstrate even though he tells me he has.

"If you lift these beaters up out of this bowl and any liquid flies anywhere it shouldn't" I warn him..."you WILL be washing walls and where ever else it hits...understand?"

He promises he does.

And for a second or two he remembers, then he does exactly what I told him not to do.

The beaters lift and turn with his body when he tries to say something to me.

I catch most of the flying batter.

Only not with my hands.

He comes at me with the oil covered cloth and I duck and weave and tell him "thank you very much, but I'll clean my own face".

He doesn't seem dissapointed when I tell him that we have to wait until tomorrow to frost our cupcakes.

I'm pooped.

And dirty and sticky.

And done with this day.

Later a co-worker would gesture that I had something on my face. I wiped left. He nodded, then gestured right. I wiped right, he nodded again. "Under your eye" he said "and on your eyebrow". I wiped both spots.

"There's something really gross in your hair" he said, then added "only one kid today...almost like a mini vacation huh?"

"Yeah, something like that" I reply.

Photo of messy kitchen "borrowed" from foodieinberlin's blog

****** PS

I would like to thank each and every one of you who read this blog. I want to thank those who comment, your thoughts and kind words delight me more than words can say. I always think I should "comment" back... but I don't know if you circle back and look to see if I did...??? When I make a comment on a blog I never go back and see if the author replied... so I don't know if they did... I want you to know that I read each and every comment and smile every time I do... If you comment, please let me know if you circle back or not...? Either way, I appreciate you and I owe you big time for taking the time to comment... saves me some ching on a therapist..kwim?