tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83931960536878667592024-03-13T06:14:09.925-04:00The Devil Drove a Station WagonKelly Coleman Potter - authorAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.comBlogger140125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-32349233576415281952014-06-18T14:30:00.002-04:002014-06-18T14:31:20.757-04:00My break-up with Martha Stewart<span style="font-family: inherit;">
Do you ever make yourself crazy for no good reason? I did once, but then I snapped out of it. Okay, this is just one instance of self-imposed craziness. I wrote this column eons ago, but it's a nice reminder to stay grounded in reality. My towels still don't match. </span><br />
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***<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s Not Always a Good Thing</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kmart commercials are really beginning to grate on my last
nerve, and it’s not a good thing.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was seeing Martha Stewart relaxing in a bathtub on a
commercial for her new collection that did it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It crossed my mind I might get a little bit of pleasure from watching
her being dunked underwater in the tub.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Really, I do not wish her any harm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martha made a wise move when she collaborated
with Kmart to offer her line to the average consumer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am sure she took into consideration the
median income of a person in the U.S. was comparable to what she spent on fine
linens in the guest wing of her summer home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not always been anti-Martha, but the commercial about
her family preferring a certain dinnerware pattern for their favorite dishes
made me want to hurl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do her children
refuse to eat if their favorite dessert is not served in a green dish?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to watch her show, and I fell victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to emulate her artsy-crafty methods
on a budget close to 1/100 or less of what I imagine she makes a year.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would watch jotting down recipes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind the fact that I had to look up
what some ingredients were to even figure out where to find them in the
grocery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind the fact some of the
ingredients were not even available in Bluffton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was hooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
ready to turn old quilts into shower curtains, cook gourmet meals, and have
beautiful cats napping nearby as I harvested rare and exotic vegetables from my
garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d imagine inviting forty of my closest friends over for a
dinner party where we’d stroll about my beautifully landscaped yard, complete
with a fountain made from milk jugs and a windmill constructed from recycled
soda cans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We would laugh while I told witty stories as we sipped wine
aged in the cellar I dug as a weekend project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The wine of course was made from grapes I had grown and stomped
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We would walk through my orchard while I showed them the
exquisite peaches I would later make into preserves to present as gifts to my
guests. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, I would show them the
canning jars which I’d hand-blown from the glass I had collected in my spare
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After a scrumptious meal of delicate lobster I had trapped
myself, dipped in a succulent butter I had blended in my very own butter churn,
I would give them a tour of my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It would be immaculately decorated from pieces collected on
my journeys around the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would
tell them quirky little anecdotes about my favorite items and how they came
into my possession. If a clumsy guest broke a rare vase, there would be no
worries because I owned the last three known to exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would show them the breakfast room with the glorious
morning exposure, the table already set for breakfast the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would nonchalantly mention my family
absolutely enjoyed the red Fiesta ware that was so hard to find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thousands I had spent on it were well
worth seeing the smiles on their faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lucky for me, and our bank account, I snapped out of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who was I trying to fool?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t like I was ever going to take off for a weekend of antiquing
in New England, see a copper pot that cost more than my monthly house and car
payment combined and announce, “I must have that!” </span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was done pretending to be what I was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what if my towels didn’t match my shower
curtain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, what if my dinnerware
collection was the same I used for every meal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For a while, though, Martha had me convinced it was not a good thing. </span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My family is content with plates that are clean when I serve
them a delicious meal of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are also happy if there’s a dry towel
when they are done showering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t
heard any complaints that the towels are not made from Egyptian cotton in
soothing colors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While she may continue to create frenzy in others, I am well
grounded in reality now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The average
person doesn’t have the time or the finances to do what she does.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As far as I am concerned, it’s a “good thing” the local
Kmart closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About the time my family
asked for a specific dinnerware pattern with their favorite meal, I’d be the
weird woman picketing outside with a sign that said “Down with Martha.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-921651070068357912014-04-20T08:05:00.001-04:002014-04-20T08:08:45.180-04:00Here Comes Peter Cottontail - HIDE!<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The
words of the popular Easter song warning me that Peter Cottontail was hopping
down the bunny trail could send me into a fit of hysterics as a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t care if hippity-hoppity Easter was
on its way or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted that dang
rabbit to keep his distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I had a
love/hate thing with ole Peter Cottontail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I loved that he brought me a basketful of candy on Easter morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated that he would show up at the last
place I’d expect to see him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I am not
sure why this unjustified terror took hold of me, but I know where it
started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm not entirely sure it's unjustified. </span>Though completely accidental,
the deeply seeded fear was planted at Jack’s Surplus, a discount store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad called it Tokyo Jack’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess because most of the merchandise was
made in Japan, or maybe it was cheaply made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m really not sure, but I do know that was about my favorite place to
shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It never benefited me much to go with my mom
because she never bought me anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’d roam the aisles while I made mental notes on what I’d ask Grandma
Coleman to buy me the next time we shopped.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My
favorite section was the shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had
some of the greatest clogs anyone in Indiana could possibly lay eyes on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there were wedgies, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandma had taught me all about them because
while I might have shared my love of dogs with my grandpa and my love of
Spanish with my kindergarten teacher, Grandma knew a good pair of shoes when she saw
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
admired a pair of avocado green sling back wedgie clogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These shoes had it all, including a cork
heel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have to figure out a way
to get grandma to take me to Jack's. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom
was the best mind reader in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Never mind what they said about moms having eyes in the back of their
heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If my mom had them, she didn’t
need them because she somehow knew what I was thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she had a crystal ball and some scarves,
she could have been a gypsy fortune teller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
without the accessories, she knew what I was up to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Don’t
you even think about having your grandma get those for you,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re feet aren’t big enough, and you aren’t
old enough.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was
useless to try to clue her in on how grandma showed me that you could take a
piece of newspaper, ball it up, and put it in the toes of shoes if they were a
little bit too big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d done it all the
time when I played dress up in her things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
It wouldn't be long until I could wear a woman's size 5 1/2, anyway. Everyone said I was growing like weed. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I could
have made my argument, but a voice came over the speaker and caused me to stop
and listen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Attention:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Easter Bunny has arrived!” a cheerful
voice sounded throughout the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was
mom’s chance to lead me away from the shoes I didn’t need, but wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let’s go see the Easter Bunny.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t
know what the voice was so happy about because he was scarier than my mental
image of the devil who was going to load my parents up and take them off to hell since they didn't go to church (no dying required). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the storybooks
and cartoons I’d seen had made me think he was a cute and lovable sort who
hopped around his bunny trail delivering chocolate rabbits and jelly
beans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There
had to be some mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This guy was at
least 15’ tall and was wearing bibbed overalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His fur was matted and crazy like a cat with mange or a dog that was in
need of a good de-burring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Go on,
go see him,” my said and pushed me forward.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“No!” I
screamed and ran the other direction. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh,
c’mon,” my mom urged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
rabbit didn’t speak, but just stared at me with those huge hollowed out
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t threaten to kick his
big, vacant eyes out because someone had apparently beaten me to the punch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“He
won’t hurt you,” my mom continued to urge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
"Kelly Kay." </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Yeah,
that’s what they all say, I thought while my mom tried to coax me out from a
rack of polyester pantsuits, promising me we could go home. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The worst
part was that he was stationed by the cash registers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt him eyeing me with those huge empty
eye sockets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked like an Easter
zombie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept my eyes peeled should have make any sudden moves and leave his Easter area as my mom checked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I never
felt the same about Jack’s Surplus City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even when Grandma took me, she had to promise me that the Easter Bunny
wasn’t there before I’d even get out of the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even the love of fashionable shoes could
make me trust the place again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone
tried to convince me that it wasn’t the “real” Easter bunny that I saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, they said it was a man dressed up
like him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was just one of the Easter
Bunny’s helpers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t buying
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one who loved children and
delivering candy, and withstood the likes of Iron Tail in the cartoon would
send something like that to Jack’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t care and no amount of convincing was going to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not, nor would I ever, trust that
rabbit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Completely
unassuming of any impending jeopardy, I later found myself at church for an
Easter party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really didn’t want to
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have been happy to stay home
and color or play with my dolls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm sure my mom saw it as an opportunity for a break, so she loaded me up, and dropped me off. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A lady
used the feltboard and taught us about the very first Easter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She put up a picture of a cave with a big
rock against the doorway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But since it
was a good Friday for God, he sent angels to roll the rock away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This made the angels happy because Jesus was
his son, and had raisins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or something like that, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The details were sketchy, and I was too busy
wondering how they paper stuck to the board without falling off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That was
definitely something I needed, and I would ask Grandma C to get me one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe they had them at Jack’s, and I wanted
one badly enough that I would risk seeing that scary rabbit if it meant I got a
feltboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then again, maybe I would
tell Grandma to look the next time she was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The image of the rabbit who was a man
pretending to be a rabbit picked by the real Easter Bunny still haunted
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had planned on staying in bed that
Easter night, not taking any chances as to what I might see if I got up to get
a drink of water and go to the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Okay
everyone,” the feltboard lady said as happy as the voice on the speaker in
Jack’s, “We all have to hide now because the Easter Bunny is coming!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If there
was never a real reason to be afraid, I now had one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might have been a scaredy-cat, but
something told me it was bad news if you had to hide somewhere from
something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They
took us into the stairwell leading up from the church basement to the first floor and closed the
door behind us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hunkered down on the
steps to not risk being seen from the small window on the landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sure if the rabbit saw me that would be
the end of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something
translated in a most twisted way that day adding even more reasons to fear
Peter Rabbit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, he was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were hiding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why would we hide from him unless we were in
eminent danger?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not a good sign
at all, and apparently, my paranoia was just.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Easter Bunny was obviously wicked, as I had suspected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">An older
girl saw me crying and tried to make me feel better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me that there was nothing to be
afraid of, and unless she knew something I didn’t know, she had to be
nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the coast was clear, the lady
tried to lure me back to the basement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I wouldn’t budge, and had drawn a crowd of the other grownups, she
grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the last three steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did I have great mistrust for a
giant rabbit wearing overalls and sneakers, I came out of hiding for nasty
malted robin eggs and some jelly beans, which were disgusting, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As long
as I had no in-person encounters with the Easter Bunny, all was fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was torn, though, when Dad teased that
Toby, our sheep dog, might chase off the Easter Bunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t know whether to cheer on my dog, or be upset that I might not get my
allotment of chocolate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I never
watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here Comes Peter Cottontail</i>,
in the same light again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When </span>Peter
Cottontail was pitted against the evil Irontail, the nasty, mean rabbit that
sported a metal tail because he was ran over by a child on a tricycle, I no longer knew who to root for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Cottontail or Iron tail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmm, it was the lesser of two evils, and at
least Iron tail was supposed to be scary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The best
I could do was to stay out of his way, and I hoped that he would do the same
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t stop me from double
checking what month it was anytime we pulled up to Jack’s Surplus City or I was
sent to church for some sort of party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wasn’t taking any chances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-18062931283649968782014-04-10T16:36:00.001-04:002014-04-10T16:36:42.250-04:00On Bob Ross, self-published writers, and Richard Simmons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/LKvtmTfnZEo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-81550107965281668382014-04-07T10:50:00.001-04:002014-04-07T10:51:58.572-04:00Deserting the desert for home<a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Today, my husband and I celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary. In celebration, here's an excerpt from my book,<em> Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations.</em> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OSZTGFpf7Ao/U0K5tQTH0gI/AAAAAAAAALw/98LY-DS2bY4/s1600/image005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OSZTGFpf7Ao/U0K5tQTH0gI/AAAAAAAAALw/98LY-DS2bY4/s1600/image005.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s something to be said for being young and in
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could have been in the Arctic and it</span> wouldn’t have
mattered to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>North Pole, South Pole,
or Outer Mongolia - the destination didn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was eager to start my life with my soon-to-be
husband who was in the Army stationed at Ft. Huachuca, Arizona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
After driving 35 hours straight with my brother and his
friend who were 18 years old at the time, I arrived at my new home in the
middle of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Separated only one
month, I didn’t care that local stores sold t-shirts that said, “Sierra Vista,
14 miles from hell.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I
wouldn’t realize that the t-shirts weren’t kidding until the next morning when
the sun rose.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I headed out the door to get something out of the van
that night, he scared me to death when he yelled, “Don’t go outside without
shoes on!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I stopped dead in my tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Snakes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scorpions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toe-eating desert denizens?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it turned out, sand burrs were the reason.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Picture a cocklebur with very sturdy,
unforgiving thorns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was raised in
Indiana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I hate to fuel the myth
about barefooted hillbillies, I never wear shoes unless I am leaving the house
with the intention of getting into the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, the sand burrs made mosquitoes, poison ivy, and other bothersome
weeds seem like nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Later, I only had to extract one from my foot before I
relented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shoes were a desert
requirement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This made my feet sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my husband’s favorite claims is that
he bought me my first pair of shoes since I’m a Hoosier and all and still look
for the outhouse sometimes because indoor plumbing is a novelty to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In actuality, I started wearing the shoes I
already owned because sand burrs weren’t the most pleasant thing to pull out of
the bottom of my feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brown blades
of grass were the equivalent to strolling on a bed of razor blades, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shoes were a necessity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt sorry for a region whose inhabitants
never realized the divine feeling of shade grass beneath the bare feet and
between the toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t imagine
missing out on the ritual of sitting under a tree in the grass with a couple
friends talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In AZ, one’s rump would
not be forgiving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When the bright Arizona sun rose that next morning, not only
did it illuminate the sky, but also my view of where I was going to spend the
next three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t cry, but I
think it was because I was experiencing some sort of climate shock and my tear
ducts had yet to adjust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; page-break-after: avoid;">
<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My view when I woke up the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose it could have been worse, but I
sure never got used to seeing mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Indiana is rather flat.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My husband rented a house trailer before my arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buena Vista was the name of the trailer
park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name translates into “Good
Vista.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vista according to
Webster’s:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a distant view through or
along an avenue or opening; an extensive mental view (as over a stretch of time
or a series of events).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoCaption" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blazing hot
concrete patio was often covered with the tiniest grasshoppers I've ever
seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm surprised they didn't cook on
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I'm sorry, I can't leave
because I'm being holed up in my home because of a grasshopper militia."<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What an extensive mental view of the first place we lived
together as husband and wife it’s left me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t realize how bad Buena Vista really was back then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a very good thing I thrived on the
newness of being in love because it is not some place I would return to
willingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My first question once I walked out the door the next
morning was, “Why is the grass brown?”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You have to water
it,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Except during monsoon
season when it rains every day for a month.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During monsoon season, it was 120 degrees in the shade with
100% humidity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, these rains washed
the snakes out of the mountains into the valley where we lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, bears and mountain lions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, if the National Guard that came down
for their two-week training didn’t scare the latter out of the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hardly surprised when animal control
extracted a brown bear from a tree around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a nearby neighbor stepped on a
rattlesnake as she went to her next door neighbor’s house to borrow sugar
(honest to goodness, you can’t make things like that up) and was whisked off to
the E.R., I treaded lightly and considered getting some combat boots as a
precautionary measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It did not take long for homesickness to set in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only friend I felt like I had was the
maintenance man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heaven knows we saw
enough of him between plugged toilets, swamp coolers that blew hot air, and gas
leaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swamp coolers, I learned, put
moisture into the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know
what it was supposed to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only knew
it blew hot outside air at about 70 mph down that trailer’s hallway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, if I stood in the hallway, it blew the
sweat off my forehead as it beaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
aren’t kidding when they say it’s hot in the desert and that it’s a dry
heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was often hard to tell that I’d
sweated at all, except when signs of dehydration started to set in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, our swamp cooler was not putting
moisture into the air, hence the reason for the cyclone of hot air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once repaired, it helped cool things down a
bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except during monsoon season
because the air was already full of moisture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Buena Vista wasn’t so muy buena.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the plus sign appeared on a pregnancy
test, we put in for on-post housing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t care where it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could have been in the middle of the
firing range, and it had to have been better than Buena Vista and the trailer
from the late 60s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t miss my
neighbors to our right who seemed to have some sort of communal living thing
going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bid a final farewell to the
ones whose bedroom butted up to our bedroom at the end of the trailer after
many sleepless nights of overhearing their fights and making calls to the
police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Back home, I had friends and family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, I knew next to no one except a German
girl across the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes her
English left a lot to be desired, but we both were pregnant at the same time,
so we bonded over that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t seem
very homesick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so sad, and
jealous, when they were being transferred and she went back home to
Germany.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I missed sitting around in a
group with her and her German friends while they all spoke their native
tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I missed being told, “Stick
around us long enough, and you’ll be fluent in German.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing I was fluent in – counting
down how many days we had left in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">I felt as lonely as this lone cactus somewhere on the route
to Nogales, Mexico.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
August 30, 1992 was our departure date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do often wonder how different it might have
been if technology was then what it is now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Back then, there was no such thing as email, text messages, or even free
long distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe email existed
somewhere at that time, but I hadn’t heard of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I anxiously answered the phone those days as
quickly as I could with the hopes of speaking to someone back home calling to
chat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I relied heavily on letter
writing, which I loved, so that was one of the few advantages of living in the
dark ages pre-Internet and free long distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I suppose many sit around and have a good chuckle over the
first place they lived when starting out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While I think back and grimace, I do know there was one positive thing
about the experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If our marriage
survived Buena Vista, it can survive anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The decision to leave Arizona brought about our first fight
as husband and wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can stay,” I
told my husband who’d been offered a civilian job there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The baby and I are going home to IN.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a promise, not a threat, and he knew
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Several times a year, he reminds how close he’d be to
retirement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the wind chill is below
zero and the snow flies, he tells me it’s all my fault that we still aren’t in
AZ where it doesn’t snow enough to count and you can celebrate Christmas in
short sleeves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t take it
personally, and seldom do I come close to having any regrets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve been back in IN for over twenty years
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must concur with the infamous words
of Dorothy, there is no place like home. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-2790322332880287692014-04-01T19:39:00.001-04:002014-04-01T19:39:01.719-04:00Where did that come from? <span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been trying to post something at least weekly, but this week, our four year old granddaughter is staying with us. Spongebob. My Pretty Pony. Or maybe it's My Little Pony. I'm not sure, but she'll correct me when I get it wrong. Rainbow Dash. Paw Patrol. Big girl bicycles. Sidewalk chalk. Bubbles. Happy Meals. Fuzzy pajamas. Snuggles, cuddles, and hugs. We're having a great week, but I think she might be one of those new super breeds of children who require so little sleep. My kids napped up until the time they joined the Navy. As I went to sleep last night, I was reacquainted with that totally exhausted feeling that I hadn't felt since my kids were that little. You know, where you're just trying to stay awake long for bedtime. I haven't had the urge to doze off in the recliner for eons. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Anyway, here's an old, very old column from the archives of<em> Off-Kelter, </em>the column I wrote for ten years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love a good mystery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, I would rather get my fill of suspense and intrigue by reading
a book or watching a movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I
play amateur detective on a daily basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Objects disappear and reappear in the strangest places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Case after mystifying case, I am constantly
piecing together clues to try to figure out why these things happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have yet to completely rule out a gremlin
or poltergeist activity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will put
something down, and five minutes later, it is missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Entire gallons of milk have disappeared from
the refrigerator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An axe that I’m not
even sure was ours made a surprise appearance in the front yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The bathroom is a haven for oddities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never know what I will find lurking in
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine my surprise when I opened
the shower curtain to found two empty bottles of shampoo, a tube of oozing
toothpaste, and a bicycle helmet in the tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Several days prior, I had found the helmet on the bathroom floor and
tossed it into the toy box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Both boys had showered the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I had picked up wet towels and dirty
clothes, I hadn’t peeked behind the curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Befuddled, I pondered why the children were showering with toothpaste
and protective headgear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was certain
the shampoo bottles were nearly full, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have yet to solve that one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put the helmet away, and if it turns up in
the bathtub again, then I will have to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The mystery of the junk drawer remains the biggest unsolved
case in the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seven years ago, I
started out with one junk drawer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its
contents have now multiplied and migrated into two other drawers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things I didn’t even know I had seem to
surface.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could be wrong, but it is my suspicion that the junk
drawer is plotting to take over the entire kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have found screwdrivers, nails, receipts,
and hard candy mingling with the spoons and forks.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Laundry seems to be a universal perplexity, and it is
something I question more than anything else in this house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put clothes into the washer, transfer them
to dryer, and as soon as I turn my back, the unexplainable happens.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was matching socks when I came across one that would fit a
toddler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did it get in my
basket?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids had cleaned out from
under their bed earlier that week hauling four armloads of dirty clothes to the
utility room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it hadn’t been that
long since they had last cleaned under their beds.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not only this tiny sock made me raise an eyebrow,
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found a pair of size 3T
underwear in the wash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been years
and years since either child wore something so small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, there they were looking brand new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same day, my favorite black shirt came up
missing and has yet to turn up anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The greatest quandary without any explanation is missing
objects that turn up months later in a desk drawer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although closely related to the junk drawer
in the kitchen, the desk seems to be a refuge for things I need but cannot
find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mysteriously, these items turn up
later when I am scrounging for something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Right now, the left desk drawer contains some strange
things: a Christmas ornament my son made in 1998, a hairbrush that I’ve had
since I was ten, three rocks, assorted batteries, and literature for a computer
we used to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why these items reside in the right drawer is beyond me:
blueprints for a garden shed, pain pills for a dog that is now dead, the leg of
a broken plastic horse that is on the kitchen shelf, a sample bottle of Ortho
Weed-B-Gon, dental floss, a baby spoon, fifteen pen lids, and a thermometer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can bet anything when I need to take someone’s
temperature, or we finally are ready to build that garden shed, both will
vanish mysteriously.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but logic tells me I might
just find them both in the bathtub months later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /> You can follow me on Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kellycolemanpotter" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Kelly Coleman Potter - Writer </span></a><br /><br /> You can find my books in both Kindle and paperback format here <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/e/B00E9H3J6C/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Kelly's Amazon Page</span></a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-45359393566320335492014-03-26T16:21:00.002-04:002014-03-26T16:53:45.105-04:0010 Things.......that I'd either tell a daughter if I had one or lessons that I've learned being 40something. <br />
<br />
1. Actions speak louder than words, so put your middle finger down and be a class act. <br />
<br />
2. Don't pride yourself on being a bitch. Of course, you're probably going to be called one at one time or another in your life, but don't label yourself as one. Be strong. Independent. Headstrong. Stand up for what you believe in. Look out for your friends, family, and children, but don't make those qualities equate a derogatory term. <br />
<br />
3. Kids are going to do stupid things. It's what they do. They're learning. They don't know the things you know despite the time invested in trying to teach them to learn from your mistakes. Try to set a good example. Even the best parents in the world have kids that occasionally screw up. It's all part of the process. Remember how tough it was to be a kid at times? It's not always a reflection on your parenting skills. Well, not unless you handed the kid the scissors and told them to run with them. In that case, then yes, your kid's stupidity is because of you. <br />
<br />
4. It's probably always going to bring you a small amount of pleasure when you see someone who used to be incredibly thin get fat. As we get older, a whole lot of things impact our bodies beyond just having babies. Your time just might come, too, so be careful feeling too much amusement over the high school cheerleader seriously needing a Weight Watchers membership. <br />
<br />
5. Sometimes, people do get what they deserve, but if you're flinging around that word "Karma" and hoping that someone gets their just reward, you might get yours too putting out that kind of vindictiveness into the universe. <br />
<br />
6. For the sake of humor and entertainment, being a vodka-swilling mother probably isn't as funny as you think it is. Yeah, we all could use a drink every now and then after a kid has plugged the toilet, stuck a fork in an outlet, or announced in the grocery store check-out that the guy in front of you smells like poop. But, if you carry a flask in your purse to make it through a day of parenting, well, it's probably more concerning than endearing as far as motherhood goes. Yes, kids will drive you to drink on occasion. That's a fact. <br />
<br />
7. Cuss like a drunken sailor on shore leave or string together expletives like a trucker, but when it's appropriate. Like you're actually on shore leave or sitting at the wheel of a big rig or at a tractor pull. As with everything, there's a time and place. Some of the funniest, most engaging people I know have a knack of adding a small amount of profanity that brings a little something to conversation. Otherwise, you appear as though you have no manners, and believe it or not, that matters to some people. <br />
<br />
8. "Don't say anything you wouldn't want written on the wall beside you for all of eternity for anyone to read." I heard that a couple decades ago, and it's something I'll always struggle with. Think before you speak badly of someone else and realize not many people are capable of keeping secrets. <br />
<br />
9. There's a fine line between being opinionated and being an overbearing ass. Don't tell people what they should think. Don't try to change someone's mind even if it's something you're passionate about. People don't like subjects forced down their throats, and most times, they've made up their minds and you're not going to sway an opinion on more sensitive subjects. Appreciate diversity and listen to what someone else has to say. You might learn something. <br />
<br />
10. Be genuinely happy for the success of others. If you want your own success, at whatever you're doing, get busy and work for it. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-30796137784221407762014-03-24T14:35:00.003-04:002014-03-24T14:35:51.393-04:00Let me tell you....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/9n8DVh6pfHI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
...a little about my books.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-81968966180369716992014-03-17T16:07:00.002-04:002014-03-17T16:10:23.106-04:00Shamrock seeds and other shams<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was something mystical
and magical about all the talk of our St Patrick’s Day celebration in second
grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did the two teachers
deck out the classrooms in green and all things shamrocks and leprechauns, it
would be a weeklong celebration to build up to the holiday on Friday. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn’t just St. Patrick’s
Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was St. Patrick’s Week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wearing green to avoid a pinch played just a
small part in the lineup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one day, we
planted “shamrock seeds” by gluing a seed onto a piece of 8 x 10 construction
paper, and drew what we thought would grow out of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Anything you want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything you think might grow from this magic
seed,” the teacher instructed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She probably also told us to
use our imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t the only
kid who drew a green shamrock growing out of the seed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy who dipped his wand into the tub of
paste and then licked it drew one, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mine was better in comparison, but only by a little bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, I grew up on a farm, and if you planted
a kernel of corn, you got a corn stalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A green bean seed yielded a green bean plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Logic told me that if you planted a “shamrock
seed,” a shamrock would grow from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say
what they might, the seeds looked suspiciously like the little round things
that floated with the pickles my grandma canned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’d known it was a mustard seed, and what
a mustard plant looked like then, I would have drawn that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s not that I didn’t love a
class party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even better, was a class
party that took a week to prepare for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While the whole shamrock seed thing mystified me because it seemed so
silly, I became more and more apprehensive about what was going to go down in
the gym on Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On another day after noon
recess, our two second grade classes converged on the carpet in the back of one
of the classrooms to hear a story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
just any story, but a story about a leprechaun and his magical pot of gold that
could be found at the end of every rainbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t recall the name of the story, but the gist of it was that
leprechauns might possibly be a little less than trustworthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t like to be tricked because they
loved to do the tricking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were wiry
little characters that darted all over the place, appearing here, disappearing,
and reappearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one thing I took
away from that storytime on the rug was that leprechauns quite possibly were
evil and perhaps something to be feared.<o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Next thing I know, a
leprechaun was going to be on the loose at the school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teacher said he would leave us a treasure
map, and by following it, we could find the little green guy’s hidden stash,
just like at the end of the rainbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
pot of gold, maybe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all going to
be rich, and I couldn’t wait to spend my share of the ante.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I soon came back to reality, and the thoughts
of great riches were heavily outweighed by the notion that some little green dude
was going to be roaming around and possibly ticked off like he was in the story
we’d just heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teachers assured us
that we’d be safe – paste boy was apprehensive, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were on some strange St. Patrick’s Day
wavelength, and I only hoped it didn’t mean that we’d grow up to get
married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d be the wife of the boy who
licked paste, and even at that age, I had enough problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled to tell time and was told if I
didn’t learn, I’d have to take second grade over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had enough on my plate without mind melding with a paste eater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After being convinced that
the leprechaun would drop off the map and leave the premises, I could relax and
make plans with what to do with my riches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Toys and lots of candy probably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I couldn’t get enough of those candy necklaces or pixie sticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Candy cigarettes were good, too, and with
that kind of money, I could afford to throw away the ones that didn’t have good
cherries on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would definitely go buy a
new bicycle because it was downright embarrassing to be riding around on my
yellow and green one, complete with the less than complementing black and white
seat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our dog Toby had made lunch of my
original seat one day when I supposedly left it lying on its side and didn’t
use the kickstand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say he knocked down
the bike and munched on the once flowered seat that matched, but my mom said
there was no way he would knock down a bike.<o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I said if he would eat a
bicycle seat, he had the power to knock down a bike, and it obviously proved he
didn’t think clearly, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, a new
bike was in order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had some money
leftover, maybe I’d buy something for my brother and sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a big maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A leprechaun was visiting MY class, after
all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday arrived, and not
before my obsession grew with what I’d do with my gold and what I would do if I
spied the leprechaun roaming the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
teacher produced the map, which guided us around the gym, through the cafeteria,
and to the playground while we took such and such amount of steps – baby steps
– giant steps, until we arrived at our destination. <o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One girl ran up and snatched
the bag that was our treasure for following the leprechaun’s instructions on
the map.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teacher took it away from
her, and announced, “Well, let’s see what the leprechaun left us,” as she
slowly opened the bag building up the suspense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t know what a piece of gold could buy, but I’d seen the episode
of “Brady Bunch” where the old gold miner seemed convinced gold was worth the
big bucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think that show
would mislead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hardly contain my
excitement even though I still felt oddly distracted by scanning the distance
for any little dudes dressed in green with buckles on their hats and
shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pot of gold, huh? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teacher produced a piece of green candy
for each kid in second grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of
those little wrapped Brach’s candies like they sold at the Dime Store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One piece each for all 35 of us, at the
most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a rip off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One measly piece of candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That dang leprechaun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had he tricked us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teachers didn’t seem to be surprised that
we didn’t find his pot of gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
disappointment felt somehow collective among my classmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">excitement over the week for
this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some kids popped the candy into
their mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took mine home</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and fed
it to the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want anything
that evil, cheapskate leprechaun had touched, and if my </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">dog would eat a
flowered bicycle seat, he’d eat a piece of deceit-laden candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-86185120291271089762014-03-10T13:37:00.000-04:002014-03-13T11:30:21.714-04:00The greatest storyteller who ever livedI am now a grandma. Pardon me while that human tendency overtakes me, making me think I'm the only one who has ever experienced this. You know. Like people get when they first fall in love or have a baby, and all the newness and wonderfulness of it all makes other people want to dry heave. There's little more annoying to others, I know. I'll try to curtail it. <br />
<br />
My oldest son got married, and not only did I gain a wonderful daughter-in-law, but I also got a 4 1/2 year old granddaughter who sweetened the deal. We met her for the first time this past weekend. While some grandmothers dote on the little ones, almost taking credit for how beautiful, smart, and funny their grandbabies are, I have nothing to do with how beautiful, smart, and funny she is. But believe me, she's all of those things. <br />
<br />
She warmed right up to us, and upon the second day of knowing her Grandma Kelly and Papa John, she wanted to spend the night with us. Papa John was relegated to the couch, and the footie pajamaed sweetheart crawled into bed with me. As we lay there, it occurred to me that I'd spent many a night in that very bedroom with my own grandma. I practically grew up in the house we live in because it'd once belonged to my grandparents. My grandpa died when I was in first grade. My grandma welcomed my company, and my parents were more than willing to drop me off for weekend stays. There's never been a more perfect definition of a "win-win" situation. <br />
<br />
"Hey," I said to her, trying my best to get my point across to a little girl who'd been inundated by meeting a boatload of new grandmas and grandpas in less than 24 hours. "When I was a little girl, my grandma lived in this house. I used to spend the night with her, and we slept in this bedroom. Now, I'm lucky that I'm your grandma and we're having a sleepover, too."<br />
<br />
I think it probably went over her head just how special this was to me, but I told her about spending the night with my grandma, and about all the silly stories she used to tell me and all the fun we used to have. <br />
<br />
If you had asked me when I was a little girl, I would have
told you that my grandma was the greatest storyteller alive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess if you asked me now, I’d say that she
still was the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved to hear a
good story, but not from a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
was somehow cheating in my opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
I liked best was to listen to her tell her stories, whether they were ones she
made up to appease me or stories about her childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Tell me again about the hobos,” I’d beg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew which story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d start out telling me about the hobos
who rode the rails, stopping in Bluffton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She grew up a few blocks from the train tracks, and her two aunts
lived in the house next door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“How did they know which houses to go to?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d ask after she noted that her aunts always
treated them to a sandwich and a cup of coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“They talked to each other,” she explained they also often
left marks, signs that only the hobos understood telling other where to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They knew where to go to get a free
meal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My great-great aunts were Christianly school teachers, and fully
believed in helping the less fortunate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
I think they both married at the last minute just before the term spinster might be applied. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One had a child late
in life, a menopause baby if you will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He earned the nickname “Hatchet Jack” and became something of an urban
legend in our area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You might imagine my surprise
when I learned that Hatchet Jack, who chased necking teens away from the
cemetery when I was in high school, purportedly with a hatchet, was my third
cousin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m told he can tell you what
the weather was like on any day in the past fifty years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'd heard stories of him escaping from the psych ward in the local hospital, walking down main street in a hospital gown when he'd decided he wanted to go back home. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That element of crazy is the one thing that made my
grandma’s stories the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
tight lipped about a lot of things, but told just enough to pique my interest.
Her grandfather committed suicide by blowing his head off because his wife was
mean to him, or so the suicide note said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her sister, my great-aunt who did a tour of the state mental institution
along with their own mother for having “nervous breakdowns,” tried to throw
herself out of a moving car a few weeks before successfully parking her car in
the garage and going to sleep, never to awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was the cousin whose mom gave him three baths a day and wouldn’t
let him play in the dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was quite
sickly looking and pale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Germs didn’t
ultimately kill him, but the wreck where alcohol might have been a factor did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and one of the most scandalous was
Grandma’s cousin who lived in Kentucky who went swimming in the creek when she
had her period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I ate up our messed up family history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hobo story, though, was complete in the telling because
no one really went batshit crazy in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The other stories left a lot to my imagination.</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“One day,” she’d say, the anticipation almost killing me to
get to the best part of the story, “this bum showed up on the porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, they wouldn’t let them inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d make them wait while they fixed them a
bite to eat.” <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
They wouldn’t have dreamed of turning away one of God’s
hungry creatures, but they had their limits, I guess – Christian or not, they
had standards - no hobos allowed in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“And the coffee was too hot, right?”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Oh goodness, yes,” she’d laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That guy took a bite of his sandwich, and
then a big swig of coffee, and he burned his tongue.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I knew what was coming next, and it made me giddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So he got up, mumbling about the coffee, and
stumbled off down the sidewalk, muttering to himself that the coffee was too
hot.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coffee’s too hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coffee’s too hot,” I
chanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At my insistence, sometimes she
would demonstrate how the hobo staggered if the story was a bedtime one. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Why did he walk that way?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked even though I knew that the bum was “tighter than a new boot,”
which meant he was drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But since it
was one story that I felt like I was getting an entirely accurate account of
what happened, and not the “G” version, I loved to see how he swaggered and
staggered, tripping over his own feet down the sidewalk because that bum was
drunk as a skunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Grandma was an all around good gal besides being a great
storyteller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tolerated me in a way
that most other adults did not when I was a youngin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got bored with sitting still, she let
me dig through her countless pairs of shoes, and rummage through her jewelry
boxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was never finished until I
tried on the blue pumps with the tiny bow or the last pair of clip-on earrings,
and heard all the stories that went with them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she didn’t own expensive pieces of
jewelry, she had a few pieces that meant something because they were a gift
from a family member, or had belonged to someone who’d since passed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I ran out of things to model for her, we’d flip through
her photo albums and scrapbooks while she told me about her friends while
growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them had gone to Las
Vegas to dance in a cage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
understood why someone would want to be in a cage, let alone how you could
dance in one, but I admired the postcards with Las Vegas in big, block
letters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anna Louise had dated Johnny,
and they double dated with Grandma and Grandpa before they were married. She
showed me ticket stubs and told me about the dances they went to on the
lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pictured them dancing in the
sand in the dark, where men as big as giants played music because they were in
a “big band.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> (I now have these albums and scrapbooks in my possession, and I'll thumb through them and drown in nostalgia that's a mix of hers and mine.)</o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She taught me the words to songs that drove my parents up
the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d sing “The Thousand Legged
Worm” over and over again, never really being sure when the song was supposed
to end, so when I got to the chorus of “walk around, walk around, on the other
999, if it can’t be found, I’ll just have to walk around…” I’d take it from the
top, never knowing when to stop, but it was usually when someone said enough
already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I learned about my history – those I came from, and some who
went long before me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reveled in the
stories of the family secrets of suicide and those who were a little off their
rockers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I asked too many questions
she’d change the subject.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When your
daddy was a little boy…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I grew up, though, as kids do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had bigger fish to fry than spending the
night with Grandma and hearing made up stories about Harry the monkey, who got
into all sorts of trouble wearing ladies dresses and make-up after escaping
from the zoo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Many years have passed since I begged to hear about her
friend Babe Fox (how cool of a name is that?) or the time my dad tried to get my uncle to go down the laundry
chute. I remember the stories, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My grandma passed away in December 2005, and if you asked me now, I’d
still tell you that she was the best storyteller ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
And that's exactly what I told my granddaughter - that my grandma was the best. As we snuggled up and went to sleep, I hoped that I'll be the kind of grandma that would make my grandma proud. <br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-90279112170713125422014-03-05T10:40:00.001-05:002014-03-05T10:40:20.415-05:00Where You Can Find Me....I don't seem to find the time to blog much when I'm working on other projects. I know I should, but I don't. I'm going to make a concerted effort to do so. <br />
<br />
You can follow me on Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kellycolemanpotter" target="_blank">Kelly Coleman Potter - Writer </a><br />
<br />
You can find my books in both Kindle and paperback format here <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/e/B00E9H3J6C/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1" target="_blank">Kelly's Amazon Page</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-51373708728688803662014-03-03T19:56:00.000-05:002014-03-03T19:56:03.013-05:00Aye, Yi, Yi......we look like...cartoons!<br />
<br />
Remember Kidd Video on Saturday morning cartoons? Cousin Oliver, <a href="http://www.robbierist.com/">Robbie Rist</a>, from the "Brady Bunch" was on it. You can watch a video clip <a href="http://www.retrojunk.com/tv/videos/117-kidd-video/100/#intro">here</a>.<br />
<br />
There's nothing more to do with that. I just happened to think of it while I was aye, yi, yiing.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I like reading things I wrote when my kids were younger. I miss them. Sometimes. They're both in the Navy now, stationed away from their momma. After 22 years of being a hands-on, round-the-clock stay-at-home-mom, the silence is almost deafening. Of course, I focus on writing more than I ever did when they were underfoot, but I do miss them. I'll often sit here in the evening and it almost feels like someone should come barreling through the front door, full of life with an empty stomach, telling me about their day and asking what there is to eat. Don't get me wrong - I'm proud. So very, very proud of them. It's just that the empty nest isn't always what it's cracked up to be. Some days, it's absolutely heavenly to hear myself think and not pick up dirty drawers and dishes off the living room floor. Other days, well, I miss their presence. <br />
<br />
This happened about five and a half years ago, and it's the kind of thing I miss. The unexpected humor and interaction with my kiddos: <br />
<br />
My 15 year old walked in yesterday after football practice and presented me with a folded up piece of paper.<br />
<br />
"What did you do now?" I asked, sure that he'd gotten in trouble already for doing something senseless and utterly teenage-boyish. Undoubtedly, it was something that required my signature acknowledging that the school knows that I know what a heathen child I have raised.<br />
<br />
"Look what I drew," he sniggered.<br />
<br />
Now, it's been years since my baby has come home from school and presented me with artwork. As a matter of fact, he never brought his masterpieces home from art class. He'd throw them in the trash when he got back to the classroom, or stuff them in the bottom of his locker. Whenever the teacher deemed his locker as a health or fire hazard, he'd come home with a grocery sack full of crumpled construction paper.<br />
<br />
How sweet, I thought. He's giving me something. A bonding moment, perhaps. I was touched by the sentiment, but I can guarantee it was short-lived.<br />
<br />
I unfolded the paper, very unsure of what I might find.<br />
<br />
The kids went through a period of time where they loved to draw pictures of each other, typically doing something gross. The both had a penchant for doodling scenes of the other one farting. No, I never really got what was so funny about that either.<br />
<br />
Then they drew each other's socks, with vapors emitting and big holes, sometimes a big toe sticking out with a very nasty toenail.<br />
<br />
After that, it was funny to draw each other holding hands with a fat woman. They'd mark the woman as so-and-so's girlfriend.<br />
<br />
I don't understand boys. Never did, really. And, I guess it's fair to say I don't understand most men, but that's a whole 'nother rant.<br />
<br />
So, anyway, no idea what his crafty little self is offering me.<br />
<br />
There on the page is an elephant. I must say it was a decent drawing. A whole lot better than what I could do.<br />
<br />
I noticed the elephant is drinking something. Looks sort of like a paint can. I held it up and out from my face because well, you know, I'm seriously considering getting myself a pair of those reading glasses because my vision sure isn't what it used to be.<br />
<br />
I squinted a bit and read the label of the bucket, "ANTI-FREEZE."<br />
<br />
"Umm, why is the elephant drinking anti-freeze, or do I want to know?" I questioned.<br />
<br />
He laughed and said he didn't know.<br />
<br />
"Okay, then. Great. This will come in handy one day when the psychiatrist asks if there were ever any signs of you being mentally disturbed," I said.Oh, Pshawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14771017659464411499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-90773280568376689592014-01-28T16:08:00.001-05:002014-01-28T16:08:56.247-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-px8y_-KumzE/UugbmWacCrI/AAAAAAAAAH4/Iz96OK6dPvg/s1600/66990_10151930713073410_227311572_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-px8y_-KumzE/UugbmWacCrI/AAAAAAAAAH4/Iz96OK6dPvg/s1600/66990_10151930713073410_227311572_n.jpg" height="320" width="201" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Four-Never-Better-other-observations-ebook/dp/B00HZWLO88/ref=la_B00E9H3J6C_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1390942637&sr=1-2" target="_blank">Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations</a></div>
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My new book is up and ready for download for Kindle or any device with the Kindle app. Provided the Internet doesn't go down for another week (and what a long week it's been), it should be available in paperback in the next few days. It's only $2.99, so what are you waiting for? Go download it now! </div>
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<div>
Kelly Coleman Potter, once known in inner circles as Smelly
Kelly, doesn’t see things like most of us do. This could be due to the
nearsightedness that presented itself in third grade when she became known as
four-eyed Smelly Kelly, but it’s not. According to her high school Journalism
teacher, Potter has a unique perspective and outlook on life. She still doesn’t
know if that was a compliment or an insult – or perhaps, just a nice way to say
she’s weird. <br />
<br />
In this collection of essays, Four Eyes Were Never Better
Than Two…and other observations, Potter offers a candid look at the human
condition with tales recounting the past and present. From her younger days of
dreaming about being a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader so she could own pom-poms to
sex education taught by a Joyce Dewitt look-alike, Potter confesses all –
including the ironic account of throwing up on a dog named Ralph. <br />
<br />
No
stranger to embarrassment, she writes of cold sores that require an exorcism and
the torture that was seventh grade gym class, capturing the angst, humiliation,
and absurdity in those moments that often define us as individuals. Observations
include: desperation can make a person do some pretty stupid things like
answering a personal ad, hot wax is best left in the hands of a professional if
you value your lips, and nothing is so surprising as the man who claims to hate
dancing busting a move in a hospital recovery room. <br />
<br />
Even if you’ve never
had to admit in a public setting that you’re having your period, passed out at
the eye doctor’s office, or had an illogical fear of a lawn mower, Potter’s
self-deprecating wit and sometimes bizarre sense of humor will make you glad
these things only happen on sit-coms… or to her. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-7382901629072390032013-12-24T18:41:00.004-05:002013-12-24T18:41:50.807-05:00A Simple Christmas Reminder
This is the first Christmas since 1989 with no kids. This is also the first Christmas my husband and I will celebrate alone. Our oldest son was born a few weeks before the holiday the first year we were married. With both boys in the Navy, and unable to be home, I didn't even bother to put up a tree or lights. I picked up a couple Christmasy scented candles, a little holiday cheer in a bottle, and whipped up a Christmas Eve lasagna for the husband today. Tomorrow, I will roast the turkey he requested since we didn't have plans to go anywhere or do anything. <br />
<br />
It's eerily quiet. It seems like a million years ago when the kids anxiously awaited Santa's arrival. Or I thought I'd lose my mind trying to scrape together enough money for gifts or get everything wrapped. Each year, they'd put out milk and cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer (which I'd nibble on before tossing them on the sidewalk to look like the reindeer had grazed). Glitter would get tracked back into the house after they'd sprinkle "reindeer food" outside to attract them and ensure that Santa wouldn't fly on over our house. We'd spend half the night chasing kids back to bed while they peeked to see what was under the tree. <br />
<br />
I thought about this column today that I wrote many, many years ago about our first Christmas together. <br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing like a little panic to start the Christmas season
off right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A box, its entire contents
being all the Christmas ornaments, was missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I looked everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either I was
going senile, or they had been accidentally thrown away over the summer while I
cleaned out useless junk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While looking, I thought of the ornaments that have survived
cats, dogs, and tiny hands plucking them off the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "Ball?" a toddler would inquire before chucking a glass ornament across the room before "noooooo!" could escape my lips. </span>Many are special simply because the kids made
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thinking they were as good as
gone, it took all I had not to sit down and have a good cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, in the back of a closet, I found
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ornaments are easily replaced, but some could never be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every year as I hang the ornament that says
“Our First Christmas” on the tree, I remember that Christmas Eve when we lived
in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Arizona</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was my first time being away from home and
my family during the holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Homesickness set in, and the postpartum depression overwhelmed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent about as much time crying as I did
changing diapers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being sleep deprived,
the days blended together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our oldest son was born on December 7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I couldn't have asked for a better
early Christmas present, I was exhausted and on an emotional roller coaster
ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no gifts to give, and
that was fine with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a military
salary with a newborn, there wasn’t much money for anything but
necessities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Christmas tree, which
my Grandma sent, stood no more than a foot high.<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I was trying to convince myself that we were lucky to have
what we did…a warm home, a healthy baby, and each other…the doorbell rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an overnight delivery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened the package to find gifts for the
baby, and two $100 gift certificates from my husband’s family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Braving the crowds and traffic, we headed out
to shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went our separate ways,
selecting gifts for each other, several packages of diapers, baby formula, and
all the trimmings for a real Christmas dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once the colicky baby was settled in his cradle, I drifted
off to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I missed my family,
I felt better knowing there was something to give my husband the next
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slept soundly; it was
Christmas morning before I realized my husband hadn’t come to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Frantically, I jumped from bed sure something was wrong with
the baby since I hadn’t heard him cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The baby wasn’t in his room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
rushed to the living room to find my tiny newborn sleeping soundly on his
father’s chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a relief that
everything was all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Running on a few hours of sleep each night left me with
little energy to do much of anything, especially housework.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did what had to be done, but the dishes
were stacked to the side to wash bottles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Laundry set unfolded in baskets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Many things had been neglected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn't believe my eyes when I went to the kitchen to
start the coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was spotless, as
was the rest of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A note
hanging from the cupboard read "Merry Christmas!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I got all the dishes put away where
they belong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love you,
Santa."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between feedings, my
husband had done the dishes, cleaned, and folded laundry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know how I slept through all of this,
or how he kept the tiny cries from waking me.<o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I received one of the greatest gifts that Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There wasn’t anything he could have wrapped
and put beside our tiny tree that could take the place of a full night’s sleep
and a clean house on Christmas morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No monetary gift in the world could compare to what I was given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t need anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waking to a clean house and seeing my newborn
son sleeping with his daddy was all that I needed.<o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every year when I am feeling overwhelmed and frazzled
instead of full of the holiday spirit, I think about our first Christmas, and
how simple things were back then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
the shopping isn’t done, the gifts aren’t wrapped, and my to-do list is full of
a gazillion things, I try to remember that it is not the cost of the gift or
how it is wrapped that matters during this season of giving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am reminded the greatest gifts have no
price tag; they come from the heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">(I may miss that craziness just a tad bit this year, too.)</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-45037299394502088612013-12-16T07:49:00.000-05:002013-12-16T07:49:22.500-05:00Dolls and dogs don't make realistic babies
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When I was a little girl, I had one goal in mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, two if you counted my desire to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to grow up and have a baby. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I might have explored the cheerleading thing more if I could
have gotten in some good practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
try as I might, I couldn’t convince anyone that pom-poms were imperative in achieving
my goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What I would have given for a pair of those little white boots with tassels. </span>I asked my parents; I even
asked Santa Claus, but no such luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> Not that pom-poms or boots possessed the power to change my life, in retrospect. I've never been athletically inclined - which loosely translates into the fact that if it requires running, jumping, bending, throwing or anything remotely physical, really, I'm not good at it. Plus, my young body never exactly morphed into Dallas Cowboy cheerleader material. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I did, however, find ways to get hands-on experience for my main life’s
aspiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my baby sister was
born, I'd turned five years old a few months prior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We didn’t actually get off to a good start because my mom decided the day of
kindergarten round-up was the perfect time to go to the hospital to get the
baby from behind a closet door (because that’s where the hospital kept the
babies, after all).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, I became more
intrigued by babies as the days passed, and wherever my sister was, I wasn’t
far behind. <o:p> I needed to learn all I could about this mothering thing. </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While my sister was getting a sponge bath, I noticed
something peculiar about her belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a raisin on it, and I told my mom as much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughed and said something about a cord
and that it was normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never knew
babies were plugged in while in the hospital closets, so this was all news to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It piqued my interest even
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Thought, it didn’t take long before I grew bored following my
mom around trying to help take care of the baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was little satisfaction in watching
what she did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Occasionally, Mom would let me hold her, but mainly, my mom and I didn't have the same idea of what constituted help. Nothing would have made me happier than to change a diaper, rock her, give her a bottle, or even give her a bath in the sink. Thankfully, my mom had my baby sister's best interest at heart and didn't have a great amount of trust in my abilities. She trusted me to watch my baby sister to ensure she didn't roll off the bed so long as I promised not to try to pick her up and carry her. Beyond that, I wasn't getting much practice in this mothering thing. </span>I needed my own baby. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I loaded up an old purse with all the things a baby needed –
a bowl, spoon, bottle, blanket, and a roll of Lifesavers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, so the Lifesavers were for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dragged my diaper bag and favorite baby doll
wherever we went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the back of the station wagon, I nearly drove my mother
insane in my quest to be a good mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“What time is it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
asked.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Five minutes since the last time you asked me,” she
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I just wanted to know if it was time to feed my baby.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It seemed to me that it was important to stay on a schedule,
and since my baby didn’t cry to let me know she was hungry or wet, I had to
rely on my mom’s time telling skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I even talked my mom out of one of my sister’s diapers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It proved to be frustrating because back
then, diapers gave you one shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
you peeled back the tabs, there was no resticking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew even more discouraged that Mom
wouldn’t give me more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "Stop taking it off," she told me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">How could I check if the diaper needed changed if I didn't take it off? She didn't understand the importance of honing my mommy skills. </span>I finally
commandeered some diaper pins and cloth diapers, which wasn't hard since she was often distracted by caring for a newborn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom wasn’t too pleased when once
clean diapers ended up in the laundry soaking wet after I’d dipped the “soiled”
ones into the toilet like I’d seen her do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This baby of mine wasn’t nearly as interactive as I would
have liked. It wasn't one of those high-tech versions that cried, took a bottle, crapped itself from pretend food, or even said random things like "I want another drink of water" or "I'm sleepy." The winging it thing was mind-numbing. How was I supposed to know what to do next with no context clues? I did the next logical thing in motherhood training. I moved onto my grandparent's <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Chihuahua</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>He was nervous by nature like most dogs of his breed. He didn't necessarily need to be scared to shake like a leaf or piss all over the place. That came naturally for him. When he saw me coming with the doll
clothes and diaper bag, he wasn’t shaking because he was overjoyed at the
prospect of being the baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d swaddle
him and rock him, which did anything but comfort him because he'd pee all over his dress and
receiving blanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My grandma was a better sport than my mom, and she let me
handwash his delicates that he’d piddled all over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once he’d wet all the clothes I had that fit
him, I would release him from my clutches until his dresses and blankets were dry on my
makeshift clothesline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’d start all over again, and he’d pee all over the place
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It started to get a little like
work, and not so much like fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Who knew motherhood could be like that? I hoped most babies didn't nip at one's face while you sang "Rock-a-bye-baby." </span>When he
bared his teeth and growled at me while I was trying to teach him to patty
cake, I realized dolls and dogs didn’t make realistic babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d have to wait until I grew up, had a real
baby that cried when she was hungry, and hopefully, didn’t try to maul me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Of course, that was eons ago when I played mom. After raising two sons into adulthood, I suspect it's too late to go after that other goal of mine. That's likely for the best, and I'm okay with only obtaining one of my life's main goals considering I never learned to do a cartwheel. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-65507294683556733972013-12-09T14:01:00.001-05:002013-12-09T14:49:41.422-05:00Just the other day...at least six years ago<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just the other day, I was at a friend's house on a Saturday evening when I posed the question, "What's behind that door?" Sitting on the couch, I suppose I'd never noticed the door in the living room and where exactly it led. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the way, "just the other day," can mean last week, last month, or five years ago. I'm guessing this experience was closer to six years ago. This is what happens when you get a little older and seasoned. Months turn into years, which turn into decades. Ask me what happened in the 90s or early 2000s, and it is sort of a blur of memories. Once your kids start walking and talking, go off to kindergarten, get their drivers' licenses, and graduate high school, those milestones are further and farther in between, and it's hard to remember if it was 1998 or 2008. Hell, it might have been 1989. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, I digress, which happens a lot, too, once you are over 30something. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Oh, it's a closet
full of crap. Mainly stuff that we moved here seven years ago or
so." She opened the door, and sure enough, there was still stuff
packed in boxes. She reached for the top shelf to show me an old Barbie
lunchbox and a few other cool things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was hardly fazed by the fact she had unpacked boxes in the closet. My grandma was a hoarder extraordinaire. I personally have a tendency to hold onto crap that goes untouched for long stretches of time. It's sort of like having mini-time capsules all over the house. I go looking for a turkey platter and find the first pair of Mickey Mouse shoes my kids wore, a dried up corsage from prom, and a cancelled check from 1995. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I wonder what's in
this box," she said pulling it out of the depths of the closet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She began digging through it, and it was almost like Christmas morning to me. Other people's boxes of junk are nearly as exciting as unearthing my own. Strangely enough, she found a letter written by me dated Oct. 4,
1991 when I was living in AZ when my husband was in the
Army. She was clueless how it ended up in the box considering she'd moved at least three times since the letter had been written. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She read the letter
aloud, and I was waiting to cringe over my young thoughts and ramblings. I
was only 22 at the time. I didn't cringe, though. I did giggle a
few times to realize that my sense of humor was very much intact back
then. Proof of it was a discussion of when I'd be visiting my in-laws,
and when we thought a trip there might be more enjoyable. The latter was
followed with the line, "If a trip there can be enjoyable." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The letter recounted the
fact that my oldest son, then about ten months old, was suddenly waking up in
the middle of the night. I called the pediatric clinic at the Army post
hospital, and was told by the nurse that it wasn't normal, and that he should
see his pediatrician because he could have psychological problems causing him
to wake in the night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At least I was smart
enough to call the same Dr.'s office off-post, and pose the same
question. The nurse there told me that yes, it was quite normal, and no,
it didn't mean I was raising a child with mental problems, and to not
worry. As long as it didn't appear he was sick with a cold or flu, he
should be fine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It also strikes me as funny because with my second child, I wouldn't have even picked up the phone to inquire about his new sleeping habits, or lack thereof. I probably would have figured if he wasn't sprouting vampire fangs, it was a phase he was going through, and not morphing into a creature of the night, with or without psychological problems. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It did make me recall what seemed at the time some really horribly scary things I endured at the mercy of a military hospital and
its doctors. The first time I went in pregnant, they wouldn't take
my word for it. "I need to make an appointment because I'm pregnant," I told the nurse at the desk. She essentially told me that I wasn't pregnant until they took a urine or blood test to confirm it. I succumbed to a pregnancy test, and then and only
then, was I pregnant. I wasn't pregnant until the Army told me I
was. It didn't matter that I'd taken my own test, twice just to be sure,
or that I was so nauseous that certain smells sent my stomach churning. Obviously, projectile vomiting down a hallway in a house trailer proved little in my argument that I had no doubt I was with child. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They scheduled me for blood work after I returned to the same desk to get the test results. "Congratulations, Mrs. Potter, you are indeed pregnant." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had to curtail the urge to respond with a, "No freaking kidding?" </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I took my seat in the little white room, and told the Lieutenant dude also dressed entirely in white that I'd never had
it done before. I was a little scared, and didn't really know what to
expect. He said, "That's okay. I've never done this
before, either." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He had jokes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I guess he realized I
didn't see much humor in his attempt to be funny, and told me he was only
kidding. Well, duh. He finally hit a vein during his third
attempt. "Seriously, if you don't get it this time, I'm going to have to go home and come back another time. I'm not feeling so good." I knew from the eye doctor incident when I was fitted for contacts and slumped over the edge of the chair after my ears started ringing what was going to happen next. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I left bruised and dizzy with the knowledge that I had really
deep veins. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was 1,863 miles away from home. Operation Desert Shield would soon become Operation Desert Storm. I knew my husband could be deployed at any time. I knew next to no one in the depths of hell that was the desert. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it was one of the scariest times of my life. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The fun and games wouldn't end there, though. The topic of Rh factor came up with my doctor, "Duck Kwan Oh." I kid you not. My doctor's name was Duck. He
told me around the 26th week of pregnancy that I needed to go have more blood drawn because
of the Rh factor because I have a negative blood type. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, it wasn't like I
could just pull up the information on the Internet at the time. And, I'd
read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy. The library was
one of the few places I'd venture alone, and I'd checked out everything I could
find. There was very little mentioned about the Rh factor, though. I'm sure if Google existed and was readily available then I could have had a million search results about the subject. Instead, I asked around. </span><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One well-meaning, and
yet very ill-informed friend told me that she thought they had to give you the
shot through your belly button if you had the Rh issue. Seriously, a shot in the belly button. Oh, hell no. Count me out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I asked my doctor
Duck about it, he said, "Yes, you get shot so the baby no
die." Okay, so maybe his English wasn't that broken, but it was darn
close. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I came home in tears,
and remained in tears until my husband got home. He promptly called the
office and got to the bottom of it, and finally, I had an explanation beyond
"shot means no dead baby." It was terrifying. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another experience I
remember is being told that my baby around the age of six months was obese, and
that he would have problems crawling and walking. This was because he was
off the charts for percentiles in his height, weight, and head circumference.
But, he showed them wrong. He did everything he was supposed to do, all
right on time. I did fret many a night that I had a fat baby, though, and of course, it was all my fault because I was a bad, bad mommy. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While I reminisced about those days in the desert, my friend continued to dig around. In the same box that she'd scrounged the letter, she found some stuff she'd brought home from the
hospital when her son was born. "See, I told you it was all crap
that we moved here and never unpacked." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Let me see that
stuff," I said. I dug through the bag, finding samples of baby
detergent, dish soap, and some cream for lactating moms. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What's this?" I asked, never having seen anything like it before. I learned it was something new
after I had babies who latched onto my mommy parts, and that it worked really
well. Who knew some ingenious sort would invent an ointment to soothe nipples. Well, besides what you can buy at farm or rural stores called Udder Ointment meant for the bovine and swine population. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We also found her
discharge papers. "You got Darvocet? What the hell? Man, I got an
extra-strength Tylenol and no cream for my nipples. Sheesh. I'm
surprised they didn't have me squat in a corner and go back to the fields the
next day." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ahh, the memories of
having a baby. I did enjoy being pregnant, but it seems like a lifetime
ago when I worried about my pregnancies and the babies. At that time, I'd come to terms
with the fact I was too old to have another go at it, and I knew there was some
reason that I was content with having two kids who would be off and on their
own before too many more years passed. (Those years did pass, and they are both out on their own in U.S. Navy. One is married with a four-year-old step-daughter. It's all good.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However, as we continued to go through her stuff, I found something
that almost made me change my mind and want another baby. Some gift bags that had been folded
carefully, and stowed away. I opened one up, to be sure there wasn't
anything tucked inside. There wasn't, but this smell of baby wafted to my
nostrils. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What in the hell
are you doing?" my other friend who was there, mainly sitting back watching the two of us, asked. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"This bag smells
like baby," I said and deeply inhaled again. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No way," she
doubted.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I'm telling
you. It smells like newborn baby. The powder, the lotion, that new
baby scent." </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like
a druggie, I took another toke, and passed the bag around like we were sharing
a bong. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Had anyone seen us, they'd seriously wonder if we were the ones
with psychological problems and not my son who had stopped sleeping through the night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-4979736431651091742013-12-07T13:12:00.001-05:002013-12-07T13:12:25.428-05:00Amazon Kindle Countdown Deal - 99 cents! Get it now! Great 99 cent deal! Get it before the price increases to $1.99. It's a great read for moms of any age. The short column format makes it a great book for moms to pick up and put down - while waiting in the car for kids at practice, those few minutes of reading before bedtime, or even those few moments alone in the bathroom. Full of humor and observations about parenting we've all had that have driven parents to just this side of the looney bin. Know a mom with a Kindle, Apple or Android device? It can be sent as a gift. They don't have to know you only paid 99 cents. (The Kindle App is available so you don't have to have a Kindle to enjoy this book.) <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WyOS6xVxruI/UqNkZba_9YI/AAAAAAAAAHc/NUTUlXZOjuk/s1600/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WyOS6xVxruI/UqNkZba_9YI/AAAAAAAAAHc/NUTUlXZOjuk/s320/image001.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
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Nod sympathetically if you’ve ever… <br /><br />…extracted a gum
wrapper from a toddler’s nostril, but sought medical treatment when it came to a
piece of a colored pencil lodged deeply into an ear canal. <br />…punished a child
because he wouldn’t stop taunting his brother with a Peter Frampton album.
<br />…played a rousing game of “What that’s funky smell?” only to discover what
might be a petrifying bologna sandwich behind the recliner. <br />…needed a
prescription for a tranquilizer when your firstborn started driving. <br />…spent
any amount of time trying to describe why a Sleestack scared you, why you wanted
to marry the Fonz, and who Mork from Ork was. <br />…installed a security system
to keep a three-year old from going on the lam with his beagle, and pondered if
it were possible that both of your children were reincarnates of Harry Houdini.
<br />…wondered how a child who once emitted the sweet scent of newborn now puts
off an odor that could make a skunk feel inadequate. <br />…ever rambled
incoherently, “These kids are going to drive me to drinking,” or something about
a frontal lobotomy. <br /><br />If you nodded like a bobblehead, chances are you’re
a parent - or you’ve got some really strange hobbies. A Little Off-Kelter…the
parenting years is a collection of forty columns that originally ran in print.
(Hey, the compilation thing worked for Ronco and K-tel, didn’t it?) Whether the
kids are underfoot or have flown the nest, moms and dads alike will relate to
these humorous tales of woe and wonderment.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI">http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-22385385836880032682013-12-06T09:35:00.002-05:002013-12-06T09:35:24.377-05:00Take a look and listen<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/YSy2aTbfMbs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-71854471584600063732013-12-06T09:00:00.000-05:002013-12-06T09:36:06.755-05:00Herbert Did It!<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I first heard the story about George Washington
and the cherry tree when I was in third grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>According to the teacher, George was a young lad when he received a new
hatchet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking around, he spotted a
cherry tree, and without thinking about consequences, he gave the tree a good
whack.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When George’s dad saw the fallen tree, he put
two and two together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, he knew
his son was likely the lumberjack guilty of the crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our teacher paused here, asking the class
what they thought happened next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hands
flew up into the air. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few theories of the class:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He ran away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He hid the hatchet under his bed and said someone stole it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said a stranger cut it down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said a big gust of wind blew it over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The consensus was that George probably lied
so he wouldn’t get in trouble, but as the teacher continued the story, most of
us were shocked.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I cannot tell a lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chopped down the cherry tree," he
confessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teacher suggested that
George didn’t get sent to his room or even in a bit of trouble because he’d
told the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a group, my class really didn’t grasp the
lesson about being honest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Days later,
we spent an entire afternoon recess sitting at our desks, heads down, in the
dark while waiting on someone to fess up to stealing an apple from our
teacher’s desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I didn’t know the
term irony then, it was ironic the connection between an apple and the apple
tree story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One at a time, we were called to the teacher’s
desk to shed any light we might have on the missing apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mystery was never solved, and thankfully,
recess was later granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While watching a morning news show, I was
reminded of the apple incident when they did a segment on why people lie,
especially kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly, all kids
begin to lie around the ages of 3 to 5 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s actually a developmental step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a common timeframe for imaginary
friends to crop up, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Who got into the cookies?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked my then very young sons.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I didn’t do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That other boy did," one replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What other boy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your brother?"</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No, that boy Herbert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Oreos are his favorite," he replied with cookie crumbs on his
lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unaware of any child with that namesake in our
household, I figured out that Herbert was imaginary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I escorted Herbert to the front door, helped
him zip his imaginary coat, and sent him on his way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Sorry, Herbert," I told thin air,
"You can’t be around here if you’re going to eat all the cookies without
asking."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All was good until
Herbert’s brother showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strangely
enough, he wouldn’t tell his name, and he had a penchant for M&M’s.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once the imaginary friend isn’t a reliable
scapegoat, a child will look for a real, live, in the flesh person to blame.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Did you write your name on the
wall?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked our oldest son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew he did it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only two of us in the house with opposable
thumbs knew how to write. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I didn’t do it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did it!" the oldest professed while
pointing to his baby brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same
two-year-old brother who wasn’t allowed to use crayons just yet because he
tried to eat them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After some slight
prodding, he admitted to writing his name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All children tell lies, and my children are no
exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they grow older, they
learn the difference between reality and fantasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least as parents, we hope they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Much time has passed since Herbert visited and the wall sported a name
scribbled by a preschooler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children
grew and understood the importance of honesty and not breaking trust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For years, I looked at the wall that I tried
to clean with everything imaginable – nail polish remover, rubbing alcohol,
stain removers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until I got a
"Magic Erase" that I was able to remove the crayon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>And, like George Washington, I cannot tell a
lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss my son’s name on the kitchen
wall – a reminder that my kids were once little ones</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-10403403728840986212013-12-05T11:14:00.003-05:002013-12-05T11:15:59.759-05:00A Date with Blind Stupidity<em>The following is an excerpt from my next book Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations, which will soon be available in paperback and digital format. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
We have all done some really stupid things in our
lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are things I didn’t think I
would ever live down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is bad enough
that occasionally one of my friends will throw open a closet door and let a few
of my skeletons creep out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even worse is
the fact that I kept a journal for the majority of my teen years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several years ago, I decided to type all
these journals to the hard drive of my computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What compelled me to do this is beyond
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cringed as I typed my teenage
thoughts and actions. But, I didn't stop. I just kept right on typing. <o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The thoughts were more like obsessions over the boy I
happened to find cute at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
know it’s perfectly normal for girls to have crushes on boys, but at that point
in my life, my words read like a diary of a fat girl/cliche memoir/rant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I was chubby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I had thick, huge glasses and acne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why I wanted to write down my thoughts and
feelings for posterity, well, I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe they serve as a reminder that I survived those teenage years,
maybe slightly scarred and somehow better for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hat could be a stretch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I thought I saw ‘him’ looking at me today,” I wrote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, he probably was looking at me because
he got that uncanny feeling he was being stared at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Maybe I had a booger. He could have been admiring my sweat stains. I'd get so nervous at the prospect of being called on in class that I'd sweat profusely, no matter how much antiperspirant I slathered on that morning. Boys were only friends during this time, but I always held out hope that one would like me. Well, one besides the one who looked and walked like Frankenstein's monster and rocked a greasy mullet. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Nonetheless, as a parent now, those aren’t the most painful
recollections to recollect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As most
young people, I made some poor decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of which I would like to completely forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, thanks to having my own words but a
click of the mouse button away, it is a little harder to overlook those "what the hell was I thinking?"moments.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
From top speed adventures in cars to tromping through
graveyards after dark, it amazes me that I am still alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cringe while reading about late night
jaunts down Ft. Wayne side streets being driven by curiosity, and possibly a
teenage death wish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d heard you could
see hookers on a certain street, and who doesn’t want to see a hooker?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, off we went to see if it were true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what we might have done if we’d
seen an actual prostitute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm not entirely sure we'd have known one if we did see one. I was in my 30s and in New Orleans when my husband pointed one out to me, and she sure didn't look like my vision of a working woman. No fishnet stockings or nothing. </span>I guess we
didn’t think it all through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than
bragging rights, oh heck yes, I’ve seen a hooker before, there really wasn’t
any motivation other than being dumb asses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
returned home, sans a hooker sighting, and I wish I could say that was the last
time we ventured through that seedy neighborhood, but sadly it was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
By the date of the journal entry recounting the evening that
marked my ultimate stupidity, I was about nineteen years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After discussing personal ads and being dared
by a friend, I scanned the newspaper looking for the ideal mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe the challenge put to me was, “You
would never do something like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’re chicken.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> Yes, I might have been chicken, and probably a little desperate, too. I'd dropped some weight. Made the switch from thick glasses to contacts. My acne wasn't nearly as prominent as it had been, yet, no boyfriend. </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It never occurred to me that perhaps someone might be a
little on the desperate side to take out a personal ad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yes, I suppose that's ironic because likely only someone a little desperate would answer one back in the day pre-Internet. </span>It also never came to mind I could have ended
up dead in a ditch because most teens do believe they are somehow immortal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, I was not
found shackled in a pit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could have
been the making of those movies of the week they used to show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, it could run on Lifetime for Women as a cautionary tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This young man and I spoke on the phone several times, and it never dawned on
me that even giving a stranger my phone number might not be the wisest move I
could make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He seemed nice enough. He described himself as blonde with blue eyes and much taller than he actually turned out to be. He had a good job, bragged about his new Chevy Beretta, and said he liked Mexican food. </span>Though quite naïve, at least
I was bright enough to meet in a public place, a restaurant in Ft. Wayne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Nowhere near the purported hooker sighting
area, either.)<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With a great amount of optimism and nervousness, I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early. And I waited. The first strike against him was the fact that he was
late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat alone waiting for nearly
twenty-five minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he finally
arrived, he said something along the lines of, “I recognized you immediately
because you said you would be wearing a pink sweater.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I had mentioned nothing about wearing pink, and in fact, the
sweater was peach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "I'll be in a peach sweater and jeans," I told him. </span>He was obviously
confused, and perhaps colorblind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Honestly, I tried to give the guy the benefit of the
doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He mentioned working a lot, and
that his coworkers had encouraged him to place the ad<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough person,
but his eyes never left either his shoes or his plate while he spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did my best to make conversation over our
burritos and nacho chips, even though I knew he wasn’t my soulmate and was
never going to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I like people in
general, and maybe if he ever made eye contact, we could’ve been friends at
least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to be unfriendly or
rude to him.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I realized halfway through dinner that he would answer any
question I had with a simple “yes” or “no.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He wasn’t exactly one to elaborate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a challenge offering him multiple-choice questions just to keep a
conversation going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "Where did you enjoy living most and why?" "What is it you like most about your job and why?" </span>I felt like a
lawyer, and he the person sitting on the witness stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strike two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
After we ate, we stood outside the restaurant saying
good-bye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood holding my take-out
box of leftover chicken nachos, kind of glad an inanimate object took up the space
between us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t worried necessarily
that he might make a move because he wouldn’t even make eye contact, but
stranger things had happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt
fairly safe from shackles, a ditch, or even a peck on the cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is when he made his proclamation that I
was one for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While staring at the
tire of his car, he told me that he saw no need to call any of the other girls
who had answered his ad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This terrified
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> One evening of staring at his plate, and he was ready to date exclusively. He tried to pencil in two dates before the following weekend. </span>Strike three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
From the pages of my journal, I had written:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I had a date Friday night with a guy from
the personals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was awful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had sounded like a nice guy at the time on
the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked me out for one night
this week, and then for the next weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I told him to work on his fifteen other responses because he just never
knows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know he was disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me that I was nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also said I looked nice, and he blushed
while he said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he gave me his
business card.”<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I drove home that evening, I could only shake my head
wondering what I was thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still
don’t know the answer to that question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p>I do know one thing, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I kept those journals hidden from my children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that they probably needed any help coming
up with their own their own crazy adventures, but I didn’t need them getting
any ideas from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p> </o:p></div>
I know I often treat making stupid choices and doing dumb things like a profession. This is not a new revelation to me. One observation is - d<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">o you know how you’re
getting old?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you realize you could
have ended up dead in a ditch and still cringe twenty-five years later. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Oh, the stupidity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-79185605083829683682013-12-03T21:24:00.000-05:002013-12-03T13:45:54.530-05:00Diff'rent Strokes and SuchMy head hurts and I'm mentally and physically drained. I'm not complaining. Just stating a fact. I'm also watching <em>Diff'rent Strokes </em>on Antenna TV. <br />
<br />
I woke up this morning at 5:50, and for a refreshing change of pace, I only lied in bed for twenty minutes checking out Facebook posts, and my usual morning check to see if I sold any books overnight. I always hope to be astounded that overnight the book fairies have orchestrated some fantastic advertising for me, and I'll discover that I moved up into the top of the charts on Amazon. It's yet to happen. Damn fairies. <br />
<br />
In some ways, I'm grateful that I was compelled to make a run to the store to get cat food and some cleaning products before I got sucked into rewriting or time squandering. I'd carried the bags in, gave the dogs their treats (heaven forbid I come home without a prize for those three....and I thought my kids were spoiled back in the day getting their surprises), replenished the cats' bowl, and realized I didn't have my cell phone. <br />
<br />
There was a text from a friend letting me know that my step-sister had lost her battle with cancer and she didn't want me to read it on Facebook, even though she felt it was a crappy way to tell me in a text. It was nice she was thinking of me. To make a long story short, my sister (that's what I'd always considered her even though our parents are no longer married) was diagnosed with breast cancer some years back. It seemed at the time the prognosis was really good because they'd caught it early. They knew to look for it because she'd lost both her mom and grandma to the disease. <br />
<br />
The cancer had returned sometime after the first of the year, and it just wasn't good. Those damn cancer cells migrate through the body, and it's my understanding, it can take years for them to show up again even with regular testing. She'd spent a good portion of the last almost three months in the hospital, coming home for only a few days before returning. Family was called in about three weeks ago as they thought she was fading fast. She continued radiation for pain management, and was moved to a continuing care unit. <br />
<br />
Her mom died when she was in sixth grade. It wasn't too long after my mom married her dad. She and her brother were whisked from their home and moved in with my step-dad and mom. I never saw her cry, and mainly we were instructed to be nice because she'd just lost her mom. No one talked about it, and I suppose I didn't know what to say. I do remember her listening to a taped recording of her mom singing, "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah." It creeped me out a little because at that time at the ripe ole age of 15 or so, I didn't understand that she wasn't listening to a dead woman. She was listening to her mom. Looking back now, it was sweet and her way of coping with the loss. But wow, she was strong even then. And, I suppose when you lose a parent like that and life as you know it is turned upside down moving into someone else's home, changing schools, and not having your mommy, well, some people do adapt and become strong. I don't know how she did it, in retrospect. <br />
<br />
She certainly was one of those people. <br />
<br />
This post clearly has nothing to do with <em>Diff'rent Strokes, </em>consequently, but is a disjointed rambling attempt at something. <br />
<br />
She was a fighter and tough. Through my tears and grief today, I wanted to crawl into bed, have a good cry, and go to sleep, despite the fact the world was still revolving and life was taking place around me. My oldest son will be home on leave from the Navy next week. I've got a billion things to get done. I have a book project in its final stages of proofreading that is just screaming to be uploaded to Amazon and CreateSpace. I didn't, though. I tried to attend to what was needed of me today with happy memories of those younger years growing up with my step-sister. <br />
<br />
People move on all the time to whatever lies beyond for us when this life is over. Others will stop, reflect, decide life is too short, and oftentimes, it's a fleeting thought before we're drawn back into the daily grind of life. We get caught up in what is going on right in front of us, and we forget those feelings brought on by grief and mourning. I personally know that sometimes a death of someone, and it doesn't even have to be someone close, can propel us into creating and reaching a goal. When a classmate of mine died at the age of 30 from melanoma, I decided life was too short to lollygag and landed my weekly column that I wrote for ten years. <br />
<br />
Today, I've been thinking about what a complainer I can be even when I'm not solely stating a fact. I can be so impatient, easily annoyed when others get in the way of what I'm trying to accomplish. My struggles are hardly comparable to what some people go through on a daily basis merely to survive, get by, make ends meet, and plainly cope. There's certainly no reason I couldn't strive to better...in general. She could certainly serve as a source of inspiration for me. <br />
<br />
My sister was a great lady. She leaves behind a caring husband and five wonderful daughters that range from pre-teen to young adult, and a two year old grandson. She was kind, caring, giving, and I never heard her complain. Ever. And it wasn't because it was not polite to complain, but because it wasn't in her nature to do so. I know people say these things about others once they are gone, but it's the honest truth. I'm not painting a picture for posterity misrepresenting. She was a great mom and friend to others. Undoubtedly, she will be missed by everyone who knew and loved her. <br />
<br />
She was also my favorite margarita drinking companion. This weekend, I shall go to our favorite Mexican restaurant and raise a glass or two in her memory and to the lessons a little sister can teach a big sister. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-63439694915905945562013-12-03T20:37:00.000-05:002013-12-03T13:45:22.545-05:00Perfect Stocking Stuffer for Moms, New or Used Ones!Looking for the perfect gift for the moms in your life? New moms or moms that are well, a little on the used side like me. Well, look no further. My book,<em> A Little Off-Kelter...the parenting years</em>, is now available in paperback. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00E9H3J6C">http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00E9H3J6C</a> Here's my Amazon writer's page where you can purchase the Kindle or paperback version. Either can be sent as a gift. If your favorite mom doesn't have a Kindle - no problem! The Kindle App is available for Android and Apple products. <br />
<br />
If you'd like to order from CreateSpace, the link is <a href="https://www.createspace.com/3853575">https://www.createspace.com/3853575</a> <br />
<br />
For a chance to win a free paperback copy, visit and like my Facebook fan page. I need a few more likes in order to do the promotion. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584">https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584</a><br />
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Coming soon, <em>Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations. </em></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-26101565166159264912013-12-03T13:36:00.000-05:002013-12-03T13:45:07.284-05:00Revisiting the 90,000 Questions of Summer One great thing about writing a weekly column for ten years is that I did so when my kids were growing up. It's almost like I have a weekly summation of what was going on during those ten years since I did write a lot about parenting. <br />
<br />
Now that both of my boys are in the Navy and in their 20s, these summer days seem like a lifetime ago. I don't necessarily miss those long days of summer, but I can read this and fondly remember. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">90,000
Questions of Summer<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As
a child, summer vacation seemed to last an eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I wasn’t anxious to get back to the
books and the teachers, it didn’t seem like the carefree summer would ever end.
</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s one thing that has remained the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Summer break still feels like the longest
three months of the year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t that
I don’t love my children, but I dread summer vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I’m
not some ungrateful shrew who can’t stand kids, but it takes time to adjust to
no longer having quiet time, Monday-Friday, from 7:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This quiet time is replaced with constant
interaction until the end of August. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I’ve
read that the average four year-old will ask 437 questions a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the statistic didn’t note was that they
don’t stop asking that many questions, and as they grow older, they ask even
more. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">With
each day of summer vacation, approximately 1,000 questions are posed to me in
one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the sun starts to rise,
and I haven’t had my coffee, they begin:</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">What’s
for breakfast?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t you ever buy
good cereal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who ate my favorite
cereal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I go out to play?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why can’t I go out at 6:00 a.m.?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I ride my bike?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I ride my bike on the highway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then can I ride my bike to Grandma’s?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Can
I get the hose out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we going swimming
today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you know it’s going to
storm?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What happens if you swim while
there’s lightning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does getting struck
by lightning hurt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you die?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did the dog die from lightning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I dug him up, would he still have fur and
bones?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does “morbid” mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
guaranteed there are always lunchtime questions:</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">What
are we having for lunch?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there
anything I like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do we have any of those
little things?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, those one
things?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t you ever buy me
anything I like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did you get that
kind of mustard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this bologna really
made from pig lips and snouts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you
going to make something I don’t like for dinner too?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After
I’ve sent them outside to play, and they’ve had all the brotherly love they can
stand:</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Why
did I have to have a brother?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why wasn’t
I an only child?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you love him
more?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doesn’t he ever get in
trouble?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I put him in a big box,
would the mail truck take him away to China?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Are there really kids starving there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Can we go wrestle on the trampoline?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does a broken leg hurt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do
you always tell us you aren’t in the mood for spending the day in the emergency
room? Are you going to tell Daddy what we did today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">By
afternoon, they take full advantage of the plethora of information that is
their mother:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Can
I give the cat a bath?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t cats like water?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you ever given a cat a bath?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t you tell me that you did once?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would happen if I gave the cat a
bath?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would my eyeballs get
scratched out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would the scratches bleed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would the cat really run away?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you have to get stitches if a cat bites
you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you get rabies from a cat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you know cats don’t like water?</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Would
the dog like to go for a ride on a motorcycle?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How about the go-kart?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I
went really slow and put him in a seatbelt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Could he wear a helmet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they
make helmets for dogs?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you kill
flowers by peeing on them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How come dogs
can go to the bathroom outside then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Could dogs wear diapers if they wanted to?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they bite me if I tried to put a diaper
on one?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many days is grounded for a
month?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The
inquisitive little boogers are still at it even at bedtime:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Do
I have to go to bed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do I have to go
to bed when I’m not tired?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I
can’t go to sleep?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I stayed up
all night?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you feeling all right,
Mommy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you make a funny face like
you are growling?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s high blood
pressure mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you tell us
cussing is bad when you just said a bad word?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
seem to have all the answers, but just one question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many days until school starts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-51029847522044678822013-12-03T08:14:00.000-05:002013-12-03T13:46:20.868-05:00First book! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TQZHWR53jq0/UfpQjtPUGhI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZCTJsPAFPws/s1600/72788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TQZHWR53jq0/UfpQjtPUGhI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZCTJsPAFPws/s320/72788.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Nod sympathetically if you’ve ever…</span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…extracted a gum wrapper from a toddler’s nostril, but sought medical treatment when it came to a piece of a colored pencil lodged deeply into an ear canal.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…punished a child because he wouldn’t stop taunting his brother with a Peter Frampton album.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…played a rousing game of “What that’s funky smell?” only to discover what might be a petrifying bologna sandwich behind the recliner.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…needed a prescription for a tranquilizer when your firstborn started driving.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…spent any amount of time trying to describe why a Sleestack scared you, why you wanted to marry the Fonz, and who Mork from Ork was.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…installed a security system to keep a three-year old from going on the lam with his beagle, and pondered if it were possible that both of your children were reincarnates of Harry Houdini.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…wondered how a child who once emitted the sweet scent of newborn now puts off an odor that could make a skunk feel inadequate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">…ever rambled incoherently, “These kids are going to drive me to drinking,” or something about a frontal lobotomy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">If you nodded like a bobblehead, chances are you’re a parent - or you’ve got some really strange hobbies. A Little Off-Kelter…the parenting years is a collection of forty columns that originally ran in print. (Hey, the compilation thing worked for Ronco and K-tel, didn’t it?) Whether the kids are underfoot or have flown the nest, moms and dads alike will relate to these humorous tales of woe and wonderment.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1375359164&sr=1-1">http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1375359164&sr=1-1</a></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: small/normal verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">It's available on Kindle. If you don't have a Kindle, there's a Kindle app that works with most readers, android, and Apple products. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771">http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-55348948193789518172013-12-03T07:49:00.000-05:002013-12-03T13:45:36.362-05:00What is so funny?<span style="font-family: inherit;">
I wrote the following column many years ago when my boys were young and easily amused. Well, they still have this twisted sense of humor that can only make a parent proud. Still, I never quite got what was so funny about a good fart. When my oldest son got married a few weeks ago, I became instant granny to a sweet little four year old girl. I'd be lying if I said I didn't anticipate how great it might be to have someone who was around on my side. Someone equally appalled by the butt antics of the male gender. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was a short-lived fantasy, apparently. He called out to her to come here because he had something for her. Of course, being a child, I'm guessing she thought he might have some candy, a toy, or some other great surprise. Instead, he let one rip, which made her giggle. She paid it forward and showed her grandma the new trick she'd learned by giving her the gift of gaseous emissions. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Passed gas, broke wind, tooted,
pooted, farted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can call it
whatever they like, and pull their own finger, because I am never going to find
it amusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was a kid, “fart” was very
improper terminology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t
ladylike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little girls weren’t supposed
to say it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, the appropriate
phrase was “let a stinker.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even then,
it was only used in reference to someone else having committed the crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young ladies weren’t supposed to do it, let
alone draw attention to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> Though,
my youngest sister missed that memo early on, and I actually recall my mom
telling her that young ladies weren't supposed to let one rip and be proud of
it. No, nice little girls were supposed to go hide in a closet to do
things like that. </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My, how the times have changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, should I say how my environment has
changed since I now dwell with three males who treat passing gas like an
Olympic event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If one of them isn’t windy,
the other two likely are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I had a
dollar for every fight I have broken up, which has erupted from one child using
the other’s pillow as some sort of rear end filter while letting one rip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race was on to see if you really could
give someone pink eye from farting on someone's bed linens after they saw it in
a movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The temptation is great to
start lacing their meals with Beano.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Honestly, I don’t think I used the
f-word (fart, not the other f-word) until after I was a mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never even heard my grandma use the term
until she had two great-grandsons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
luck would have it, my husband and I would have two boys, both who find nothing
funnier than flatulence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What seems to
make it even more enjoyable is sharing it with someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, lucky me to be the recipient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have no clue what is so comical
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have yet to grasp the
humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps, it is something I am not
meant to understand because I am not of the male persuasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have witnessed the three of them laughing
so hard they had tears in their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“What is so funny?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will
innocently inquire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If one of them is
barely able to respond with, “silent, BUT deadly,” I know it is my cue to leave
the room before I'd be encompassed by a cloud of noxious fumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One evening while we were out for
dinner, I found myself saying to my family, “I don’t know what I did in a past
life, but it must have been really bad considering what I have to put up with
in this one.” </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was enjoying a decent meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was arguing or drawing attention in
our direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A roll of thunder erupted from our sons’ side
of the booth, resonating against the vinyl seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both children started laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband stifled a chuckle, and nearly
giggled aloud when he asked our son, “What do you say?” </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Mom!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did you do that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh man, Mom,” my smart aleck son responded
while waving his hand in front of his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay, that wasn’t the answer my
husband was going for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was, of
course, requesting that our son say a simple “excuse me,” but blaming it on Mom
seemed to be just as acceptable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
simply not amused at all, but all three were about to split a seam laughing at
their ingenuity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only was the public
emission funny, but also blaming it on the only female made it all the richer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While at home, they don’t place
blame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heavens no. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They take full credit for the ability to clear
a room and induce dry heaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dogs
are never blamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would be a shame
for not giving credit where credit is due. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Recently, we rented and watched the
movie "Dreamcatcher."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
read the book by Stephen King quite some time ago, but I am always interested
to see how well they adapt his story to the big screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In attempts to not spoil the storyline, I
must point out that there are scenes involving expulsions of bodily gases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t faze me to read that these aliens
(referred to as weasels later in the story) inhabiting the victim’s body caused
atrocious flatulence and belching, but it was a little more than I wanted to
see on the television screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so
with my husband, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think I have
a weasel problem,” he said before burping loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laughed, he laughed, and he laughed some
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For weeks to come, everyone but me
bragged about weasel issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first time my husband committed
a social faux pas in front of me, he actually said, “excuse me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was then, but this is now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have grown accustomed to sleeping with my
hands wrapped tightly around the blankets, just below my chin, to ensure no
covers are pulled over my head while the “weasel” population continues to
grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Join my Facebook page<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584"><span style="color: blue; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584</span></span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Grab a copy of my book. It's available in Kindle and paperback format - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/e/B00E9H3J6C/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1">http://www.amazon.com/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/e/B00E9H3J6C/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1</a></span></div>
</span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14137264832780915217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8393196053687866759.post-56471801803935871512012-09-20T14:30:00.002-04:002012-09-20T15:08:10.172-04:00The scarring for life was free <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">We have this yearly tradition around
here called </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the
Bluffton Free Street Fair. </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"> For outsiders, it’s a
bizarre concept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even for someone who
has lived in Indiana for more years than he’s willing to admit, which would be
almost 20 now, my husband still doesn’t quite grasp it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The downtown area is closed off, streets are
blocked, concessions stands move in, rides go up, carnies abound, bees buzz and
look for potential victims, parades march almost nightly, and this is just the
way it is each year during the third week of September.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it’s a huge pain in the hindquarters to
get from one end of town to the other with the detours and all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, it is only one week a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">After his first year in Indiana, this
week has also </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">marked
the start of the discussion my husband and I have yearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do I really need to go to the fair?” he asks
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">Does anyone really NEED to go to the
fair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, not really, I suppose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are years I want to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Years I don’t care if I go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I think there’s some unwritten law
that i</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">f you live around here,
you have to go to the fair at least once during the week, much like you</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"> must have</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> a basketball hoop on your property, or within playing distance of
your home. It's a</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">n unspoken</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> rule. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My
husband, a native upstate New Yorker, hasn't the first clue why anyone would
want to brave the crowds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just
doesn’t get it, and I suppose it’s the same for others who have been
transplanted to our area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also seem
hell-bent on pointing out the whole “free” part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Free?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What’s free?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to pay to
park unless you want to park two miles away and walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only free part is the walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can walk through the Industrial Tent for
free, but the people in there try to sell you crap, and there’s nothing free
about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get stung by a bee or
fourteen, and the Benadryl to treat that is far from free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get thirsty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A soda is $5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing free about that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah,
okay, at one time, it was probably more “free” than it is now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most
of us, though, have been dragged to the fair before we could form memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Street Fair is an ingrained part
of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up with my
grandma’s tales of the fair from the 30s & 40s about sideshows, many of
which were freak shows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a far cry from bearded
ladies and fat men, but the strangest, most exotic thing I ever saw was a
tapir. They advertised it as some sort of mutant wild pig. I felt
so bad for the critter; I paid money twice to go in to see it to pet its nose
through the cage. </span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">According to my grandma’s
stories, it was the naked lady shows that really got the most attention with
men lining up outside the tents for blocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’d go over like a lead balloon at the fair these days, but I find
watching some of the carnival workers the best free freak show you’ll ever get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, unless one hangs out in some of the
bars towards the bewitching hours towards the close of the fair on Saturday
night, and it’s hard telling what you might see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, I should say I’ve seen some things that
rival what gentlemen paid a nickel to see back in those early days of the
fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">The Bluffton Free Street Fair certainly
has left me with many memories through the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Petting that tapir through its cage is
perhaps one of the most bittersweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, m</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">y earliest memory of the fair involves another
animal. I begged to ride on the ponies - the ones that walk in a
circle, go probably 1/2 mph at their top speed inside the enclosure, and are
about as harmless as a toothless Chihuahua. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
grandma lifted me onto the pony of my choosing, and I was fine until it started
to move. My presence alone did something to the beast causing it to go
from a slow crawl to a break-neck trot. Grandma held onto me tightly to
keep me from falling, or getting whiplash. If I didn't somehow set them
off to start with, my blood-curdling shrieks didn't help matters. I
was terrified. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grandma
didn't seem too sure what to do next, either. She jogged alongside the
pony to keep me from sliding off. Me, I just cried and screamed all the
louder. About that time, my grandpa yelled something at the guy in
charge, and he tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to simmer the ponies down
and get them to stop. At this point, most of the kids were crying and
yelling for their folks. But, of course, there's one demented sort in
every crowd who seemed to be delighted in getting the ride of his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That child was not me, I can assure you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
got off that pony and swore that I was never going back to the fair. I
also swore I'd never ride anything with four legs. The latter of which I've
held firm to...because I've not been on a horse or anything of the sort, not
even a camel or elephant ride at the zoo, since that day probably a good 39
years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However,
I've returned to the fair many times. One just can't help it. Years
after graduating high school, Street Fair draws those back who left the
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old friends reunite on the streets
of Bluffton in the midst of the concessions and the crowds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though college, the military, and our
paths in life took us away from the city, Street Fair weekend brings us back
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been almost an unspoken
pact that we would see each other at the fair when the night air became chilled
and autumn was upon us. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When
my kids were little ones, it was Saturday afternoons I saw the most familiar
faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bumped into my classmates and
old acquaintances with their own children sporting bracelets for unlimited
rides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all go back, taking our kids,
and sometimes, dragging along spouses from other areas who never truly
understand why we find it so important to go at least once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s
been quite a few years since I cautiously walked by the pony rides, sometimes
crossing to the other side of the street to avoid them, remembering the time I
had the ride of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess someone
decided it wasn’t a good idea anymore, which is fine by me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Actually,
I’m glad that while the fair beckons to me, the ponies don’t hear their calling
to return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've created a fan page on Facebook here:
</span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/212737235506584"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/212737235506584</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
, if you're inclined to click like. Share with your friends and I'll be
eternally grateful.</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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