Ukraine's Got Talent - Spellbinding

I found this video clip through my sweet friend, Kelly, at The Glass Dragonfly, who finds the best videos in the world and shares them with us. I hope you will do yourself a favor and take the time to see this. If you do, you won't forget it. I clicked, watched it for five seconds, stopped, and knew I had to call the kids in to watch with me. We we're all spellbound. For me, art must be shared.

Fun, Fluent, Fabulous - The JOY of Women

I LOVE to laugh and connect. And I LOVE to hang out with women friends. But as I wrote this morning, I was analyzing friend types.

Do you have low maintenance or high maintenance friends?

In my book, low maintenance doesn’t mean you don’t have problems. We ALL have problems. It simply means you’re honest, upfront, and trustworthy. You don’t continually look for offense or the worst in others. If you have to talk about someone or just need to vent, it’s because you’re looking for solutions and trying to move through to a better spot. And you don’t “sow discord.” I know a few people who are discord FARMERS. They grow so much they could go public with their stock and trade on the open market. But, happily for me, I know FAR more who are purveyors of JOY.

And that’s what I got last night with some dear women friends.

If you interviewed any one of us today, I believe you’d get the same review. We had FUN. We LIKED each other – even though some of us were new to the others. We talked about the frivolous and we soap-boxed about healthy food, our families, our woman-ness. We shared struggles or frustrations but didn’t judge each other. We LAUGHED a LOT. There was no gossip. No one got bashed. This was NOT the “winter of our discontent.” We WANTED to like each other, enjoy each other, and…..we did. And this?

I love.

Here we are, out on the town:

We’re actually more beautiful than this, of COURSE, but I can NEVER remember to take my camera so this look-alike montage of some famous familiar faces will have to do. Here we are – Kim, Kendra, Karla, Kim (the quadruple “K” threat), Linda, Becky, Kendra’s mom, and Me. Ladies, we got it goin’ ON. Some of us are so good lookin’ we needed TWO pictures to catch all of our awesomeness and that’s why I had to use 14 faces.

We went here:

And saw this:

Then stood in the lobby and talked about it for half-an-hour before we could decide we should walk over here:

And eat this:

Well, at least that’s what I ate.

(Thank you stock photos from the internet. You never let me down. I so appreciate YOU bringing a camera. I’ll try to do better. The End.)

So, however you roll, or however many rolls you have, or don’t have, gather some of your gal pals and have fun. It doesn’t matter how many friends are around. What matters is the quality of the friendship and the heart of the friend. And if your friend group is lacking, do what I did: Invite yourself over. Butt in. Insist on being loved. Don’t take “no” for an answer. Act like you belong. Try to get them to feed you. Refuse to run off when they stamp their foot. They’ll weaken from sheer exhaustion, and then, you’re IN! Yahoo!

Copyright 2009

I LOVED This....!

And now I'm headed to see it for the second time with a girlfriend group this afternoon. Saw it last Saturday. Must take Grizzly, too, so that will make three times. Meryl Streep is bound to receive an Academy Award for her portrayal of Julia Child.

But a feature of the film I did not go in expecting was the truth about blogging.

If you're ANYthing like me, and I'm desperately afraid for you that you are or you wouldn't be here, most of your friends and family do NOT get this blogging obsession - the whys and wherefores and whatnots. And the thing is, we all have different reasons but it's born in creating. It's born in sharing, in connecting, in helping, in receiving. It's a mission field, it's a counselor's office, it's a shoulder, it's a rolling-on-the-floor laugh fest, it's a cry of desperation for some and we, you and I, might be the person God is using to say, "I see you. And I care." It's a WILLING listening ear because nobody is putting a gun to anyone's head and forcing them to show up or keep reading. Or to follow. They say, "Here I am. I came here because you need me, or I need you, or both, but whatever it is, we're connecting."

And this movie addresses and looks at, even stares at, the heart of a blogger. It's a relationship we have. Some of us feel an immense responsibility to each other and maybe, to ourselves. Others are casual daters. But whatever it is, I saw it unfold and bloom on the silver screen.

And now, I have to go see it again.

I also love that the flirting and more sensual scenes - not that anything is hugely graphic - only takes place between two couples married to each other and madly in love. Thanks, Hollywood. This is a feel-good movie.

Copyright 2009

Looking Through The Slats

Yes, Virginia, I do remember looking through the slats, or bars, of my crib. But I never saw Santa Claus.

One of my dear friends and readers, BZ at The Mosquitoes Buzz, asked me, after my Meme post recalling the horrific clown doll that gave me phobias, if I could truly remember looking at it through my crib slats. The answer is, “Yes.” The answer why though is, “I'm clueless.” But detailed, strong memory is as much a part of me as this computer chair which has now grown attached to my posterior.

For example, if you're as old as I am (first of all, be gentle with yourself and then rush to the doctor for a check up - there’s probably something wrong with you) you may recall a contraption like this from the late 1950's (old people use the word "contraption" a lot):

I found this photo on the internet. It’s not me or my mother. We weren’t nearly this photogenic or pink. But the chair the baby is in gives you the idea. It was the early car seat. It put the baby right up front and in the middle of all the action. We babies were front and center in case anything crashed into the windshield. We had a birds-eye view. Babies hate to miss anything. And mom could be dutifully distracted looking at baby, like this mother, instead of actually driving the car. Which greatly increased the chances of items crashing through the windshield.

My little seat was equipped with a steering wheel. It was the beginning of my power madness. I was sure it was me, I TELL YOU IT WAS ME!, driving the car. But at the same time, I had a distinct memory of having a horse’s head mounted where the steering wheel was, with a little rein that I could hold and make my dandy automobile giddyap and go. So, which memory was right?

Both felt right and I was comfortable, if confused, in my resolve. It didn’t make sense but that has rarely influenced my opinions. My mother insisted I never had any such seat and was zonko. But every dog has its day and mine was coming, even if it had fleas.

Disclaimer:

The next few paragraphs involve depressing facts. Feel free to skip to the upshot at the end.

In a prior post, I mentioned being given up for adoption or placed in foster care, depending on who’s telling the story. How that came to be was a tragic turn of events. My mother and father married very young and both came from highly defective backgrounds, though vastly different. (Dysfunctional just doesn’t quite cover it.) Neither brought emotional health or stability into the relationship, but my father brought a level of anger and volatility right out of a Steven King novel. One Sunday afternoon he took us all for a ride in the hills and severely beat my mother. (He was known to beat the kids, too, but she was the target this day.) He broke her jaw and knocked out several teeth. She had a violently ill reaction – what other kind of reaction could you have? – as my brother and sister endured the trauma of watching from the car. I have no idea what I saw. This is one memory gone to me and I’m grateful. Somehow, my mother’s sickness snapped him out of his raging fury and he took her to the hospital where they wired her jaw shut so it could heal. The doctor told him it was jail or therapy. He chose therapy. He went once.

But my mother grew terrified at his menacing and began to stay awake not sure what he might do. She had already found him once with a pillow over my face when I was crying. She began to fear for all our safety. And in those days of sleeplessness and injury, she began to unravel. Shortly thereafter, she was admitted to the hospital for five months. (I remember a trip to see her once. I dream about it sometimes. Everything is huge – the elevator, the doors, the halls.) And being the father of the year that he was, he didn’t want any of us. His parents agreed to take my brother and sister, though they weren’t thrilled with getting my sister. She had been sickly and was the scapegoat of the family. And they weren’t willing to add the work and effort a baby would bring.

So, according to my adoptive/foster father, R.Q. – his real name based on the Royal Queen’s Highway in Texas – my biological father walked next door to their house and offered me to them saying my mother was hospitalized and would never come home (which was certainly not true) and he didn’t want me (which certainly was true).

Now, Mary, R.Q.’s wife, had three boys and had always wanted a girl. I guess she fussed over me regularly and when I showed up on the doorstep, they accepted immediately. R.Q. said, when I found him shortly before my 40th birthday (Mary had passed away), they always regretted not starting adoption proceedings, not that they necessarily could have under the circumstances but, it made me feel warm and fuzzy.

They were ecstatic. Their beloved boxer dog threatened me and, believing I was there for good, they rehomed it. They invested in a nursery and decorated it for me. The boys thought I was a fun novelty and regularly tied my shoes to table legs to keep me from getting into their toys (very fun grown up guys when I met them). I had five months of baby bliss in which normalcy reigned. The family was happy and the parents were doting. While I look unhealthy and a little forlorn in some of the pictures, I sincerely believe the time there may have saved my life – physically and emotionally - because I bear far fewer scars from this time period than my brother and sister (who eventually took her life).

Happy Part Continues:

But in those pictures which R.Q. gave me and I will scan in and show you if I EVER get a scanner, there I am, sitting on their couch in a car seat.

With a horse’s head and reins.

They bought it for me for THEIR car. I was right. I had two car seats. And I was in charge in both of them, I’m sure. I also saw pictures of myself in a high chair (most of our family photos were stolen when I was about nine though some remain.) The wallpaper in their home so closely matches the wallpaper in my own home, right now, and which was put up a few years before R.Q. and I found each other, that it knocked my socks off. I recreated my own happy little haven and didn’t even know it. I don’t know if I can ever take it down. I remember seeing it on display in Wallpapers-To-Go and loving it instantaneously in a “must have it” kind of way. Now I know why.

My mother did recover and I would celebrate my first birthday back in my own home. And I remember the dress I wore. Light lavender soft cotton with tiny smocking and a little delicate flower. I loved that dress.

My parents divorced three years later and there are definitely people who wish I couldn’t remember all I do from my childhood, but I am grateful. It has made me who I am, has given me the courage of my convictions, and, if I’m not mistaken, a keen memory and powers of observation help if you ever want to become a writer.

I do. Maybe, I am.

Copyright 2009

Rent a Planted Tree (or) College Help

As you know, I usually try to write about subjects most of my readers can relate to, or at least understand on some basic level, as they consider my highfalutin histrionics, my enigma of experience, and my profundity of complete poppycock. However, today, I diverge.

Today I speak as the mother of a young adult bound for college. I speak as one who has taken a 2x4 to the pre-frontal cortex in the area of college textbooks. I am speechless about how much they cost. I'm sure you didn't notice. Let me go on.

I have decided to forego the current book I'm writing and write a textbook instead. It will be about something completely insipid and basically irrelevant to the human race and will be a requirement for a college class. This will drive the cost up exorbitantly and I will publish it myself. I will charge $300 per book. Very shortly, I will be living large and inviting you all to come visit me at my beach home in the Cayman Islands. But until that time we need these:

Now, I am NOT ungrateful that our dear Bo has received a college scholarship. This includes her tuition for four years, housing, parking, and office privileges. So what are you whining about, you might opine? Whatever I can find, I might say. In fact, do say.

We are Suburban Survivalists. We have existed on one income for sixteen years so I could be with the kids and homeschool them. It was our choice. I have zero regrets. But it did not leave us at the front of the line for financial resources. I looked both my children in the eye in sixth grade and said, "You will go to college. Here's how: scholarship. Get busy." Obviously, nothing is a sure thing and I am open to God trimming our sails for a different direction. But if all things are equal, and they never are, then that was and is the plan. However, I seemed to forget about that little part not covered: Textbooks.

Apparently, I fell into a deep slumber about this financial blow until three days ago when I woke up screaming, "We've got to order all your textbooks!" Bo started shopping online and hunting for every deal. And boy, did we get deals. We took our costs down from about $800 to $325.00. That's worth telling SOMEbody about. Maybe you. Most of us probably aren't living the high-life right now with the economy and if you can save a little bread, you just might have some to eat. So here's what we did: we bought as few books as we could and we rented the rest.

You're probably all brilliant and already know this can be done but we didn't. It's PERFECT. You use the books for four months and ship them back. Do ANY of us EVER look at old college textbooks we got stuck with because they changed editions and the bookstore wouldn't buy them back? They become paperweights, dust collectors, and thrift shop donations. And here's a huge bonus: one of the companies, Chegg, plants a tree for every book you rent. We are tree LOVERS so this was a big, green yahoo from us.

So here are your links if you're looking for less expensive options than the college bookstore.

To buy, check out:

Half.Com at www.half.ebay.com/

TextbooksRUs at http://www.textbooksrus.com/

We have used both these companies with good results when Bo took college classes in high school.

Others are:

http://www.textbooks.com/

http://www.campusbooks.com/

http://www.campusbookrentals.com/

But for RENTING, you can't beat Chegg at www.chegg.com/ and remember, they plant a tree for each book rented. You probably need to know that their prices go up as the start of school draws closer so you don't want to wait. We waited one day and the price went up $3.00 per book. We placed the order last Friday.

Happy shopping to you or someone you know who might need this info.

Copyright 2009

Meme Me – Part 2

DEAR READERS.....A new reader dropped by today I've never heard from. She thinks this post was too long and maybe more of you would have read it if I had taken each question as a separate post. You know it's not really my style to milk anything - feels like I'm trying to drag you back over - but I'm open to suggestions if you think she's right. Am I keeping you all too long?! Let me know!

And so we continue from a few days ago......

7. Who was your FIRST best friend & do you still talk?

Jeannette. And Yes. Here she is a few weeks ago with her Sam Elliot look-alike husband, Kevin. (People stop the man on the street!) They came up from Bakersfield for a visit just out of the blue.

We go waaaayyy back and spent many years at the same little backwater Baptist Church together as well as keeping constant company as families. She is Deep and I am Wide. That officially makes us a Sunday School song.

Grizzly and I LOVVVVE them and are guaranteed to be in stitches whenever we are together. I mean, look at them. Their PICTURES make you laugh. And none of us even tries. Either we’re all naturally funny – which is what WE believe – or we're basically moronic – which is what everyone else is going with. It is irrelevant to us. (The reality? EVERYONE loves this woman and thinks she's brilliant! She has a following and an entourage. You can hardly get an audience with her. Good thing I know where she lives. Oh wait. She's moving. Now that I think of it, she hasn't given me a forwarding address.)

In spite of this latest set back, I continue to text her and don't think I've ever told her I have ALWAYS loved her name. We've been best friends since we were about four-years-old. We have so much shared history and heartache that our lives are forever and inextricably woven. We refer to ourselves as sisters – far more than best friends. No one would believe either of our family stories. WE don’t even believe it and we were there. What we have left is God’s goodness and grace to us, along with laughter. No one laughs like those who don’t have better sense. I LOVE you, sister girl.

8. Whose wedding did you attend the FIRST time?

I think it was Sharon and H.L.’s. I would have been about 12? All I remember was that you could hear her girdle swishing with each step and pass of her thighs as she walked down the aisle. It was the girdle era. We never left home without one. I bought my first around the same age, for my size 3 frame. I remember watching my mother twist and yank and pull her way into one every time she got dressed and then use the Jaws of Life to get out of it at days end. But we looked good and really, isn’t that the main thing?

(I mean, what woman wouldn’t be comfortable in THIS?)

But swishing was a side-effect if your thighs rubbed together. I’m sure I’d make big points with this memory. That’s okay. I’ve been on Sharon's list for years. Shortly after she gave birth to her first baby I walked into the hospital room, took one look at her stomach, and asked her when the baby was gonna be born. It went over well. Who knew your stomach still looked eight months pregnant one day after delivery? I thought everything just immediately snapped back into place. My youngest baby is 14. I’m still waiting for the snap back. Sharon would be thrilled.

9. Tell us about your FIRST roommate.

I was going to say my sister but now I’m remembering it was my brother. They put my crib in his room. He was six. He had cowboys and indians on his wallpaper with a dark green background. I would look at him through the slats in my crib. My mom used to iron in there. Don’t ask me why or why this is in any way relevant. Relevancy is overrated.

He and my uncle, who was ten years older than me, decided one day to shoot up the wallpaper with their water guns – filled with lemonade. It didn’t go over that well.

Someone in the family used to wind up a clown that played Brahm’s Lullaby while it turned around in circles. It sat on a table by my crib and the winding and playing were a nightly ritual. I HATED that thing but was without speech to protest. I just had to lay there and watch through the slats. I detest clowns to this day. So, maybe my brother and the clown were my first roommates. This could explain a lot.

10. If you had one wish, what would it be (other than more wishes)?

That all clowns would have to wear girdles. Over their faces.

11. What is something you would learn if you had the chance?

How to find a good agent for my excellent book. And then I would learn how to write an excellent book.

12. Did you marry the FIRST person you were in love with?

Well, any long term readers of this blog will remember the answer to this from my post False Teeth and Pastors. I was tragically dumped at age four by Ronnie Miller who threw me over, withOUT notice, for some chick named Sharon (a different Sharon than the one referenced above). He married her after pledging his troth to me. Maybe I misunderstood and it was his trough he was pledging. But if so, I didn’t get that either.

13. What were the first lessons you ever took and why?

Guitar. So I could play and sing. I still do it all these years later. Any interest in hearing a redneck recording I did with Bo a few weeks back? It’s not professional by ANY means and was done in the study instead of a studio. But maybe I can figure out how to post it here. You can let me know if the money for the guitar lessons was wasted and should have been spent on a voice coach instead.

14. What is the first thing you do when you get home?

Lock the door. I have safety issues. You never know when some clown might try to get in.

Copyright 2009

Don't Be Scared......

Yesterday's title of "Meme" may have scared you off. Some people don't like them. But hey, it's me. You KNOW I never do anything the normal way. It's really just me turning a meme into me. Well, maybe you should be scared!