Sponges, Mops, and Toilet Brushes, Oh My!

Once upon a time, I was a clean freak. I kept up with laundry and dishes during the week, and the entire house got a good dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing on Saturday morning. I (almost) enjoyed this quiet time. I'd put on a CD or a good movie and just scrub away. Gigi would tag along or lounge on the couch, waiting for the inevitable cookie that would be tossed from the kitchen. (I miss you, Sugar Lips!) I was never embarrassed for company to drop by.

These days, you're lucky if you're invited to pick me up outside my front door, much less come in. This place is a wreck! I blame it on two things: work and husband. (Understand that under no circumstances would *I* ever be to blame.) Work, because I work much longer hours now and because I am emotionally and physically exhausted when I drag through the door. Husband, because while I love him to death, he ain't no housekeeper. And he likes to spend his weekends "doing stuff" outside of the house, so I don't even have a chance to clean. We're always bowling or shopping or traveling or whatever. No wonder I'm exhausted all the time!

To his credit, he does his part (or what he considers his part) by "doing" the laundry every week. I'm OK with that. Sure, not all my clothes come out wrinkle-free--he thinks every load needs to be washed and FOLDED before it is taken upstairs and hung. He doesn't get the principle of hanging fresh clothes to keep them from wrinkling. Anyway... Scott also will load the dishwasher on occasion--hence the dishes that sometimes have to be hand-washed because of the stuck-on food.

But enough Scott-bashing. Like I said, he does what he can, and he's too stubborn to train. I mean, the man was a bachelor for 40 years. He's done all the learnin' he's going to do. If you know him, you know exactly what I am talking about.

But today dawned bright and shiny, and SCOTT WENT TO WORK! I was blissfully alone with my Macy, and when I started sweeping the bathroom, she was right there to help. I gave her a cookie. For the next two hours, Macy helped me clean and mop the bathroom, rearrange decorative stuff in several rooms, and put together the vacuum cleaner we bought two weeks ago. In a few minutes, I'll try it out. Unfortunately, Macy has to go outside during vacuuming. She attacked (and broke) my first vacuum, and goes nuts whenever the machine emerges from the closet. Gigi would just go sleep in another room.

The point of all this is: The house is getting clean. It smells like "freshness" in here. It doesn't make me feel like a slob. And best of all, the "guest wing" of the house is ready for tenants. They're coming on Sunday! I'm worried and excited all at the same time. But at least I don't have to be embarrassed for them to live here among the dirt and pet hair!

Man, I wish Scott would work every Saturday!

My Boy Junior

Ok folks, we here at Hungry Words are now taking requests! From the peanut gallery, let me introduce you to ...

JUNIOR 'June Bug' HILL!

Hell on squeakers and sneakers alike, Junior Hill is a little Mack truck on four legs. Don't let that charming face and dainty step fool you. He's packed with some super jumpin', runnin', and barkin' genes that he apparently inherited from his Mama, aka Superfit.

I recently took some time to interview Junie (as he likes "the ladies" to call him) on the eve of Super Bowl XLV. I asked him how he liked the biggest sports spectacle in the world being in his own backyard.
"What the hell is a super bowl?" he spurted at me, tongue still half inside the empty peanut butter jar he seems married to. "Is that where we get extra helpin's of dinner? When's dinner?"

I moved on to other sports. Junior is quite the accomplished triathlete, earning superlative honors in running, swimming, and car-riding. "Once I figured out how to balance on the seat at 90 miles an hour, I knew I would get the gold," he modestly confided to me. "My Mama drives really fast, but I don't throw up every time. Sometimes she slams me into the dashboard. I get her back by leaving half my hide on the seat for her to wear to work. Sucker!"

I started to engage this boisterous boy in a bit of rhetoric about his epicurean tendencies when he, well, changed the subject. He interrupted me with a string of slurs against his Mama.

"The bitch likes to dress me. Do I LOOK like I like to be dressed up like a little sissy girl?" he screeched. "She's outfit me in parkas fit for Siberia ..."

"Like the Great Ri-Damn-Diculous Punkin' ..."

"And even frickin' Santa Claus." [That's him in the middle.]

"Yeah, I've worn all kinds of crap," said Junie, or "J-Man" as he's known in his 'hood. Poor thing has been the subject of such abuse, having endured costumes every Halloween and Christmas for years. He's worn life jackets and harnesses and T-shirts that make a statement. "Yeah, I need an 'I'mWifStoopid' shirt for my Mom!" he says, and I don't blame him.

Inside that tough-guy exterior is an even more fierce inner warrior, with only a touch of wanderlust. Once, after ripping a new toy to shreds, Junie took his Mama for a run down by the river to blow off some steam. Junie decided to follow his own whims. For several days, as he tells it, he ran the wilds of the Trinity River, protecting the good citizens of Fort Worth from the likes of "rabid bastard squirrels, dirty spying nutrias, and nosy honkin' geeses." Along the way, he befriended several fellow runners, all of whom he knows and calls by name.
"Hell, yeah!" he exclaims when asked about his river-running buddies. "I'm known as the Terror of the Trinity! Them bishes who don't take time for me gonna get some gnawin' on their leg if they don't watch out."

It's a warning I would heed if I were you.

Does This Seminar Make My Butt Look Big?

I'm enrolled in a four-week online seminar. For three hours every Thursday, I am effectively trapped in my office with a beautiful yellow caution-tape ribbon tied artfully around my doorknob (DO NOT DISTURB!) and a klunky, ear-smushing headsetstrapped over my skullcap, theoretically learning how to "Make the Transition From Staff to Supervisor."

OK, first of all, the seminar sounded great in the description. Many of the things I wanted to know, like what I can and cannot say and do in my role as a manager, were covered in the "Things YOU Will LEARN!" bulleted list. I had this seminar on my training to-do list for 2011 and was even more jazzed about it when my boss' boss suggested it to me. So, YAY! And they have it online, so that's gotta be better than missing two entire days of work, right?

Well, not really. Today was the third of four weeks, and while I still hold high hopes for next week's topic, the first nine hours have been a bust.

Let me caution you about online seminars. While sitting in a room full of strangers is, oddly enough, unappealing to some people, it is at least an efficient way of fostering give and take. In an online seminar, one must raise one's virtual hand, be recognized as wishing to speak, be handed the virtual microphone, and activate the virtual microphone before making a contribution to the conversation. Alternatively, one could type one's heartfelt comments into the "chat pod," but there's a risk that the question might be overlooked. Ugh. It's enough to make one want to shrink into the virtual corner. You know the euphemisms for wasting time--teeth pulling, beating one's head against the wall, paint drying, watched pots that never boil? This was worse.

And then there was the curriculum. If ever there was a real plug for the leadership courses the Boy Scouts of America offers its adult leaders, this particular course is it. Their versions of our Leaders EDGE and SMART goal-setting, for example, leave this course in the dust. I felt so smart! And, unfortunately, so bored.

So, as it has been three years since I technically transitioned from staff member to supervisor at the BSA (the first time I was a manager, at the paper, no one cared enough to shepherd me through any kind of training, and that might have been a good thing), in a week I will be loosed upon the world, ready to objectively and fairly lead my employees to new heights of success.

What have we learned here today, boys and girls? Online seminars are not good uses of the company's training dollar. But I will press on and see if I can salvage something. Next week, when I raise my little blue-man virtual hand to be virtually recognized, I will be virtually amazed if I can stay awake long enough to ask my vitual question. And if I learn anything, I'll objectively and fairly pass it along. But, hey, all is not lost. For three hours every Thursday afternoon, I don't have to answer the phone, the door, or the e-mails. Huzzah!

E is for Earthworm

Eleanor Earthworm is every gardener’s dream.
Together, they make the best green thumb team.
Eleanor mulches the soil ‘til it’s fluffy and rich
And the gardener’s veggies grow without a hitch.

Personal Time

Here’s how my day went.

Around 7:30 this morning, as I was settling in for my first day back at work after a week of “vacation,” I remembered the note-to-self I’d tried—and failed—to remember last week: I MUST get my driver’s license renewed. Today. I never got it changed when I got remarried, and I have to fly in three weeks—with the new name. So today was the already-too-late absolute latest day I could do it.

Pressing my luck, I requested to leave at 2 p.m. for personal time. It was approved. (Thanks, Dan!) So I let everybody know I was leaving early and started preparing. Things went relatively well. I was out of there by 2:15, which was earlier than I expected.

I went home to retrieve my marriage license. I knew right where it was, but I was stopped dead in my tracks by the absolute MESS in my living room, courtesy of this wild animal who lives with me. Her name is Macy, and she’s a little bit thick-headed. She’d eaten a pencil. And the mate to the shoe she ate yesterday. (OK, I was fine with her eating the shoe, but you should see the mess!)

Off to the Texas Department of Public Safety. I knew right where it was, because I got married right next door and remember thinking, “I’m going to need to remember this.” I walked in, and there were a few people waiting. The information lady helped me out, and I went through the door to get in line. The line went through the doorway and stretched down the hall. I uttered an expletive and took my place. An hour later, I was straining to interpret the thick accent of an extremely soft-spoken Hispanic woman. I’m already a little deaf, and by this time I was more than a little irritated, so you can imagine how that went.

I’m almost tempted to scan in my temporary driver’s license to show you the picture. Nowadays it prints out so you have instant gratification. I was not gratified.

Anyway, it was 4 p.m., an hour and a half before Scott even got off work. My goal was to replace the shoes Macy ate, but the library was beckoning from next door. After cruising the parking lot for 10 minutes, I found NO parking spots available (damn after-school kids!) and left.

On to DSW. Or not. Flat tire. Expletive.

So, here I sit at Firestone. It’s 5 p.m. The obnoxious kids who were here an hour ago are gone, and replacing them is a darling little girl named Gabby and her mommy. Gabby has a couple of gray stuffed cats; their names are Audrey and Audrey. (Mommy says all Gabby’s animals are named Audrey.) She also has purple tennis shoes and long, curly blonde hair. Adorable. Her mommy has been on the phone since about three minutes after I walked in. Not so adorable. Mommy looks like she’s about 20 and, much like her adorable daughter, like she just rolled out of bed.

Anyway, it’s the second time in a week I’ve been a Firestone patron. I wasted half a day of my vacation here last week, getting tires for SCOTT’s car. Answer me this: Does this man take care of ANY of his maintenance issues himself? Wait, I have the answer: No.

Bucket List

A bucket list, things you want to do before you kick the bucket. Whether they make a physical list or just have some random thoughts floating around, pretty much everybody has a bucket list. After a bit if inspiration from SuperFit (aka Stefanie), I decided to write my own.

So, in no particular order:

• Write a book (working on various books; nothing really coming together).
• See blue water (gonna take a cruise this year!).
• Get totally out of debt (absolutely essential for a bucket-kicker with no heirs).
• See a baseball game in at least half the ballparks in America.
• See a Broadway play, on Broadway.
• See every inch of Italy that has captivated me since childhood, including Rome, Pompeii, Tuscany, Venice, Verona ... .
• See New York in the fall, Arizona in the winter, Washington DC in the spring, and Colorado in the summer.
• Teach.
• Visit Walden Pond, Stratford-Upon-Avon, London, and other places that lit up my imagination when I was discovering literature as a kid.
• Lose enough weight to be comfortable in my own skin at the coolest water parks in America (lazy rivers of the country, look out!).
• Take a cooking class, a cake decorating class, and an art class. Or classes.
• Beat my husband in bowling. For a series. During league.
• Own a house with a big kitchen, a huge master bath with jetted tub, and a swimming pool with a big covered deck (OK, had that once, but I mean something else).
• Get married. Get divorced. Get married. And stop there (so far, so good).
• Drive a black Shelby Mustang. And not wreck it.

I asked Scott what was on his bucket list. It took some thought, but in no particular order:

• Bowl a 300 in a sanctioned league (he's bowled one before, but the league wasn't sanctioned).
• See Notre Dame play football at home.
• Meet Bono and Lou Holtz.
• Perform stand-up comedy, at least once.

What's on your list? And what are you doing to complete it?

Things People Don't Bother to Tell Me

Tonight I went upstairs to enjoy my guilty pleasure. No, get your heads out of the gutter.

I wanted to watch my show. For years, I have been sneaking away to catch up on the psychic goings on of one Allison Dubois, a television character based (loosely) on a real person. Lately, because the Friday night timeslot for "Medium" has coincided with bowling night, I've taken to waiting until Scott's snoring in the chair before stealing away to enjoy what's on the DVR.

This week was very much the same as all the rest. It's been a strange season, what with oldest daughter Ariel off at college in Boston (and therefore a rare appearance on the show) and Allison at a crossroads in her professional career, but I've enjoyed my hour with the Dubois family.

Episodes of "Medium" have a hallmark of being resolved at the very last second, sometimes (to my chagrin) unsatisfactorily to the tie-all-loose-ends logic I like. Tonight, as we followed Allison and her brood seven years after a major trauma, all I could think of was how the episode would wrap.

Wrap was the operative word. It was the series finale. No one bothered to tell me. I figured that out when, during the final credits, they trotted out all the major players with their credit lines. Of course, by that time I was bawling. The denouement was reminiscent of the best show ever on television ("Six Feet Under") in that everybody dies eventually, but with a bit of hope that only "Medium" could deliver: Allison and Joe are reunited for eternity on the other side.

I cried hardest when I projected the reunion of my grandparents, which is inevitably coming nearer and nearer. My beatuiful Mimi and my handsome, strong Granddaddy, who exhibited the strongest love between two people I have ever witnessed, will someday relatively soon be reunited to live out their love with each other and with Christ for all of eternity.

My Mimi is without a doubt the most precious person I have ever known. She taught me how to cook and she taught me the true value of volunteerism. She taught me that friends are best kept close, but I am afraid I have let busyness get the better of me in that area. She is selfless and giving, a beautiful person on the inside even if time has stolen what must have surely been so adorable on the outside so many years ago. Ill health has squeezed away her ability to live on her own, but sometimes a twinkle still shines in her eye. She'll turn 86 (87?) this week. And apparently she was in the hospital recently, although no one bothered to mention that to me. I found out in a Facebook post that just showed up on my wall. It doesn't escape me that among the gazillions of posts that hit my wall every day, I could have missed it. I just let it go. I can't fix this now.

That kind of sums up my relationship with Mimi over the past decade or so. Granddaddy died on a Thursday in February, and later that year, Daddy died on a Thursday in October. Right then, things began to change in my family. I tried to hold on, but I felt more like an outsider every time a decision was made and I found out about it after the fact. I eventually got the hint and moved on. Nowadays, I am so busy I don't have time to think about things like deteriorating family ties, but I still have memories of summers and holidays and the people who loved me most.

My most treasured hope aside from the promise of eternity beside my Lord is the hope of my reunion with those people. I want to make fudge with Nana, play piano with Mama Nash, and hear Granddaddy return thanks before the meal. I want to thank Aunt Donnie for good advice and hear Aunt Bitty tell her stories. I want to fish with my Uncle Buddy and have coffee with my Papaw and Sarah. I want to hang out and talk about old times with some friends. I want to meet those patriarchs I never had the pleasure of knowing on Earth. And I just want to hug my Daddy's neck and know that I'll never have to ache for that hug. Never again.

Nobody needs to tell me that.

I Made Up a Word

So today I was talking to my ultra-in-shape friend Stefanie about her plans to take over southern Oklahoma, and the conversation turned to how both of us are, well, old. We're about to hit the big 4-0, me a little sooner than she, and neither of us is happy about it.

I laughed at how her version of exercise is hiking and kayaking and shredding her shins on some strange torturous workout contraption, and mine is whipping my husband's butt in Wii. (By the way, do NOT take me on in boxing. I am a KILLA.) In the exchange, I mistyped (or DID I?) and confused "excuse" with "exercise." What I came up with is brills ... Exercuse. I define it as "the well-rationalized reason one cannot bring herself to become healthy, generally punctuated by a strong desire to watch 'Twilight' for the millionth time and/or to blog about ridiculously mundane topics."

Heck, yeah. I made up a word. Take that, Webster.

D is for Dragonfly

I don't have a doodle to go with this one yet, but I will work on it. Think dragonflies in suits. Anyway, I just wanted to post this one before I forgot it. This just in: Dragonfly illustration!

Devin Dragonfly rocks his job's corporate climb.
He gets all his work done in just half the time.
His friends shake their heads as they watch him speed by.
Using both sets of wings, Devin makes his work fly.

###

Location:Burr Oak Dr,Lewisville,United States

My Mom Has More Junk Than Your Mom

Goodness, mercy, sakes alive. This place is like a museum of family history, and not necessarily in a good way.

Scott and I are spending our weekend at the hold home front, packing what is left of my mom's stuff to take back to Satan's Armpit so she might feel more comfortable surrounded by her junk.

I called her three times before I learned my lesson: Yes, she does want that. Never mind that there is no room, no storage, no use for it in her new house. She wants it. Those pants that are three sizes too big? Yes, bring those. The six cans of "sample, not for resale" MEN'S shaving cream? Yes, she says, those are probably still good, bring those. And don't forget my Aunt Flora's china. And mine, too. And Mama Nash's. And those blue glasses that go with the grape plates, because someday you will want them. And yes, those cheap red plates! I use those for Christmas and Valentine's Day!

Oh, yes, Mother. God knows we're going to need place settings for 49 this Easter. I bought 17 plastic boxes at walmart today (and the whole walmart experience is a complete new blog entry in itself). All to pack her junk in.

But I digress. Family history. While digging through the junk, I found a $50 savings bond that matures next month; a list my father wrote shortly before he died, titled "Where the Money Is"; his discharge papers from the Army (yes, we might need those!); and some photos of my family I had never seen before. I found a special edition box set of Glenn Miller 45s that are probably 60 years old, and some 78s that are older. I found the dress my grandmother wore to my mother's wedding (gorgeous, perfect condition, and now vintage!). I found a box of unused valentines from the 1940s. I found a shoebox full of my father's prescription medications, including vicodin (if only it were not a decade old) and one I wish I hadn't seen. I found no fewer than 50 notebooks, legal pads, and looseleaf papers (Oh bring those! I need those!). And I found some of my grandmother's, ahem, unmentionables.

I immediately prayed that I would not follow my mother down this particularly dark road of hoarding. And for what is probably the umpteenth time in my life, I mentally derided my parents for having only one kid. Thanks, dad and mom. Just for that, I'm going to sell all your records to Half Price Books!

###

Location:Mom's old place

100 in 200

A good friend recently challenged me, and I am seriously considering taking him up on it. Well, I am going to try to reach the goal, I just dont know if it's physically possible. But, as he has reminded me, if you can see it, you can be it.

I see myself in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, whooping it up with some of the finest people on Earth. I see two beads of wood hanging around my neck, symbolizing the reward for all my efforts (OK, you don't get the beads until later, but work with me here).

What's stopping me? Well, let's just say to gain admission to the mountain, I must lose about a third of myself. I have to pass Philmont's medical exam, which entails among other things, meeting the height/weight requirements. So, in essence, in order to be present on that mountaintop as the embers die down on the campfire, I am going to have to lose half a pound a day for the next 200 days.

So, my goal in words is this: To lose enough weight by August 1 that I am not only well within the specified height/weight limits, but also free of other health problems that would exclude me from passing the medical evaluation for participation in this training course.

Is this goal SMART? Let's see.

I believe it is specific. I don't need to put in the numbers here for you all to see exactly how fat I am, but I know them. And believe me, they are always hanging around to torture me. I have specifically said what needs to be done to reach this goal, and I know what I have to do to get there.

It's definitely measurable. Ugh. I hate scales. And if my doctor chooses to lower the dosages on certain medications, that is a measure, too.

Is it attainable? Yes. It probably is humanly possibly to do this... I didn't say it would be easy.

It's definitely relevant. Losing 100 pounds will save my life. Period. Getting to hang out at camp with some really cool people is, in the great scheme of things, just (low-carb) gravy.

And it's timely. If it's not done by the first of August, I will be missing the boat. The course starts on August 11.

I'll have lots of support. Stefanie will yell at me every day. Michael will review my workout logs. Scott will do whatever Scott does. And various friends and family who know what's going on will lend supportive words. And then one day, someone who doesn't know will go, "Are you losing weight?" and I will respond, "Well, maybe." and inside I will be ready to explode with excitement. At that moment, it will all become real to me: Yes, you got out of this terrible rut. Yes, you can be active and healthy and happy with yourself again. Yes!

So, I have to decide how badly I want to go to Philmont. And how badly I want to live to see age 93.

Footnote: Before you start screeching at me about how unhealthy this plan of action is, let me just remind you of the relevant component of the SMART goal: If I don't lose this weight, I will die before my time. And I have plans. I need time. And nobody can do it for me. This I have to do it for myself. And, let's face it, if I die, who will write my blog?

C is for Chipmunk

Cornelius Chipmunk is an organized guy.

He stocks up on stuff so he won’t have to buy.

He’s been stacking up fruits, nuts, and berries for weeks,

But if he runs out of room, he can just use his cheeks!

It Was a Day

At the end of the day, when the cars are parked, the shoes are kicked off, and the animals (including the human ones) have been fed, my husband and I finally have a chance to discuss our days.

"How was your day?" I will ask. "It was a day," he invariably replies. These days, life is pretty good, but there was once a time when "it was a day" was code for "it really sucked, and i don't want to talk about it."

Good code. Today was a day for him. Tonight I will pray for what I don't understand, for what I don't even know. And tomorrow, which will be a better day, I'll continue to pray, because we all need it. Every "day" and every day.

###

Location:Home

B is for Blackbird

Becca Blackbird likes to bake.

Her neighbors love her chocolate cake.

But certain recipes she won't try

'Cause blackbirds never, ever eat pie!

OK.... My editor has chided me for not including a blackbird "fact" in this verse. So, I have recast to include something educational about blackbirds:

Becca Blackbird likes to bake.
Her neighbors love her chocolate cake.
She has many recipes she wants to try
'Cause blackbirds crave her berry pie!

A is for Alligator

Angela Alligator arises and greets every day

By brushing all 74 of her teeth the same way.

Upwards and sideways, with bristles so fine,

Such careful attention makes her smile really shine!

Snow, or Another Reason to Want to Skip Work Tomorrow

I love snow. I love standing at the window watching it pour to the ground, like God ripped open a sack of flour and its contents are spilling all over heaven's kitchen. I love the way it kisses the tops of branches, leaving the bottoms stark and bare to accentuate their lovely patterns. I love the way a good snowfall paints the landscape in a monochrome, proving to the world that the simplest beauty is the best.

What is there more calm and serene than snow falling silently on a cold night? Maybe that is why I love it so much: I'm jealous. I covet its calmness, its simplicity, its singular purpose. I have so little of that in my life, and i want it desperately.

Snow doesn't demand respect, reciprocity, or revenge. It has no interest in backbiting, bullying, or belittling. Tomorrow, it doesn't matter whether the office is closed, its opening delayed, or its workers all just forget to show up. Tomorrow, whether the roads are clear or mottled with commuters, I'll be in my chair, on time, as always, ready for another week. Tomorrow will be the opposite of snow.

Monday.

###

Location:Home

Oh, Thank Heaven

So, I finally got my act together and bought an app that would allow me to blog from the iPad, which actually belongs to work. Seriously, I am actually, really, truly, honestly researching the functionality of the thing because I think it would be cool to have all our account managers using them. If Apple is reading this, we would love to be product testers...

Anyway, nothing earth-shattering about this post. Just practicing typing on the iPad. So far, so good. It would be nice if the little kickstand on the case would act right. Guess I need to break it in some more.

I try to make it a practice not to talk about work in my blog (or anywhere else in my real life), but since I just admitted using a work tool for private use, I will throw work a little bone.

Alex, I work for the largest youth-serving organization in the United States. (If that isn't true, it's close, and it sounds good.) I love it. I love its mission, I subscribe to its beliefs, I follow its policies, sometimes blindly. Ok, always blindly.

For the past decade, I have been the editor for a series of adult training course materials that tout the benefits of servant leadership. The more I practice these theories myself, the more I would like to see every person in our organization take that course. I won't pretend to be good at servant leadership, but I will tell you that my heart is in the right place. Servant leadership needs to be tempered with discipline. And sometimes I am not the best at that, either.

But it's a new year, and i am determined to exercise servant leadership, discipline, and courage. I am keeping good notes about the year because my memory is nanosecond short. I owe my folks and my position the benefit of consistency, thoughtful decision-making, and emotional intelligence. Last year, as you know if you've read other posts, was a tough one personally for me; too many things going on outside the office to effectively deal with goings-on in the office. This year, I am forcing myself to balance. Work does not come home with me to the extent it once did. I am parcelling my time and scheduling deadlines. I am giving all my staff members a piece of myself, every day. I am attending my clients to effectively meet their needs, and I am doing what I. Can to educate them on how whey can help me help them.

So now I am rambling. And this was going to be a "practice" post... Ok, I'm done. Until tomorrow.

###

Location:Home

Where Are They Now?

I knew a boy in kindergarten. I never gave him much thought, except at Halloween. We made big black bats out of bulletin board paper and wrote our initials on them with chalk. We all laughed and commented as only sophisticated 5-year-olds could that his initials were like the cola: R.C. Later, he did the most valiant thing any boy ever did for me. He rescued me after the mean boys tied me to the fence by my coat's hoodie strings. Surely, there is a special place in heaven for the boy who ran all the way back from his place in the milk line to free me from the fear and shame that would surely have come. His name is Romondo Collins.

I knew a boy in elementary school who gave me one of the best compliments ever: a double-take! I was sick with chicken pox the week my new contact lenses came in, I returned to the playground with a brand new look the next week. I shouted and waved to my friend Dwayne Welsh as he ran full-out toward the basketball goal. He waved as he flew by, then stopped dead in his tracks and looked back. He smiled, and I was smitten forever.

I knew a girl in grade school who was on the really good basketball team. When it came time for my team--winless as we were--to take our licks on the court against them, all I wanted to do was show them that the Purple Panthers were nothing to snicker at. Taking seriously my role as captain and best player (that wasn't saying much), I found a fire in my belly that had never surfaced before. Disgusted at myself for a double-dribble (told you I wasn't that good), I stopped moving in preparation for the ref's shrieking whistle. It never came. And that no-good You-Know-Who-You-Are streaked past, stole the ball, and scored for her team. Like they needed it. And I hate her to this day.

I knew a girl in junior high who all the kids made fun of. She was slight and dark and quiet, and not particularly smart and not partiularly dumb. Once I took time to talk with her during Theater Arts class, and I found that she liked some of the same things as me! From then on, I would not allow anyone to speak ill of her in my presence. And I remember her name, but I won't post it here.

I knew a boy in high school who became my first true love. There really are no words for how I longed for him when we were away or for how my heart sang when we were together. He once brought me a beautiful rose he'd stolen from the neighbor's garden, and I thought it charming. Immaturity on both our parts sent us along our current courses, but he knows and I know that what we had was real. We cross paths every so often, and I can't help but wonder. Sure, I love my husband, but it's true what they say about your first love.

I knew a guy in college who taught me about art and English and how to be true to myself. He stood up for me when others treated me the same as that little girl from high school. He became one of my best friends. Together, we lamented his poor choices in women and English professors, and we tried our best to help him overcome his dyslexia. I adored him, even if he was an Aggie first. After graduation, he sent me postcards and Christmas cards and long letters from his posts all over the world. About 10 years ago, I wondered why the cards and letters stopped. A few months later, I found out: Lt. Paul Marion had been murdered in his home. I haven't recovered. TTOSBT, my friend.

All of these people shaped who I am today. Some for the good, some for the bad. But no matter what, they deserve my thanks. Who do you remember?

Old Pictures

Sorting through Mama's faded pictures, what is it I see?
A few old-timey strangers staring back at me.

Their drab clothes are old-fashioned but stylish for the day.
I think they must have really been those varied shades of gray.

From under his fedora, a gentleman smiles ahead.
His gaze is hypnotizing; my curiosity is fed.

I look a little closer look at his chin, his cheeks, his nose ...
And if I squint a little, I can see myself in those.

And a little bit of Mama, too; she has the same light eyes.
I think that's where I got mine, too; I wouldn't be surprised.

And there, right next to him, is a lovely flapper girl.
Together, they look ready to give this big ol' town a whirl.

She looks just like my Mama did a few decades ago.
Despite the lack of focus, her hopes and dreams all show.

I wonder what those long-ago folks would have thought of me.
I think I would have liked these members of my family.

I know them through the stories passed down through the years.
Their escapades are just the stuff I really love to hear.

So, are they really strangers, these folks I've never met?
Maybe in a way they are, but we're part of a matched set.

NSFW: My NYE Experience

Editor's note: Let me just preface by saying that I love these people. I really do. When they're sober. Drunk is entirely another matter.

This New Year's Eve, Scott and I attended a party thrown by and for his fantasy football league. This group of good-natured sports lovers has been drafting, trading, lamenting, trash-talking, and excessively celebrating in the endzone for the past 15 years. They pretty much live for August, and the culmination of the fall's fun is the annual New Year's Eve party, when the champion takes possession of the, yes, really, championship trophy.

Apparently, back in the day (before I was Mrs. Blair), these parties were legendary. There was a little drink (one of the guys' wives used to be a bartender), a little gaming (poker, board games, video games), and a little snacking, followed by a champagne toast at midnight. Sounds fun, right? Well, that must have been then. This is now.

A few new faces were present at this year's party, and they made this entire blog post possible, God bless 'em. Here's MOST of the blow-by-blow, painstakingly recreated from texts between Stefanie and me.

We walked in, and I staked out a seat on the couch. From there, I had the vantage point to see the entire room. I texted Stefanie: Pics to come.

I visited with Tater, the host's adorable Chihuahua, until the Unibomber walked in. Seriously. Hoodie in the house. I sent a photo to Stefanie, and it was appreciated. Someone knocked on the door, and a partygoer screamed: Come on in! Don't bother knocking ... if you gotta knock, you're at the wrong house! And we were off.

Greetings all around for the newcomer, and later I overheard this: I saw some nice looking ladies out there at the Walmart. All I could think of was to wonder whether there were fewer teeth or IQ points in the room.

And then the trophy arrived, carried by its own young, ahem, insert your own noun here. She looked like one of those ring girls from wrestling, and she immediately alerted us all that she had a tattoo, and yes, you could see it through her clothes. With that, she turned and bared her hiney to us, eradicating the need to see through her clothes at all. She then proclaimed that she was "Already getting naked and I ain't even started drinking yet!"

The traditional poker game started, and I found myself at a disadvantage: I could use only three of my senses. Sense of sight was out because the smoke was too thick, and hearing was out because the amount of SCREAMING in the room rendered me temporarily deaf. Why do drunks feel they must scream to be heard? Scott won the game, by the way. I guess being deaf in one ear has certain advantages.

At that point I was jolted out of my stupor by a drunk-text... I have no idea who it was, but they wanted to tell me that they hoped my new year was nice. I texted back: You too! :)

Stefanie tells me her party went south, so she was heading home. I should have done the same thing. At about that time, I sent Stef what could have been the night's most raw quote, but I just can't bring myself to print it. Ten minutes later, they were all telling each other how much they love each other. It was a drunk-love fest like I have never seen.

At that point, ring-girl announces, "I just felt something go up the crack of my ass!" Stefanie, intrigued, writes back: Reaaaallly? What was it?

Mark's hand, I replied.

It just went downhill from there. I can't even bring myself to print most of the rest. Let's just say that ring girl bared more than her ass, and then a rousing round of "Who can smack my ass the hardest" commenced. God, where was midnight?

Finally, the stroke of twelve hit. My ever-romantic husband handed me a plastic cup of very cheap champagne and planted a peck on my lips. He looked so very proud of himself. Then he disappeared to the other side of the room for more Little Smokies. It was about that time that someone dumped over an entire ice chest of water and beer ... onto the kitchen floor. Not a single person made a move to clean up the mess, but you better believe the beer was back in the cooler in under a minute. I looked up at my husband. He was texting.

I looked down at my phone, and read the message: My bad. I owe you for this. Ready to go?

It's times like this that I remember why I love my husband.

Writer's Block

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.