CSquaredPlus3

Just Doing My Job

We're in Arizona visiting my parents.  I spoke with Dad a few weeks ago...

"I have a 15-mile training run scheduled for the first Saturday we're in Scottsdale.  I'd like to run on trails if possible.  Anything close to your house?"

"We have some GREAT trails two or three miles from the house!  I'll send you a map!"

The map arrived in the mail.  I studied it and was concerned about the topography and elevation gain.  I was hoping for relatively flat trails.  I called Dad.

"I'm looking at this map... Looks kind of technical, Dad."

"You'll be fine. Those are GREAT trails!"

We arrived in Scottsdale after ten hours in the car with the three boys and the dog on Friday.  I had one beer, swam, ate some dinner and was in bed by 9:30 PM.  The alarm beeped at 4:00 AM, I got up, drank a cup of coffee, and ate half a peanut butter sandwich.  I loaded my water belt, and drove to the McDowell Sonoran Preserve near Mother and Dad's house.

The Death March Time Line

5:05 AM - I began running on the trail marked "easy".  I noticed immediately that it was not easy.  It turned left, then right, then left, then left, then right every 5-10 feet, was very rocky and I was already climbing steadily.  I determined it would be very important to pay attention to the trail so I wouldn't trip and fall.

5:40 AM - A Gila Monster was sitting in the middle of the trail 10-15 feet in front of me.  I stopped and waited for it to move.  It didn't move.  I tried to remember if Gila Monsters move quickly.  I told myself it was more afraid of me than I was of it and it didn't want to attack me.  I decided to run around the Gila Monster.  As I passed it on the left, it rapidly stomped it's feet and hissed like a cat.  Scared me to death.  I screamed and my adrenalin surged for the next three miles as paranoia now joined me on the run.

7:05 AM - Still running, hot, hungry [even though I was consuming gels] and feeling a little less paranoid because I finally saw a few people on the trails and assumed they would save me from venomous creatures.

8:00ish - Still running, unbelievably hot, but almost finished. I had fallen twice, my left knee was bleeding and I was dusty and salty.  I was unable to run many sections of the trail so I was out longer than I wanted to be.  I'm not acclimated to the heat and had forgotten how intense the Arizona sun is in July.

??? - I don't know exactly what time I finished, but I ran all 15 miles.  I drank lots of water and thought I'd properly recovered.  I called Mom to let her know I was okay and I was going to visit Dad at the golf course where he has a part-time job.

9:00 AM - I visited Dad.  We drove around in a golf cart and I met all his buddies.  I felt fine.  A little tired, but fine.  Dad suggested I visit Mamaw on the way home. I said, "But I'm gross." He shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head, indicating it didn't matter.

9:45 AM - I arrived at Mamaw's group home.  Sadly, she didn't recognize me...

"Mamaw.  It's me, Chrisy."

She smiled but I could tell she didn't know it was me.

"I'm gross, Mamaw.  I've been running... and I have braces now.  See?"  I showed her my teeth.

"Who are you running from?"

"No one.  I'm training for a marathon."

We visited for about 20 minutes and she finally knew who I was.  She commented many times on my braces.  "My, you have a mouthful," shaking her head.

10:15 AM - I told Mamaw I would return a few more times over the next week with Chris and the boys.  She seemed pleased.  We kissed good-bye and I headed towards Mom and Dad's house.

10:25 AM - Something went very wrong.  I felt disoriented and dizzy while driving.  I felt like I was going to vomit or have diarrhea or both.  I pulled over and called Chris.

"Hey, I'm not well.  I'm not sure where I am and I think I might faint."

Chris and Mom arrived 15 minutes later.  Chris drove me home and helped me into the house.  I told him I just wanted to lay on the tile floor.

After resting for an hour on the floor and drinking Gatorade, I began feeling better. I've experienced heat exhaustion before, but never three hours after a workout.  I think I was salt and potassium deficient.  I actually felt a little embarrassed because I know how to avoid these situations.

As I was laying on the floor shivering with chills, Mom brought me a pillow and a blanket.

I said, "Thanks for coming to get me Mom.  I feel like an idiot.  I'm sorry for the drama..."

"That's okay.  It's your job."

You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part -- the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity -- I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos -- she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

**********

For those who are interested... and me.  Well, me.

Mother said, "No."

Growing up, my mother was politically liberal, opposing my father's conservative bent, but raised us in a home with routine, structure and emphasized the importance of being considerate and kind to others. In hindsight, my borderline-hippie mother was very old fashioned in her parenting style.  I'm thankful.

I'm a day late with my tribute-to-Mom post.  There are many fabulous "Mother" stories to share, but I thought the following captures her well...

******************************

I was home from college for a visit when I was 19 or 20.  Even though I had no curfew while I was at school, Mother imposed one when I was home.  She said she worried and that I would understand some day.  Sometimes my curfew was midnight, sometimes it was 1:00 AM, but there was always a time I was to be home.  I also had to give her an itinerary.  She never checked, and we both knew I often fabricated where I would be, because going out with friends was just that... going out.  We didn't always know where the soiree would be happening, until we got there.

One night I drank too much at a party.  I spent the last two hours prior to curfew hugging a toilet in someone's apartment while strange guys peed in the bathtub behind me.  A good friend held my hair and assured me, no one "noticed" I was so sick.  The same good friend called my mother at midnight and politely told her I wasn't feeling well and we'd better spend the night at the apartment.  Mother said, "No."  She told my friend, I need to speak to Chrisy.  Now.

"Moh-hom, I'm sick.  I can't get in a car.  I'll die."

"You won't die.  Either [your friend] brings you home, or I'm coming to get you."

My friend drove me home because she was afraid of Mom.  Mother was waiting in the driveway in her bathrobe.  She gave my friend a dirty look, like it was her fault somehow that I was an idiot, and helped me into the house.

It was a long night.  I threw-up in my bathroom and in the bowl Mom left by my bed.  I moaned and groaned and made promises to God I swore I'd never break... but did.  Early the next morning, Mother came in my room.

"Does Dad know?"  I asked.

"No.  But I don't know how we can hide this.  Was it worth it?  Was. it. worth. it. CHRISTINA?!"

I cried and said no, and told her how terrible I felt.  She toggled between trying to help me feel better by being a good nurse, and scolding me.  One moment she was placing her hand on my forehead, offering me water and ice chips, asking if I was ready for a little toast and aspirin, all in a soft, compassionate voice.  Then, she'd furrow her brow and speak sternly, What were you thinking?  Does this feel gooood?  Does it?  Do you realize what could happen to you?  Anybody could take advantage of you.  Anybody.  Jesus.

Back and forth... compassionate, nursey Mom... then angry, disappointed, what the hell were you girls thinking? Mom.

She was like Shirley MacLaine as she stomped around my room in her bathrobe, shaking her head at me, giving me the business, opening my window because, "We need to get some fresh air in here... honestly, Chrisy."  Then on a dime, "Honey, I'm sorry you feel so sick... can I get you ANYthing?"  On.  Off.  Black.  White.  Anger.  Softness.  It was classic.  It was Mother.

She may have understood my situation more than I realized at the time.  I found these pictures of her when she was 19 and in her college dorm room.  I'm thinking Grease, a little more Rizzo than Sandy...

 

Mother met Dad one summer while on college break.  They married and three years later Mom gave birth to her first child.  Me.  Marriage and motherhood summoned Mom's inner Sandy... but Rizzo's still there.

 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Like a Training Bra

I was in the orthodontist's waiting room, thinking... Eighteen months?  Do I really want these on for eighteen months?  The Today show was on the television and I half listened to President Obama talk about the swine flu.  yeah, yeah, yeah... the CDC and the WHO don't know what the hell is going on yet...

The women behind the front desk were coiffed and smelled good.  Their voices dripped with the sweetness of saccharin as they spoke to one another.  Look. At. You!  I don't think I've EVER seen you in pink before... Gosh, you look pretty today!  When one woman would turn her focus back to a computer screen or files on a desk, the others would take in every detail of her appearance.  They all took turns participating in the covert operation of sizing each other up.  I stared at their teeth.

I got braces on my teeth last week.  Not Invisalign, but the old fashioned, silver, train track braces.  They're only on my top teeth with plans to add them to my bottom teeth in a month or two.  I've never had braces, nor have my kids, so this is a new experience for me.

I told Mother I had made the decision to get braces a few weeks ago...

Mom:  What's wrong with your teeth?!

I explained.

Mom:  Well... so much for saving money.  I thought you kids were trying to save money.

Me:  We have extra money this year in our tax-free medical spending account, Mom.  If we don't use it, we lose it, so I've figured out a moderate and responsible plan to contribute to the braces without draining the account in case we have an emergency.

Mom:  I still don't see what's wrong with your teeth...

Several of my friends have had braces and a few are wearing permanent retainers.  I've had plenty of people to call upon for encouragement, support and to answer my questions.  I'm comfortable with my decision and after nearly one week, I have no regrets.  Only 77 more weeks to go!

A friend asked me how my mouth was feeling.  The braces had only been on a couple of days.  I told her it was like my first training bra...

***********************************

When I was in the fifth grade I wanted a bra so badly.  I didn't need a bra.  At all.  Many of the popular girls were wearing them, so I believed I needed one too.  Mom took me shopping and we bought a training bra.  I loved how when I bent over to reach for something, the back straps were very visible.  I felt like a 35-year-old.  It was awesome!

I didn't wear the bra all the time, just when I wanted to look 35, like when I went to the skating rink on Saturday afternoons to skate.  Boys were there.  Lip gloss?  Check.  Pom-poms for skates?  Check.  Training bra?  Check.  Tight, satiny shirt so bra strap would be visible when I flexed my back?  Check.

Mom and I were going shopping one afternoon.  It was a big deal for the two of us to have a shopping day.  We had to drive from our small town, Winchester, to Muncie [Indiana] so we could shop at a real mall.  We usually dressed up and ate lunch in a restaurant.  I decided to wear the training bra.

Mom:  Chrisy, if you're going to wear the training bra, you need to wear it... all day.

Me:  I will, Mom.

As much as I liked having visible bra straps under my shirt, the training bra irritated me after about an hour.  If I was with Mother, she found a bathroom so I could remove the bra and she would carry it in her purse.

After an hour of shopping on this particular day, I couldn't take it anymore.

Me:  Mom, will you carry my training bra?  It's hurting me.

Mom:  Chrisy!  C'mon, you're fine.

Me:  I can't, Mom.  It's tight and rubs my skin funny.

Mom:  Take it off, but carry it in your own purse.

Me:  My purse is too small...

Mom:  Maybe from now on you shouldn't wear it when we leave the house. [Crushing, because that was the whole point, for THE WORLD to see that I was old enough for and possibly needed a bra.]

She took the bra and I don't think I wore it again for at least a year, maybe two.

***********************************

The braces?  Not uncomfortable at all for the first day.  Now?  My mouth is irritated, my teeth hurt, and I'd like my mother to carry them in her purse... for just a few hours.

Image of Darla from "Finding Nemo" courtesy of Google Images.

Hazel

Mom and Dad selected our first family pet from what they thought was a litter of Basset Hounds.  It was 1969, my brother Mallory Joe was a baby and I was three.  They named the puppy Hazel and as she grew, it was obvious she wasn't a Basset. 

 

Hazel had the short legs, long torso, keen sense of smell and a-ti-tude of a Basset, but her other parts weren't right.  Her snout was long and pointy like a Dachshund, and her ears and markings were Beagle-like.  Her head looked disproportionately small compared to her fat torso. [Fat is a bad word in our house, but she was... fat.]  She was an odd looking mutt and people often asked, "What kind of dog is that?" 

What I remember the most about Hazel:

Danger Was Her Middle Name...  Hazel chased cars.  It was terrifying to watch.  Her short legs moved shockingly fast as she tried to bite a car's tires.  We lived in a residential area so the occasional car moved at a much slower speed than we see today.  I'm sure this fact saved her life many times.  I vividly remember seeing Hazel hit by a motorcycle when she and I were both very young.  It rolled right over her, then she rolled several times like a Little Smokie to the curb.  Hazel walked away from the accident, but Mother swears she was never the same.  She became quieter and moved too slowly for her young age, Mom says, because she was in chronic pain.

No Touchy - When new kids played at our house, they naturally wanted to pet Hazel.  My whole family could see a child approaching Hazel with enhanced peripheral vision.  We would simultaneously yell, "DON'T PET THE DOG!"  Then we'd laugh nervously, "Uh... she might bite."  Hazel was great with our immediate family, but snapped at anyone else who approached her.  She was fine with others in the house if they simply left her alone.  Eventually, only our closest friends were comfortable playing at our house.  We had the "mean dog".  But she wasn't.  She was a dog in pain.

Hold Your Cookie Up! - Hazel could smell a cookie from anywhere in the city.  She didn't move quickly though, more like Eeyore, probably because of her car chasing accidents.  But if a careless child held a cookie anywhere other than over their head, Hazel got it.  She sometimes got a finger too.  Mom would give us and our friends cookies, instruct us to, "Hold your cookie up.  I mean it.  Over your head.  HIGHER!  Go outside with it.  Quick.  I'll block Hazel."  And she did.

One-Trick Pony - Hazel didn't sit, stay, come, fetch, or anything else Hazel didn't feel like doing.  Hazel could "sit-up" and she did it well.  She sat square on her fat butt, posture-perfect [like a chubby ballerina] and begged for food.  She looked like a fire hydrant and could hold the position for several minutes.

Hazel was about 11-years-old when Mom determined it was time to put her down.  Hazel was suffering from cancer.  It was time.  We all cried, but knew it was the right thing to do.

 

Yesterday, Chris and I were in the park with friends and our conversation turned to dogs.  As we shared various dog stories, I thought of Hazel for the first time in years.  I joked that I grew up with a "DON'T PET THE DOG!" dog.

Awkward Segue:  This morning, I watched a YouTube video my mother emailed me.  It's about an 88-year-old woman who's the mayor of a Canadian city.  Her name is Hazel.

My Money's on Miss Piggy

Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.

... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."

One of our sons has been bullied recently.  He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation.  The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately.  I'm confident of this.

My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade.  We were raised to be lovers, not fighters.  No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated... Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory.  People aren't weird, she would say, they're... different.  

Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying.  I don't think Mom knew how bad it was.  She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones... all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words.  Mallory Joe did what Mom said... and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.

One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken.  Mother asked him what had happened.  I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.

She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon.  She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.

I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home.  Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Miss Piggy

He Just Wanted to Say "Suck"

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy are in Arizona visiting my parents for a few days.  Their school dismissed them at noon last Friday for a two-week spring break.  We all need it.  We're trying to conserve money and minimize stress, so we chose not to take a family vacation.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy were happy with the alternative we presented.  The chance to fly solo to see their grandparents, and enjoy valuable and rare one-on-one time.  The boys love it, and so do my parents.  The boys follow our rules better than Mom and Dad though.

Mom particularly enjoys pushing the limit.  She never does anything terrible, but things she knows we'd probably not do.  I don't know why she enjoys this so much.  For example, when Oldest Boy was six he was into marbles.  She said she had the perfect bag for him to store and carry his marbles.  A velvet, Crown Royal bag.  He didn't know what it was, but Mom loved the idea of a little boy carrying around a Crown Royal bag.  He still has it.

Before they were out of diapers, the boys were saying "Salud!" and trying to clink their sippy cups with other kids, thanks to Mom. 

They came home from an Arizona visit last summer with a picture of a dead snake.  Mom saw a coyote walking behind their property with the snake it's mouth.  She and the boys followed the coyote and when it dropped the dead rattlesnake, Mom took a picture of the chewed-on snake corpse for their scrapbook.  Cute.

Toddler Child declares anything gross or unpleasant, "Caca!  Kay-Kay says so!"  [The kids call Mother Kay-Kay after her attempts to have Oldest Boy call her "Nana Kaye Anna" failed.]

I called Mom and Dad's house yesterday to see how things were going.  Oldest Boy told me they were watching the movie Gremlins on television.  They'd never seen it and he was enjoying it.  Middle Boy shared the same information, but could hardly contain himself when he said, "Guess what channel the movie's on, Mom?  It's called Movies That Don't Suck."

"Hey.  You just wanted to say 'suck'."

"No, Mom.  That's what it's called.  Really."

The boys and I said our goodbyes, then Mother got back on the phone.  "Middle Boy could hardly wait to tell me about the channel Movies That Don't Suck."

"Well... that is what it's called, Honey.  There's one of those little logos on the bottom of the screen."

"Just so you know... we prefer the kids not say 'suck'."

I heard her sigh heavily, and I'm certain her eyeballs rolled back as she said, "All right.

Three Good Things

Chris and I were talking this morning about how heavy things feel, for all of us.  None of us [or very few of us] are completely insulated from what's happening with the economy.  It's a difficult, stressful time and not knowing what the next several months will bring, compounds the heaviness.

There are always things for which we are thankful.  We know this.  And after we have discussions where we review the worst case scenarios, we take a breath and remind ourselves of the good things.

Mom and Dad lived for a few years in Caracas, Venezuela right after Chris and I were married.  As a Christmas gift one year, Dad flew Chris, my brother Mallory Joe and me to South America for a couple of weeks.  I think it was a gift for Mom and Dad too.

On the surface, everything appeared wonderful.  Mom had spent much of her childhood in the Philippines so she spoke Spanish well and had experience living as an expat.  Mom and Dad lived in a beautiful penthouse apartment overlooking the new U.S. Embassy, had a full-time driver, maid and memberships to a prestigious country club.  Two months prior to the move Dad had been diagnosed with kidney cancer, had surgery to remove a kidney and was sent to Venezuela with a clean bill of health.  Life is good!  Right?  Well...

Mom's birthday is three days before Christmas and she was turning 50 that year.  She missed her friends, understandably.  Navigating life in a foreign country where only 3% of the people spoke English [statistic per Mother, at the time], required her to rely on the Spanish she hadn't used for years and it exhausted her.  We were out for lunch one day and she was trying to order sandwiches for all of us.  She became frustrated, looked at me and said, "I can't remember how the hell to say mustard in Spanish.  Can we lose the mustard?"

One afternoon, Dad was at work, Chris and my brother Mallory Joe were playing ping-pong, drinking Venezuelan beer [Polar tasted good.  Chris and Mallory Joe consumed it daily while playing ping-pong.] and Mom and I were sneaking a smoke on her veranda.

Mom said, "I don't know what to do.  This has just been so difficult."

We discussed various solutions, all involving travel and being away from Dad longer than she felt was reasonable.  She recognized she was tired and in a funk due to the many life stressors she'd just endured.  A major move, culture shock, a husband with a cancer diagnosis, finding homes for three animals she loved dearly prior to the move, turning 50, and missing her family and friends.  She knew she simply needed to keep moving forward.

She vented about the difficulties of living in Caracas.  There were many - all legitimate.

I said, "But Mom, there are some neat things about living here.  Can you think of just three good things?"

She thought...

"The birds are beautiful.  I love seeing parrots and macaws flying.  Free."

"And the orchids.  I can grow orchids on my veranda.  I've never been able to grow orchids like this.  Aren't they beautiful?"  [Mom has always loved gardening, so this was important and valued.]

She was looking a little perkier as she lit another cigarette.  We sat quietly while she thought.

Finally she said, "And when your father and I go out to eat, and I order a drink... anywhere... they bring you the whole bottle, even if it's Grey Goose, and set it right. On. The. Table."

I'd like one. Seriously.

When I was in Arizona last weekend, Mom and I were standing in the kitchen in our pajamas one evening, chatting as we thumbed through some magazines.  The new People had arrived that day, which Dad had quickly grabbed and was reading in his bed.  I was loitering before going to bed myself, knowing Dad only takes about 10 minutes to get up to speed on the celebrities he doesn't know, so I could take the magazine to bed with me.

Mom was looking at Time magazine and she shook her head and said, "Idiots.  Anyone who would buy this is an idiot."  Curious, I moved closer and looked over her shoulder.  I said, "Those are great!  It's simple genius.  Someone's rich because of that idea.  I actually want one."

"Are you serious?  All it is, is a robe backwards."

Looking at the robe she was wearing, I said, "No it's not.  The neck's specific to the Snuggie.  The seaming on your robe would strangle you."

She removed her robe.  "Allow me to demonstrate. [she put her robe on backwards]  Wa-lah!  IT'S A ROBE BACKWARDS!"

Her's was a blue, crisp-cotton, not-fuzzy, belted robe with a collar.  I said, "That's not right.  It looks like it's strangling you.  The Snuggie's seaming is better.  Plus your fabric's not cozy.  I think the Snuggie's genius."

She rolled her eyes and said, "Follow me."

We walked into her and Dad's bedroom.  Dad comfortably reading his People magazine said, "I'm almost done, then you can have the magazine.  [poor guy]  What's so funny out there?"

"Mom's all uptight about the Snuggie.  She says anyone who buys one is an idiot because all you have to do is wear your robe backwards.  She flipped hers around, but she looked strangled and uncomfortable."

Mom appears out of her closet holding a blue, fuzzy robe.  "THIS.  THIS COULD BE A SNUGGIE."

I was still skeptical.  "It looks too short.  The Snuggie people have their legs covered, and can tuck a child in there with them.  It's roomier."

"IT'S A ROBE BACKWARDS.  You're telling me you'd schlep a long Snuggie through the dirt to sit by a campfire.  Who does that?  It's a waste of money.  There's plenty of room in my robe for a child.  Look!"

She put the robe on backwards.  Then she put it on my Dad.

She made me try it on too, and I have to admit, it was comfortable, roomy and a nice length.

Mother had made her point and felt victorious!  [Notice her smug thumbs-up and all-knowing grin.]

After Mom's victory prance and "I told you so" and "uh-huh" rhetoric, I said I still thought the Snuggie was genius and I'd like to have one.

Dad sympathetically said, "Kaye, we should get the girl a Snuggie."

Mom said, "Idiots."

NOTE:  Chris forwarded me this article from Advertising Age.  It basically attributes the Snuggie's success to advertising and marketing [surprise surprise].  There's a waiting list for Snuggies! 

I think we'll be able to buff that right out...

Toddler Child and I are in Arizona.  We flew here on Thursday and return to Utah later this afternoon.  I'm here primarily to visit my grandmother - Mamaw - and I have Toddler Child with me because I lost the bet.  We're staying with Mom and Dad and things are going fine, although I'm tired. 

I'll post more about my time with Mamaw when I get home.  She's failing but it was wonderful to see her.

Toddler Child has a cold. [Of course.  I'm traveling alone with him.]  He developed symptoms about 20 minutes after we got off the plane in Phoenix.  This was after he spent the flight yelling, "Captain!  I need some orange juice!  Captain! Caaaaptain!"

Mom let me borrow her car to run to the store to get cold medicine.  I'll make this short.  I hit the house.  Backed right into it. In my defense, my car beeps when I get too near something [like a house] when I'm in reverse.  Her's does not.  My car has large windows and excellent visibility.  She drives a tiny convertible - like a clown car - with small windows and poor visibility.  It's like driving with a bag over your head.

I pulled the car back into the garage and entered the house to confess, only after contemplating if Mom and Dad would notice the damage to the car... and... the house.  I couldn't fly this one under radar.

"Hey, Mom."  She looked up from her spot on the floor playing with Toddler Child.  "I hit the house.  Sorry."

I'm a terrible driver, as shared in item number one in this post.  These things don't surprise or alarm my parents or husband.  When Chris and I were first married, I parked the car in our garage, on top of the lawn mower.

I showed Mom the damage, told her we'd pay for the repairs and went to the store.  Dad had been in their bedroom/bathroom showering after a bike ride.  Coincidentally, the part of the house that I hit.

When I returned from the store, Dad was in his office.  I walked in to tell him what I'd done and apologize.  He said he was in the shower when he heard and felt the "impact".  I asked him what he thought it was.  He said, "I figured Chrisy hit the house." 

Thanks.

The Magic Dress

Mother and I enjoy shopping together.  We always have.  When I was a young girl, we'd drive from Winchester, Indiana, to Muncie for mother-daughter shopping days.  Even though I was as young as eight, I really believe Mom valued me as a shopping partner.

Now that we're older the only trouble we occasionally have is that we head out in the morning, take a lunch break with a bottle of wine, then shop some more and end up buying matching outfits.  We live in different states so it's really not a problem.  Other than that one time we met in Las Vegas a few years ago and had packed a few of the same sweaters.  We worked it out [they looked better on me].

Mom took a trip to Indiana in early October and spent the last day with a friend in Indianapolis.  They shopped a little and Mom's friend wanted to go in a store Mother and I never go to because it looks... trashy.  Much to her surprise, Mom left the store with a new dress (happened to be a dress her friend purchased too).

Mom called me when she returned to Arizona...

Mom:  Chrisy, you have got to go to [trashy store].  Marsha shops there and I was watching her try some things on, and she tried on the cutest dress.  I was just waiting for her, so I tried it on too.  It. Is. Fabulous.  It's black, has a perfect neckline, fitted three-quarter sleeves, perfect length.  I'm telling you, you've got to go try it on.

Me:  Did you buy it?

Mom:  YES.  We both bought it.  It's made of this magic fabric.  It's like a big Spanx, only a little thicker.  It holds everything in.  I'm telling you, it's unbelievable.

Me:  How much was it?

Mom:  Under $200.  Get the dress.

Three months later...
I was returning a few things after Christmas.  I popped in [trashy store] and said, "I've never been in here, but my mom bought a dress a few months ago... you probably don't have it anymore.  It's black, three-quarter length sleeves, wide belt, and she says it's made with some magic fabric, like Spanx."

The salesgirl took me immediately to the dress.  I tried it on and Mother was right.  It's fabulous.  It looked good with my stubbly legs and grey wool socks.  I bought the dress.

Two days ago...
I was talking on the phone with my girlfriend Rena who lives in Texas.  She has more occasions to wear nice clothes than I do, enjoys well fitting clothes and appreciates a bargain.  She's a shopper too.  I told Rena about the dress, Mother,  Marsha, magic fabric, etc. ...

Yesterday - Email from Rena...

Subject:  Magic Dress

Okay, I got it!  And the votes are in – it is fabulous.  My little kids were expecting it to do something other than look great when I called it “magic.”  Mother agreed that it is a beautiful shape and that the belt made it.  [Private girl-talk discussing our sizes and weight.]

Mother thought it was so adorable when I told her that you were NOT sharing the dress with any other woman in Utah, but that you had to tell me about it.  [More private girl-talk.]

Hey, what about a tan – I need one on my legs if I’m going to wear the dress without hose.  Know a good fake tan product?  I haven’t looked at those products in over 25 yrs.  Let me know if you have a recommendation. [If anyone has recommendations, Rena and I would both be interested.  More private girl-talk.]

Love you for sharing and ... [Compliment from Rena that makes me blush.]

Rena

So, as long as Marsha in Indiana, Mother in Arizona, Rena in Texas, and I... don't attend the same function having grabbed our little black, Magic Dress, I think we're good.

Putting toothpaste back in the tube - that's what I'm doing.

Happy new year.  I don't want to add an exclamation point - a few people might be tired and headachey.  I'm tired, but my head's fine.

All the Christmas stuff that was *fun* to drag out and place around the house, now looks like clutter and has to be returned to boxes and the closet.  Not *fun*.  Chris tweaked his back a couple days ago, so he can't lift or bend very well.  The tree might remain in our family room with the top third of it decorated until he feels better.

A few things I've learned recently, that I should already know at my age...

• Don't pluck your eyebrows when you've been drinking.
• Sometimes severe flatulence in the car can linger for days, even if you have leather seats AND spray enough Lysol to make a small child retarded.  [I didn't do it - fart, that is.]
• We buy our kids too much on Christmas and say we won't make the same mistake next year.  We will NOT make the same mistake next year.
• When you're flambeing something - don't blow on it.
• Don't get all excited when your mother's in town helping you get the decorations OUT, and all tied, stapled and glue-gunned to the house.  Because your mother LEAVES and you have to undo all that crap by yourself.
• When Toddler Child says he wants a stick so he can give the snowman an arm and help "like the Big Boys", guide his arm placement.

Wishing everyone health, happiness, and the courage, strength and peace to handle what life throws your way in 2009! 

NOTE:  Chris just read this and wants it known that he didn't have the severe flatulence in the car either.

Christmas 2008 - The End

I'm certain everyone's tired of looking at, and reading about Christmas trees, cute kids and food.  This is the last from me.  Promise.

I posted a photo of our naked tree a few weeks ago.  It stayed naked for several days, and I really liked how it looked all undressed.  A couple of people [literally two] wanted to see it decorated.  Some of the ornaments are as old as I am, some are made by the kids, and some are from the grocery store "impulse buy" section near the gum, videos, and *warm french bread [*every day at 4:00!].

Other than having a tall ceiling, our family room isn't very big, so it was difficult to get a photograph of the tree in it's entirety.  Apologies for three unusual shots.

My parents spent Christmas with us.  Mother's birthday is December 22nd and I had intentions of doing a post in her honor.  I'll do that... later.  Mom and Dad arrived on her birthday after a long, snowy drive from Arizona to Utah.  We celebrated.

 

Christmas week, we went sledding, worked on a puzzle, ate and drank, shoveled snow, built an igloo in the backyard, relaxed, ate and drank some more, and shoveled more snow.

 

I made Beef Wellington for the first time EVER.  [Sorry Sherri, I know you're a vegetarian, so don't look at this or click to enlarge.  It's a big hunk of "tortured flesh" - John Robbins' words, not mine.]

 

The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were fewer this year.  I know many of us felt it.  I was mailing Christmas letters on the 24th, and I have a few more to address.

Christmas morning arrived even though I wasn't quite ready for it.  And everything was just. fine.  It was better than fine.  It was peaceful, there was falling snow, and we were all happy to share time together.

The economy dampens my spirit, and increases my stress.  It affects us all.  Chris and I are taking things a day at a time and trying to focus on what's important, and release the things we can't control.  [Remind me I said that when I freak out - please.]  I hope everyone was/is able to enjoy the simple things this holiday season.

Mary in her pretty dress...

 

My brother, my friend.

My brother Mallory Joe has always been one of my closest friends.  He's my only sibling and I'm older by three years. 

NOTE:  I only refer to him as Mallory in a loving way.  Our personalities were parallel to Alex and Mallory Keaton on the 1980s show Family Ties.  I was like Alex and Joe was like Mallory.  We've always been able to laugh at ourselves... and each other.

Growing up, friends teased us.  They said it was weird that we got along so well.  "Chrisy and Joey never fight.  So weird."  It was true - mostly.  We generally got along and played well together as young kids, and as teenagers we were tight.

I attribute this NOT to any inherent kindness or gentleness within my brother Mallory Joe or me, but to Mother.  On the occasion we had a kid fight, she would say and do the following:

1. If we hit one another then tattled, Mom would say, "Chrisy, if you really need to hit your brother, go ahead.  I'll just watch.  Go on now.  Hit him.  What?  You don't want to.  Joey, maybe you'd like to hit your sister?  Come on... let her have it."  My brother Mallory Joe and I would look at each other like she was sooo stupid, and try not to laugh.  It worked though.

2. She dramatically lectured us after each argument about how there's NO ONE in the ENTIRE world as close as siblings.  The BLOOD that ran through our veins was sibling blood.  Not even she and Dad were that close.  NOTHING was more important than the relationship between siblings.  The lecture was powerful every time I heard it.

3. Mother always made us apologize, hug and say I love you.  Always.

Except... for the times she wasn't there to lead us in a rousing rendition of Kumbaya.  We relied on our training to find Shangri-La, and it usually went something like this...

[My brother Mallory Joe 17, me 19 (home from college for a weekend), ending an argument about something important like, what kind of drink he should (beer) or should NOT (a Blue Hawaiian - duh) order when I get he and his friends into a bar when they visit me at school and ALL sleep in my dorm room.]

Joe:  You're just an uptight bitch!
Me:  YOU'RE an uptight bitch!
Joe:  Ha ha.  Bitch.
Me:  Bitch.
Joe:  You're an idiot.
Me:  You're a bitch.

[...]

Joe:  Wanna go sit on the swing set and have a cigarette?
Me:  I don't have any.
Joe:  I do.
Me:  Okay...  I'm sorry.
Joe.  I'm sorry too.

We hug.  My brother Mallory Joe gets the cigarettes and a lighter.  We climb to the top of an old swing set in the backyard.  It's dark.  We sit quietly, and share one cigarette between the two of us.

Me:  Are you sure the neighbors can't see us?
Joe:  No.  Just hide the cherry.

[...]

Joe:  Hurry.  Here they come.
Me:  How can you tell?
Joe:  I know their lights.  Give me the smoke!  Go!

I hand my brother Mallory Joe the cigarette, run inside the house, grab his Polo Cologne and spray it all over myself and him as he comes in the back door.  We hear the garage door open.  We frantically wash our hands, run to the couch, assume relaxed positions and turn on the Weird Science video we'd rented for the 10th time that year.

Mom and Dad walk in, smile at each other and say, "Isn't it nice to see the kids enjoying each other?"

Kumbaya.  Puff-puff.

Does it hurt? Will it make me pretty? I'll do it!

Chris received an email recently from a business acquaintance who's launching a new web service.  It's called Beta Test Beauty and it's "...a market research service for skin and beauty-care makers..." They're seeking people who are interested in sampling products then answering a survey.  The products are provided free and participants will be paid.  I've signed up, but have no personal experience to share yet - good or bad.  Check it out if you'd like.

My Beauty Philosophy (today)
I don't begrudge any person for wanting to look attractive.  I currently don't judge women or men who choose to use Botox, Fillers, Thermage, Lasers, etc... if it enhances their self esteem.  I also admire those people who are at peace with their appearance and don't feel the need to moisturize, plump, fluff or pluck.  How freeing that must be.

My Skin History (like you care)
In the 1970s I recall laying in the sun with Mother.  If I was reading a book, resulting in my face looking down towards my lap, she would lovingly say, "Chrisy, tilt your head back.  Your face needs a little sun."  I was eleven.  She was only trying to be helpful.

In the 1980s I lifeguarded during the summers throughout high school and college.  I never wore sunscreen.  Ever.  On my days off, I sunbathed in a bikini so I wouldn't have Speedo tan lines.

During the winters while attending college at NAU in Flagstaff, Arizona, I worked at Snowbowl - a ski area - in the Rental Shop.  I loved having a tan face from skiing, and often sat outside during my work breaks, tipping my face to the strong, mountain sun.  No sunscreen.  Ever.

In the 1990s Chris and I raced mountain bikes.  The unique tan lines cyclists get are a badge of honor, but for a gal, not so pretty.  When not riding, I sunbathed to even out my tan.  For hours.  Again, no sunscreen.

Ruh-Roh (not looking like the other girls my age?)
When I turned 35 in 2001, I looked in the mirror and said, "Shit."  Years of sun worship had taken their toll.  I vowed to use sunscreen daily, leave behind my tanorexia, and pursue safe wrinkle-reducing creams and strategies.  Pale is *pretty*, I decided.  I also became a marketer's dream.

The Products (you name it, I tried it)
I've tried everything over the past seven years.  Expensive, inexpensive, and infomercial products.

Little by little my skin began looking better. 

I can't tell you if it was Creme De La Mer, Darphin, La Prairie, Strivectin, Mary Kay, faithful sunscreen usage, or Kathie Lee Gifford's stuff on QVC.  Maybe a combination of everything, but there was a definite improvement.  The fact that I hadn't been baking my skin for a few years helped, I'm certain.

Then, I plateaued around the age of 40.  Nothing seemed to work any more.

Mother (trying to be helpful, and usually right)
"You know Honey, a little Botox and Filler wouldn't hurt you...  I really like that More magazine.  You should read it..."  She's been trying to get me to read More since I was 35 and accused her of prematurely aging me. [FYI, Mother has only heard that Botox and Filler are a "good thing".]

Botox and Filler vs. Expensive Creams? (laughing, snickering, winking with those who know)
So I did it .  Not a lot of it, and only a couple of times.  Mother took me in July of 2007 and I got some Botox and Filler.  To be honest, it was too much Botox and since then, I've found the amount that softens deep lines without affecting expression.  I've been told by close friends that it's so subtle, why do I bother?  Because it makes me feel better.  That's why.

The only creams I use on my face now are Retin-A and Neutrogena SPF 45.

Confessions
1.  Even though I signed up for the Beta Test Beauty project, I can't imagine I'll ever return to spending money on creams and serums.  Retin-A, sunscreen, and a little Botox twice a year...  I'm good.  Even if I don't do Botox - the Retin-A and sunscreen are better than anything I've done prior.  [Mother gets me Retin-A in Mexico.  Shhh.]

2.  I like More magazine.  I don't have a subscription, but I pick up an issue occasionally.

3.  Mother was right.  She usually is.  Except for the part where she prematurely aged my skin.

4.  I haven't had Botox in over six months and it REALLY does leave the body in 3-4 months.  I didn't believe people who said that, until I'd done it myself and felt sad when it's effects were gone.  I don't know when I'll do it again, but I will, and it won't be very much, but I'll feel happy, even if no one else notices.

5.  I had Filler in my nasal labial folds - the parenthesis on each side of the mouth.  FYI, Botox does not hurt.  Filler hurts.

Moral of the Story
Whether you're choosing to age naturally or... not... Use hair color, hair remover, moisturizers, sunscreen, make-up or... not... Let's try not to judge one another.  I don't get professional manicures...  you don't bleach your mustache.  We can still be friends.

Just a few more...

I've been tagged by two people for the same meme.  Tristan, who blogs but you can't go to her site because it's not for the puh-blic, tagged me, and so did Mrs. Maxwell.  It's a "7 Random Things" tag so I'll make it short.  I was tagged with a similar meme in August that you can read here if you're interested.

1.  I HATE scary movies.

2.  I've never brined a turkey, but I'm giving it a try this Thanksgiving.

3.  Chris (my husband) and I have the same initials and similar names.  He's Christopher Alan Ross, and I'm Christina Ann Ross.  When we were married and received our first set of checks with our full names on the top, I was concerned people might think I/he/we were a transsexual in the process of gender reassignment surgery.  [Chris was disturbed that I could think of such a thing.]

4.  I carry packets of Taco Bell Mild Sauce in my purse so I can occasionally rip them open with my teeth and swallow a squirt while driving.  I love Taco Bell Mild Sauce.

5.  Mary (our dog) escaped yesterday and was gone for an hour.  When she returned home, I was convinced she'd been violated.  Mother told me it was impossible because Mary's been fixed and unless coyotes held her little arms down, an unwanted dog assault simply could NOT happen.  [This thought disturbs Chris too.]

6.  I like to sneeze and poop.  Not at the same time.

7.  I spend too much time alone.

I promise to not do one of these again for a long time.  TMI and my filters are all distorted.  I apologize.  If you'd like to participate, consider yourself tagged.  Go!

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. So does watching old home movies...

It's Monday, and it's raining.  Oldest Boy had a hard time getting up this morning so I sang The Carpenter's song to him.  Funny, it didn't help.

Chris spent time over the weekend transferring old Hi8 tapes to our computer.  [We recently converted to Macs and the easy, intuitive part hasn't kicked in yet for me.  I use this large-screened, high-powered computer like a $500 PC.  I don't know what I'm doing.]  The tapes transferred in real time and were displayed on the computer screen during the process.  We all enjoyed checking out what was playing throughout the weekend.  Oldest Boy couldn't take his eyes off himself.

Watching footage from 9-12 years ago left Chris and me both feeling...  unique.  Not good and not bad.  It's intense.  I enjoy watching video of recent events, but the emotions that accompany viewing life when significant time has passed - are heavy.

I saw my grandfather, who's now deceased.  And my grandmother, who's physically and cognitively deteriorated.  It was almost too much.  Too much feeling.  I wanted to jump into the computer - to go back - and at the same time, look away. 

Watching the births (not literally - I was opposed to the actual birth being filmed) of Oldest and Middle Boy left me stirred.  Seeing glimpses of our life 10 years ago was conflicting.  The scenes captured were happy and cute, but I remember the moments when I was less patient, uptight about unimportant things, and I want the opportunity to right those.  I know Mother and Mamaw would both say, "Honey, I understand."

I just spoke with Em on the phone. (She's a dear fleshly friend who is NOT jealous of my bloggy friends - is that better Em?)  Her father passed away much too young a few years ago.  She said it's hard to watch video of her dad, but she finds comfort in it too.  We concluded that maybe the more we view images, the confusing, intense emotions will soften.  I don't know...

If I knew how to pull a few seconds of the transferred data in iMovie to imbed in my post, I would.  If it wasn't a rainy Monday, I bet I could figure it out.

 

We're all feeling a little melancholy today.  Dumb Carpenters.

It never fails.

Chris doesn't travel that much for work.  He has two, one-week-long commitments each year for his employer.  One is in June, the other in October.  He's away now.

I can count on a couple of things happening when Chris travels.

1)  I always get sick.  Not "gonna die" sick, but functioning sick.  Just enough to feel crummy and want to rest.  Chris left our home at 4:30 a.m. on Saturday.  At 1:30 a.m. - three hours before he departed - I was hit with a head cold.  I woke him up.  "Hey.  I'm sick.  Isn't that unfrickin believable?  Always happens when you leave town.  Sorry to wake you."

2)  At least one of the kids vomits in the middle of the night.  I'm not talking about a child waking you up saying their stomach hurts, and you gently guide them to the toilet, they get sick, you brush their teeth and put them back to bed. 

I'm talking about a child running into your room crying and gasping, the smell preceding them, you jump from your bed to the child, pick them up or push them hard, and get them to the bathroom so they can spit the last teaspoon of sick into a toilet.  The rest of the sick has hit every linen on their bed (including the dust ruffle), the wall (including baseboards), and marked a trail on the carpet from their room to yours.  A Hansel and Gretel technique.

The good news is, we've not had a vomit incident.  I hesitate to even type that.  Chris would shush me and call me crazy for giving this a voice.  He's not superstitious, but he would consider this too serious to tempt.

The bad news is, I'm sick.  Mother would say, "Lets focus on the positives!

• The kids aren't sick!  Well, except Toddler Child, but that's just a little congestion.
• Everyone's finally sleeping through the night!  [It's honestly been years in our house.]
• You have the WHOLE bed to yourself!
• Your hair's been looking much better lately!
• Oh, and you're not pregnant!"

Tru Dat

I'm not hip, although every once in a while a word from the Urban Dictionary comes out of my mouth and I'm proud that I recalled it from somewhere, and used the word correctly.

Neil at Citizen of the Month posted about slang today after needing to google a few words contained in some comments he received on a prior post.  The seven of you who read my blog (see note) most likely have already read Neil's post, so this is a "department of redundancy department" post on my part.

NOTE:  I used to say I had three readers, but I feel confident upping that number to seven.  Although, my family is no longer a part of that total.  My Dad doesn't "believe in blogs".  He says he doesn't like it when people express private emotions publicly, and politely told me he wouldn't be reading my blog, but it was "nice" that I had one.  Mother's busy.  She plays bridge, shops, and takes stuff back.  She checks a post once every couple of months.  My brother Mallory Joe loses addresses and phone numbers.  I think he's still looking for the link I've sent him a few dozen times.  I'm pretty sure I annoy the rest of my family.  It's okay.  Really.

Neil references an article in his mother's AARP magazine that lists 50 words kids are using these days.  He challenges his readers' knowledge of these words.  It's entertaining, and I was only familiar with a handful.  I'm 42.

Made me think of a few overused words and phrases that I've used in an effort to be hip, and I see on many other blogs.

• hawt - let's just all go back to typing "hot".
• whatevah - again, "whatever" conveys it just fine.
• I'm just sayin' - TMZ's been using this for years, not that I go to that site...
• ahem -This is a nice word.  We're all using it too frequently.
• dude - on occasion this works, but there's a new breed of young women who pepper their posts with "Dude!".
• Dooce-ease - Some may disagree with me, but I think Dooce is a good writer and I believe she's tapped into the psyche of many which is why she's so popular.  She has an identifiable writing style that I see imitated frequently when I blog surf.  Dooce's style sometimes gets old on her site, so to see so many others use phrases like, "..and then I was all...", " and he was all...", or "Dude...".  She's a female "dude" user that can get away with it.  Usually.  The rest of us need to think twice before throwing in a "dude" in an effort to be hip.
• Gawd  - God works.  We don't need to spell it incorrectly in an effort to avoid saying His name in vain.  He'll still love us.
• heh-heh or huh-huh or Beavis & Butthead laugh - Yawn.  I thought it was funny the first time I used it in a post too.  I'm so clever... duh.

I think I'll quit before I alienate all seven of you.  Remember.  I stand before you, guilty of using all overused hip-terms and imitating other bloggers.

Check out Neil's post.  He links to the AARP article, but you can also click here to read it.

Peace out.¹

¹From the Urban Dictionary:  1. A slang term telling someone good-bye, used with a hand gesture in which you pound your chest with your fist twice, then give the peace sign.

Blog Awards Confession

Blog awards.  I don't know what they are or what to do with them.  I really don't.  I don't know where they originated, and once I'm notified someone has one for me, I don't know how to "get it" or where to "put it".  I'm genuinely flattered and thankful for the three I've received so far.

Thank you Jennifer from My Chaotic Peace for my first blog award.  You kindly notified me, I kindly went to your blog and said "thank you".  But then I didn't know what to do.

Thank you Mrs. D. from Dash of Crazy for my second and third awards.  Again, I was kindly notified, and I visited your blog to say thanks.  But then I didn't know what to do.

When people ask me what kind of computer I have, I used to say beige.  Now I can say grey.  I'm not up on technical tricks.  I can type.  Pretty fast actually.

I went to the bookstore a couple of weeks ago to get some books on HTML and CSS because I have some design ideas for my blog.  My blog.  The hobby that makes no money, and pulls me away from puttering, mothering, wifing, and has actually resulted in me screening phone calls, because I'm too busy (blogging or reading blogs) to take the call.  Pathetic. 

I can intellectually understand what the HTML and CSS books say.  I don't have enough uninterrupted time to tinker on this new compulsion though.  One day I will.  I'll be like an addict with their face in a giant pile of white powder, coding and typing, beautifying and perfecting my blog at lightning speed.

Until then, I have no frickin idea how to retrieve an award, what to do with it, or where to put it.  I literally canNOT pick the thing up at "your place".  I don't know how.

I sincerely, and humbly thank you Jennifer and Mrs. D.  This is a simple case of my bad.

[Note to Mom, Em, and maybe Grandma Ross:  I should probably explain blog award.  Many other blogs have postage stamp size rectangles to the right or left of the main body.  These "stamps" have cute graphics and say "cool blogger", "I luv your blog", "bad-ass blogger", etc...  They're considered a very nice and welcome compliment to the blogger.  Email me with any further questions.  Oh, and Mom,  I've NEVER done cocaine.  I saw Scarface though.]