My Hands are Tied

As some of you know, my left hand is in a cast about half way up my lower arm.

I also have carpel tunnel in my right hand, and I am supposed to sleep in a brace at night.

I am fearful of clocking myself (or Husband or worse cats!) upside of the head when I am sleeping; though that is intermittent at best.

Talk about awkward! I never realized just how left handed I really am. I mean, I knew I use my left hand more than most right handed people. I can use either except for writing, and eating is strange using my left hand. But everything else my left  hand is - well, handy. It has always been my stronger hand.

There are these little knots that have formed in the palm of my hands. It is some kind of condition passed through Scandinavian blood. I am fully Scots/Irish/Cherokee except one of my 32 great-great-great-grandmothers was Dutch. Thanks a lot, Betsy. Why couldn't she have passed on the ability to grow great tulips or something? But noooo, she has to pass on something that may cause my fingers to bend toward my palm. Sheesh.

My grandfather had it. My aunt had it. I guess it's my turn.

And not to be too graphic, but just imagine trying to pull up your drawers with a cast on one hand and a brace on the other.

Uh-huh. Not a pretty sight. Not that it was in the first place, but I need sympathy here.


Now I know how those lobsters in the tank at Red Lobster feel with their little hands tied together. Aren't you ashamed that you eat them?

No?

Well, you should be.

That's not to say I wouldn't, if I could. But I can't hold anything with which to eat without looking like a two year old.

However; this too shall pass.

After all, (as of today) I am only 64 years old. Plenty of time for something new to tear up or wear out.

Strolls off humming happy birthday to self.

Compliments from Husband

So, yesterday I am getting ready for church. I have a new dusty brown jacket (for me anyway, it's a hand-me-down) and an old scarf that matches perfectly with a dark brown background and swirls of pink and peach roses. I also have a peach sweater to go under it. My hair is actually behaving for 5 minutes, and as I put on make-up I decide on a rose lipstick. 

Now, as a general rule, I wear neutral or a pale pink. This lipstick was a deep rose - not red - but pretty bright.

Husband takes one look at me and cocks his head to the side. "Should you blot that to make it, um, dimmer?"

"No, it's already blotted. Don't you like it?"

He's silent for a minute, contemplating. "Yeah, I like it. It just takes some getting used to. The rest of you is so -"

What is he going to say? Refer to my porcelain skin? My fair beauty? What?

"The rest of you is so beige."

There you have it boys and girls. I am beige.

Next time someone asks you what I look like, just tell 'em I'm beige.

With really pink lips.

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

I've just spent the majority of my day doing the thing I hate: being on hold.

I took a deep breath this morning and decided to tackle a bunch of stuff all today, because I hate it all.

There is an establishment (and most of you would know 'em if I named 'em), who has had a copy of one of my books since June 16. They were to review it and decide if they wanted to sell it, as they do some of my other books.

I've called eleven billion trillion times since then and most the time can't get anyone to talk to me, and when I do, they'll "check on it" and get right back to me.

Now this place is very, very successful. How, I have no idea. 

My mother's hearing aid ain't fitting, either. So I've been on the phone with them twice, argued over e-mail three times....and still don't have an answer.

I've made doctor appointments.

I've ordered some stuff, which went smoothly, though I hate to do it.

I've done laundry, and everything is running okay, there, too.

I've been on  hold with my credit card company  long enough to have a baby. I finally got help from them - not resolution, mind you - but some help with two mystery charges on our bill.

My question to you is this: Why are businesses less efficient than they used to be? Are we, the customer not valued anymore?

Okay, that was two questions. I've had a hard day. Give me a little slack.

Stand Tall!

Although I was a normal size baby, by first grade I had a head start on everyone.

And by that, I mean I was a head taller.

Exhibit A: Here I am eight years old. My Yankee cousin, the dark headed one to my left is five. Texas Cousin, the blonde is four and the baby I am holding, a second cousin is, um, a baby. None of these cousins ever caught up to me. We discussed this last summer, but there is no explanation. I am a freak.

Next, as we go to Exhibit B: You will see, that at age seven it is no better. And we ain't that old fashioned or in a cult, it's a Wagon Train thang. Ramona, to my far right is less than a year younger than me. Her sister, clad in the diaper, is always photographed in a diaper. I've seen another photo of the three of us, and she's near naked there, too. I don't know if she refused clothes, or what. That's not the point.

I was the tallest student in seventh grade. Not the tallest girl, mind  you, but the tallest student. I was even taller than one of my BFFs, who grew to six feet. But not in seventh grade. She was still a shrimp, I guess.

I remember my best friend in first grade was Trish. She came to my shoulder. This is a photo of Trish and me at our 45th (!) class reunion, a few months ago:

As you can see, some things never change.

The only question I have is this: How did I survive without a complex? I don't even remember thinking I was taller than everyone else. 

The only explanation is I have also always been very nearsighted.

Cold Enough Fer Ye?

I don't know about ya'll, but I feel like someone moved the South when I wasn't looking.

I've had on so many clothes, the inside of my arms haven't made contact with my body in days.

Hasn't seemed to help much, I'm still freezing to death.

Late yesterday evening, after five p.m. Daughter and I finished a meal at a local restaurant. And she couldn't find her keys. Well, she actually found them. Inside the car, where they were all locked up and safe.

Now, this restaurant was crowded and people were waiting to be seated, but we drug out sitting there as long as we possibly could. I called Brother of Many  Surgeries and ask that he call someone to HELP us, which he did. He even called back and said they'd be, and I quote, "a few minutes." 

We got up and stood at the door, a mighty cold place to stand. After twenty-five few  minutes, a feller showed up. We went outside, although he was already peering in the window of the car. He commenced to use all sorts of tools, and after standing outside just before six p. m. in waaaaay too cold air for twenty dang minutes, he got the door opened.

Like I said, I had on lots of layers. I managed to get my arms bent enough that I put my hands in my armpits, but I could barely breathe.

I guess you could say I have been froze and squoze. 

And not one flake of snow. 

Oh, the Pain!

All marriages have their ups and downs. Fortunately, Husband and I have had more ups than downs.

But there is one day that stands out from all our nearly 33 years of marriage as a great big old down.

The day before Daughter's fifth birthday. 

The day we put a swing set together.

It came in about 30 pieces, or more. 

And on a good day, Husband nor myself knows a monkey wrench from a real live monkey.

It wasn't pretty.

We got to talking about this at Christmas when everyone was reminiscing about years past when they had spent Christmas Eve putting tricycles, bicycles, and what have you together and staying up until it was time for the little ones to get up, desperate to finish whatever it was they'd started at 9:00 p.m. the night before.

Husband says he remembers struggling with a little wooden scooter thing Daughter sat on and scooted across the rooms. (sort of like a bike without wheels). I vaguely remember the scooter, but he must have gone through that alone, as I don't remember anything about it. 

Poor man.

I noticed that most of the reminiscing was done with a lot of smiling.

I guess we do forget the pain as time goes on.

Bittersweet

My mother is an only child. Growing up, she was close to her cousins, especially one first cousin.

He was born on her fourth birthday. I suppose that bonded them in a special way. She tells the tale of them being at their grandparents house (his daddy and her mama were siblings) and being sent to get the mail.

Now, this was in the 1930's. They had to walk a piece then cross a foot log to get to the mailbox. My mother was (and still is) afraid of water, so she refused to do this. Instead, she made her four year old cousin (she was eight and bossy) do it.

Once, he'd been watching Superman and decided he could fly, too. So he snuck one of his baby sister's cloth diapers out, tied it around his neck, climbed up the bank on the back of the house, scrambled to the roof - and jumped.

Broke his arm.

There are many stories like that, some of them told about each other, some of them told about stuff they did together.

After their grandparents passed away, they weren't very close for a while. There was some hurt feelings in the family about "stuff", which is a shame.

But the last twenty-five years or more, things have been okay. They wrote each other goofy birthday cards, talked on the phone and he stopped by and visited a lot. Occasionally I'd take Mother to visit. He had birthday parties for one of his sisters who had some brain damage from a high fever as a little child, and never lived alone. Every Christmas he had a huge box of expensive nuts dressed up in a beautiful tin delivered to Mother.

Last year Mother didn't get a birthday card. She was worried. He finally called a few days later. He'd fallen and been in the hospital.

He started falling a lot. Part of it was due to his vision, which was getting worse all the time. He became very frail and feeble, looking older than his years.

A few weeks ago, he fell twice. Turns out he hadn't been able to eat solid foods in several days. They hospitalized him. I'm not sure about why he couldn't eat, but they decided to put a feeding tube in. When the doctor started talking about the procedure, he adamantly refused to have it done. "I'm weak and tired. I've been tired for a long time. I want to go Home. I  know my Lord is waiting on me."

A few days later he died.  The family looked exhausted at the funeral home. They were sad, but knew he had been right. He went very peacefully.

Early this week the UPS truck pulled up in Mother's yard. They delivered the beautiful tin full of candy coated nuts from him, just like clockwork.

Mother called me. She was in tears. Apparently he'd made all his preparation for this Christmas in advance. 

Bittersweet: the perfect definition.