Where Did Ya'll Go?

It's an interesting thing to watch deer or fox walk into the woods. If you track them carefully, you can see them for a while. But if you so much as glance down, you will lose them, because they blend into the woods so nicely.

More amazing than them, though, are turkeys. It happens every time, whether it's two or twenty-two turkeys. You can watch them, without blinking, walk into the woods and they just disappear, right before your very eyes. It's an amazing thing. They don't blend, people, they disappear.

Husband and I have watched this together, then look at one another, mouths agape. Where the heck did they go? It's like a magician who whisks away the curtain and poof! nobody's there. Except these guys don't even need a curtain.

God is pretty awesome.

Of course, people try to copy this, hence camouflage clothing. This was once for hunters, but now it is a fashion statement.

A few years ago I was going into the bank. A man was coming out, dressed head to toe in camouflage. Not being one to keep my mouth shut, I said to him in a conspiratorial tone as we passed, "I can still see you."

I made the mistake of telling this to my friend, with whom I worked. We were eating lunch and she 'bout spewed her iced tea. She laughed in disbelief that I would say this to a rank stranger.

Then she went and told her husband that night, which was very alarming to me. "What did  he say?" I asked anxiously.

She said he just shook his head.

This man happens to be the head of the  G. B. I.

I asked  her not to share with her husband any more crazy amusing things I said or did, because frankly, I don't think the state can afford to have some guys following me around like I'm a whacko broad or something.

Shut up.

Now I've noticed when I go to baby showers, there are teeny tiny camouflage outfits given as gifts.

We know (okay, we hope) that dear old daddy ain't gonna take his newborn out in the woods and try to show him how to use a rifle to kill a deer.

So what other possible reason would you give a baby camouflage? I mean, if camouflage really works, and you lay the baby down....when grandma comes over to coo over her new baby, and you are about to have to tell  her you can't find said baby, what ya gonna do?

I can tell you who grandma's gonna call. And if she's your mama, you already know what she's gonna do.

To you.

And yesterday I saw a big old camouflage trashcan. You buy it, you bring it home and get it out of your truck, you set it down, you come out later to put your garbage in it and.....well.

What's next? Camouflage homework? Camouflage housework? Cars? Bank Accounts?

How about camouflage fat?

Why hasn't somebody thought of that before?

Going to the Chapel

Well, actually, I'm going to,uh, outside.

Anyway, I'm going to a wedding this evening. It's the fourth wedding I've been to in the last few years that has been held outside. During two of  these I almost froze to death, even though they were both in the time of year one should not have been all that cold outside.

Today, I just hope it doesn't rain.

I've had quite a week, what with Daughter's birthday celebration yesterday and several other less important things. Nothing has been on regular schedule, and that throws me off, being as old as I am and used to routine.

Although, it seems to have thrown off Daughter, too. She is rather hard to get up in the mornings, which is like saying the ocean is rather deep. But she suddenly sprung out of bed like a rocket today, because she realized she had not done the bulletin for church services tomorrow, which she usually takes care of on Wednesdays.

It was nice to see a fire lit.

Back to weddings, I know for me weddings always get me reminiscing about my own. I figure every one there will be doing the same.

A few tears will be shed, a few smiles will be shared. The I do's will be said and then we'll get on to the important stuff: the reception where food will be offered.

I wish the couple well. They are very young, maybe they'll make it to celebrate fifty years or more.

May God bless this union.

Every Year, Like Clock Work

There are some things, that when they happen, are forever etched in one's minds eye. You  may not remember what  happened just before, or even just after. But you never forget that moment.

One of those moments came for me on June 8, 1990 at 6:00 p.m. I was just finishing up in the kitchen when the phone rang. 

It was the director of the adoption agency telling me that "a little baby girl  had been born last night". She didn't have to say anything else. Because I knew, with every fiber of my being, I had just become a mama. 

Oh, there had been inquires before, phone calls asking for information about us, etc. They all seemed exciting, but not real. 

This? This was real.

I remember walking out to the front porch where Husband was sitting on the steps with our Boxers. I told him about the phone call. He turned and looked at me, eyes wide, and said, "This is it, isn't it?"

Yes, yes this was 'it'.

Daughter had been born just before midnight, and we worked, so the agency had waited until we got home to call. I guess she figured it only fair we know at the same time.

Well, any of you out there that is a parent, knows your life changes in that instant, and never changes back.

We don't know what we're getting into. But we do know, once we are into it, there's no going back. There's nothing to compare it to, no fear, no joy, no frustration, no fierce love like it.

I guess that's the way God feels about us.

Happy Birthday, Daughter: I love you more than life.

Commode Commodity

This morning, when I had to walk all the way back up the stairs to go to the bathroom, I started thinking of all the stories I've heard about people growing up with a family of six or eight or whatever and one bathroom.

Of course, if you go one generation back further than that, you get the old outhouse/slop jar stories.

I was raised in town, in a very old house. In fact, the two original front rooms of the house were rented by my great-grandparents before my grandmother was born. And she was born in 1900.

As old houses often are, this one was randomly added on to over the years.

What I suppose was a side porch got closed in, and part of that was partitioned off to make a utility room. My wise grandfather put an old, single bowl kitchen sink (the kind with a built in drainboard) and a commode in there. One wall was solid shelves and the washing machine sat in the corner.

Now this was a wringer washer. One that I was told horror stories over as they let me slide wash clothes and towels through the wringer. Like how my aunt got her long hair caught in the wringer and it pulled part of her scalp off along with her hair. Or how so and so got her fingers hung and it mashed 'em flat, not to mention pulling everything to the bone off where her ring was.

Doesn't this beg the question: why were they letting me, an eight or nine year old, use this demon possessed type of machinery?

Anyway, there were three of us and two commodes, so I never had a 'moment' where my life passed in front of me while waiting on my daddy to get out of the  bathroom.

He stayed in there close to forever, always taking a book or 'The Atlanta Journal' newspaper with him. Good thing we had two commodes, huh.

In my present home, we have a half bath downstairs and a full bath upstairs, so we  never suffer for more than the thirty seconds it takes to fly up the stairs, being as it is the rare moment three people have to go potty at the same time. (Now that I've said that, of course...)

Husband was raised in a house with several siblings and two parents and they shared one bathroom, and as far as I know, no one was hurt seriously over it. But man, I've heard some stories! Especially when the siblings hit the teen years and they are suddenly fascinated with the bathroom.

I remember when my great-grandparents (another set) got their indoor toilet. They closed off the end of the hall and put in a stall shower, a sink and a commode. We were all crowding in there to ooh and aah over it (I must have been four or so). All the appliances were a strange green color, and I thought that was what everyone was so excited about. The funny thing is, I don't remember an outhouse but obviously there was one  prior to that day.

I guess commodes aren't all that important until you need one.

I remember riding the bus to Atlanta when I was a little girl to meet my grandparents who were living there temporarily. Of course the bathroom didn't work on the bus, and by the time I got to the bus station, I was about to bust. My grandmother hurried me into the terminal to the restroom, but unfortunately there was a long line. I was in tears, and knew I was about to wet my Sunday dress. I suddenly saw another lady take her little girl into another bathroom, and with relief, sprinted toward them. My grandmother caught be by the dress tail and said I couldn't use that bathroom, it was for 'coloreds' only.

I remember being furious that they could have their own bathroom to themselves while I had to stand in line.

By then I was crying with confusion and pain, so the ladies in  line let me in front so I could go before I went in my clothes.

And remember the funny about the toddler who used the display commode in a store when mama had her back turned?

Glad that mama wasn't me. But it could have been...

We've had stuff flushed down the commode by our then-toddler, and our cat has dropped his stuffed frog in there.

When Daughter was two and it was time (or past time, depending on your opinion) to potty train, Husband's sister loaned us a little plastic potty that was shaped exactly like a minature commode. Daughter never used it herself, but stayed busy putting all her stuffed animals on it. I guess she was so busy training them, she didn't have time for herself.

Not long after we had this new toy, she came to me and tugged me into the bathroom. Bear was perched on the throne. Daughter said, "It tore up, Mama. It ain't got no zipper to fwush wif." She was pointing to where the flush lever was supposed to be.

One night when Daughter was saying her prayers and thanking God for everything, she remembered to thank Him for the commode.

And you know what? She was right.

Ah Am Tard

I am so tired, I'm tard. As in plumb wore out. Tuckered.

Got the picture?

I have been on the go as much as this old gal can go today, and here it is eight o'clock and I am so ready for bed I can feel the sheets in my mind's, uh, hand.

I've talked to a pet sitter today, which I've never done. I've talked to a spray tan person, which I've never done. I've probably done some other first time stuff, but I'm too pooped to recall them.

I forced myself to walk for a little while this evening, because tomorrow there is no way to work it in. I'm terrified that if I go two days without walking, it'll hurt even worse, and I just don't want to risk it. Do you blame me?

Being extremely tired can be dangerous. Especially if you are trying to drive a car or give someone a hair cut. They might never let you cut their hair again, even after you apologize, apply pressure, and duct tape a bandage to the wound.

It can also cause things to seemingly become extremely funny. When you tell what happened the next day, everyone just sort of moves away from you as you snort and guffaw, you then realize maybe it wasn't quite as funny as you originally thought.

It can make  you sob during a movie where other people may only sniff a little.

It can make you 'maddern far' when other times you might only be slightly annoyed.

You can go to sleep sitting straight up, if  you are tired enough.

Maybe you tell secrets you would have never otherwise shared, or give an honest opinion that would have been better off left unsaid.

I've heard you can even trip going up the stairs to bed.

Which I hope doesn't happen to me.

Again.

Good-night.

How Love Handles Love Handles and Other Add - Ons of Aging

It seems America gets more and more youth oriented every year. People are going to any and all measures to look younger, if at all possible.

Some of them have tried so hard they look like youthful aliens.

The only middle age thing men had cornered the market on was love handles. And now that women buy low slung pants, they too have the gobby inner tube look.

Not me, sister. I tuck all my fat into my pants and zip em up all the way to the waist. That's one fashion statement I ain't a slave to.

For we women, it seems there are more things that sag and bag and wrinkle than on men.

I blame most of this on having and raising children.

My belly was already rather, um, round when I had back surgery. Cutting the major muscles slap in two did not help this situation in the least.

No wonder women's stomachs aren't the same after having a baby. After all, that part of the body is stretched out until it looks as though one has swallowed a beach ball.

Daughter weighed in a little over nine pounds. When I am receiving sympathetic nods as I lament about this to someone while in her presence, she always says, "But I'm adopted."

I hate how smart-mouthed the younger generation has become.

Anywho, we have bosoms that droop, where men do not (well, most men don't). We don't have beards to hide the sagging, crepey skin of the neck. (well, most women don't).

Even skinny women, while still in their twenties, begin the wave of the underarm. Men don't have sagging underarms until they are ninety. If then.

You try raising a kid from infancy to age seventy-five or so, worry about why they are crying, what the fever is about, will they learn to talk/walk/read/do math/leave home/sign up for social security, and see if you don't get a wrinkle or two.

And while we are on the subject, old age spots make lovely additions to any rings. I don't have these yet, but Husband does. I know that's the next thing coming my way.

Youth really is fleeting. Faster than a speeding bullet.

But then we never believe it when we are in the throes of youth. It may  have happened to every other generation. But not this one!  And then one day ya look in the mirror and youth has actually fled.

For a long time, though, we can look around, and someone, somewhere, is older and worse looking than we are. And by the time that is no longer true, one of two things is true.

1. Senility has set in and it no longer matters.

2. We are so tickled to still be up and about we don't give a gnat's rear end what we look like anymore.

Right?

Right??

Sigh.

I was afraid of that.

Good News/Bad News

Headline in a Reader's Digest Article:  SCORPIONS: Crush Cancer

It goes on to say that their venom added to a molecule that glows under a special light helps surgeons when removing cancerous brain tumors. Apparently it only spotlights malignant cells, so that surgeons can remove every single bit of the cancer, leaving all healthy tissue intact.

It is hopeful this will be used successfully to illuminate prostate, breast, colon, and some skin cancers.

I mean, really? The hated, gross, evil-looking, evil-doing invaders of my house are good for something?

Somehow, that makes me mad. Couldn't it be Butterfly spit instead that does this?

I hate scorpions so much, I've always said they were good for  nothing, and have firmly believed it.

Until now.

I hope they  have to kill 'em to get the venom.

They are welcome to the scorpions that invade my house.

But the scientists have to come quickly.

Like live-in-their-car-right-outside- my- house -and -be- at-my-door- in-less-than-thirty-seconds quickly.

A girl has her limits, after all.