Hey... nifty hair net!

Only a true friend would restrain herself from taking a quick photo of another friend while she was doped up on pain meds and being prepped for surgery.

I. Am. A. True. Friend.

I wanted so badly to photograph my friend Requelle earlier this week as she was preparing for outpatient knee surgery. But I restrained myself. Yes, I did. I'm not sure why I felt the need to restrain... perhaps it was the early morning hours and my lack of focus.

I typically wake up early now... but usually just in time to jump in the shower, throw on some clothes and make it in to work. NEVER to drive through early morning Nashville traffic on my way DOWNTOWN to a surgical center. There should not be traffic at 5:00 AM... but alas, we live in Nashville, so of course some bonehead had an accident and made me late. I would not be thwarted however, because again... I am a friend, right?

Maybe I restrained myself because I was fearful of the rather large, bearded, sweat-shirted man sitting to our right. He was apparently semi-famous (as many people in Nashville are) because a nurse spoke to him later that morning, shook his hand, and they talked about music and how she had seem him perform at (fill in the blank--------). Music City USA... go figure.

Perhaps I restrained myself because I fear that one day the tables will be turned and I expect my friend to show me the same sort of respect. Hmm. That must be it. I am typically well motivated by thoughts of fear.

But, restrain myself I did. I didn't even bring in a bottle of water or go across the street where the "Hot Doughnuts Now" sign at the Krispy Kreme was shining for all the masses to see. I wanted the Krispy Kremes sooooo badly... but what sort of torture would that be since Req couldn't eat anything past 8pm the night before. I am cruel on occasion, but that would have just been hateful. The sugar high would have to wait!

We enjoyed our early morning conclave with Suz (The Winner of the "WHERE IS REQ STAYING CONTEST"... I'm not bitter) and Sam, our prayer guru whilst sitting in the waiting room and awaiting the call to start our engines! A nurse with a very, very bad hairdo (think Swiffer dust mop) called Req to sign papers swearing upon a blood oath that no matter what should happen to her on the surgery table, she would be responsible for paying the $13,000 surgery center bill. Wow. That's a stinkin' big amount of money for hanging out in a building for three hours. Maybe I should rent a room out at that cost. If I jack up the prices enough, maybe J.Lo will want to hang at my crib!

Maybe not. (Blind poodle not included in price of stay)

But for that kind of money, you'd hope the coffee would at least be drinkable... and not so much like dark water.

They took Req back through the swooshing door at about 7am and the conclave just continued to move along with Sam the Prayer Man, Suz the Winner and I (still not bitter) until they let us make our way to visit by her bedside. Req was a lovely vision in a pale surgical gown that was offset by the word "yes" on her right knee and the word "no" on her left.

For $13,000 you only get printed words. I bet cursive words would have run into the $18-$20K range.

Req was wearing un-color coordinated arm bands that gave us her name, rank and serial number, and let us know that she is allergic to apples, pears and plums. How is that possible? Three members of an entire food group shot down the proverbial garbage disposal of life. So sad.


Req's final surgical accessory was a lovely blue hair net. It was not the appropriate Kentucky blue color, but closer to a North Carolina blue. I would have refused that color... but that's just me. This is where my restraint REALLY showed itself. I felt my hand creeping into my purse to wrap around my camera phone... but then I chose the high road... again for fear that it may one day be me with the surgical gown on. Sam the prayer man led us in prayer over our girl and then we left her in the capable hands of Dr. Rosen.

Whose hands apparently are not only capable... but fast. No! Not like THAT! He was just quick on the draw and about 35 minutes later was telling us how well everything went and that we'd be seeing her in a few minutes. Suz the Winner couldn't even drink her entire soft drink before we were heading back to see a bandaged and awake Req smiling up at us... hair net in hand.

Req's biggest complaint? She didn't get to count backwards or quote scripture before she was out like a light. For $13K you'd like to think she could at least get "Jesus wept" out before she was under the knife, but no...

Req has done remarkably well. She was actually up and walking to the bathroom before we left the surgical center and made a couple more potty trips before I left the Grand Champion Rushing home... where she has elected to stay. She'll be heading to PT tomorrow and hopes to be back to work next week.

So... for 13 grand, you get a couple of small incisions, your knee scraped and proded, home healthcare from Suz the Winner and a lovely blue hair net (which I made sure to tuck away for Req to keep as a memento)

But you can't shower for three days. Now I'm thinking maybe I'm the winner after all!

Ladies and Gentlemen... Zach Johnson!!!

What I know about the sport of golf, one can fit into a thimble. Really. I only understand what a par is because I do okay at miniature golf. As far as I know, a birdie is a fowl that flies on air currents or that spongy badmitton thing I miss every time I play badmitton. An eagle is our treasured national emblem and a boogey is a term I learned from all those wonderful "Top Gun" moments.

Zach Johnson, however, knows all of these terms and his knowledge of them... along with his prowess at the game itself... has earned him a Master's Tournament Championship and a lovely green jacket. Some guy named Phil gave it to him. That was nice of Phil.

My youngest brother is appalled that I don't know who "Phil" is... but that is neither here nor there.

As far as I am concerned, there is not a finer man who could have taken home this jacket other than Zach Johnson on Easter Sunday. He is a man of faith... and I don't know that just because of his post-game statements, but because he and his lovely wife are faithful givers to a ministry that is near and dear to my heart. (www.brentgambrell.com) I am sure that others on the PGA tournament give generously, but when you have been touched by a specific person... you tend to applaud just a little louder and call all your friends to tell them to watch a golf tournament and pray over this young man who looks a lot like Joaquin Phoenix... if you tilt your head in the right direction.

I have never watched a golf tournament in my life. Ever. My friend Requelle was trying to explain certain things to me over the phone... like birds and bees... no wait... boogeys and the boogie-man?... Well, she was getting a kick out of the fact that I was actually getting excited about a golf tournament.

Me. Excited. About golf. I know... it is not like me. There were no linebackers or centers or forwards in this game. There is no physical contact... no tackling or knock-outs. It is generally a group of fairly casually dressed men walking across the grass.

Walking. Across grass. And hitting a little ball with a stick. Into a hole. By a flag. In the grass.

I'd love to see the game changed up where you actually have to defend the hole. Maybe while wearing goggles and flippers.

Or Speedos. You can't go wrong with Speedos.

Okay, actually you can go very wrong with Speedos... but wouldn't that make the award ceremony a little more exciting? Instead of a jacket... you'd get green Speedos. Now that's something for the Masters people to think about in the future.

I am seeing the game of golf in a whole new light now!

Congratulations to Zach!

Perhaps it's a draw

Well... the saga continues, but at least the Bells aren't so ignorant that we cannot understand a modern piece of equipment (my father's inability to turn on the big screen TV notwithstanding).

The problem with our air conditioning system is not the new fangled digital thermostat, but the air conditioning unit itself. It being old as dirt with a freon leak and some sort of coil thing that should be replaced, but it is so old, they don't even know if it is made anymore. But not to worry... for only $3500, we can own a brand new unit and not worry about that silly coil.

And eat Ramen noodles for the entire summer. Hmm... what to do?

Well... the freon has been replaced, and according to the serviceman, may very well last us throughout the hottest months of the year. So, we'll play it by ear and save our pennies and eat Ramen noodles. They aren't so bad.

Of course, right now they would be frozen as the older generation are freezing me out of the house. Good thing I kept the electric blanket on my bed!

The Bells v. The Theromostat... who will win?

Well... it is springtime in middle Tennessee. That means sneezing, sniffling, headaches, pollen covering your car and time for the air conditioner to be turned on.

You will remember that we had a new heating/air system installed during the coldest part of the winter due to a slight case of carbon monoxide gas filling the air... and to my mother's chagrin, a new fangled thermostat.

We are working with a digital thermostat now, which only aggravates my parental units, who cannot understand why things should change after some 40 years of technology. The more interesting occurrence is just beginning as on Saturday, the house was too hot for my mother and just fine for my father and myself. The Mom marched her way to the thermostat and began the inevitable punching of buttons to throw the system into disarray.

I was in the shower when the button-punching extravaganza began. I walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me only to walk straight into my mother, who apparently had given up on the button-punching operation and stood, hands-on-hips, impatiently waiting for my grooming/hygiene escapade to end. She was none too happy that she had to wait. I know because of the aggravated look on her face and the fact that she had thrust into my hands the small brochure with instructions on how to use the new digital thermostat.

"Fix it," she gritted at me and walked away. She apparently believes that I have a Master's degree in electronic engineering or a technical degree in air conditioning systems, instead of an Associate's degree in office management. Funny. Yeah. Funny.

After donning some clothing, I made my way to the digital appliance that is set to end my parent's 50+ years of marriage and found that the heat was on. The thermostat was set to 70, but the reading was showing 78 degrees in the house. I read the booklet and changed the setting to "cool" and sure enough within a few minutes the air kicked on, and within about an hour, the temperature was down to 75, and it continued to descend through the night.

The next day we had the same heating issue arise... and therefore we think there really may be a problem with the new fangled hellish thermostat. The install company is coming by even as we speak to check out the problem. Fun times.

I can only imagine the arguments that will erupt over things like the temperature settings once my mother actually retires. There are nothing but good times ahead!

Movie Review: 300

Go see this film. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200... unless it will assist in paying for said movie and the outrageously priced snacks that go hand-in-hand with a theatrical experience. The reasons to see it are many... here are a few:

1. Gerard Butler. A fine actor (in both talent and, let's face it... looks) Does a superb job playing the lead as King Leonidas in this film. His portrayal is strong and you get over the fact that he is a Scotsman leading a group of Greeks very quickly. He does not attempt to hide his brogue, and we are better off for it. His character is fierce and courageous and his performance is both fierce and courageous as well.

2. Graphically pleasing. This film is based on the graphic novel (please don't call it a comic book, those graphic novel lovers will turn on you!) of the same name. I scanned through the novel at a local bookstore and the film stays true to its origins. The film is shot in an almost "sepia" color that brings incredible texture to the project. I worried that it would be too grainy or that it would wash everything out and make it boring to watch... nothing could be further from the truth. It added an aged feel to it that was beautiful in its simplicity.

3. Gerard Butler. Oh wait. I think I have mentioned him already. Wow. What a powerful performance. Did I mention that? If I haven't... let me mention it now. Amay---zing.

4. Action! Action! Action! This film never stops. Truly. There are usually moments in a film where you could do without a scene or three. That really isn't the case here. The story starts strong, ends strong, and there is really no time or desire for a potty break in the middle. The script is strong, the acting is strong on ALL accounts (not just Butler's) and the fighting sequences are gruesome and glorious. Oops... I illiterated, and I hate doing that! If you do not have the stomach for blood and guts, you will want to bypass this film, because there are plenty of severed limbs strewn about once the fighting begins. If you don't enjoy hideous-looking creatures, you may have to turn your head a few times, but that will soon pass and the blood and guts fighting will take over.

Even the fighting is filmed with a strong sense of beauty. They have taken battle moves and turned them into an exotic dance. Knowing that these actors worked before a green/blue screen for most of the film (if not all) exhibits another strength from this talented cast. They embrace the surroundings they could not see while filming and you believe without doubt that you are standing amongst the Spartans.

Go. Enjoy. It is worth the full price of the ticket... it is even worth the additional price of an IMAX experience.

Run for the Border!!!

Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore
Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door

Get ready all ye tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free! If you have not mastered the English language, you will want to steer clear of the maternal unit which gave life to me!

But why, you ask? Your mother is the very essence of maternal instincts, you say. She has longevity! She has stamina! She has wisdom beyond her years and courage and fortitude! She has been the organist in Baptist churches across the world! She has kicked butt and taken names. She can bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan! She is WOman...

However, Mom has very little tolerance for those who live in our country and don't speak the language. Case in point occurred last week when a man not of American descent, and not speaking our language, caused a car accident in which he damaged the first brand-new car my mother has ever owned. The car is not a year old yet.

The man did not have insurance.

The man did not speak English. My mother was not impressed.

The man found a boy to translate to my mother, and tried to get her to move the cars. Mom, an employee of an insurance company... and not a fool... refused to move said vehicles until the police arrived and could determine that our Mexican neighbor was at fault for the accident... he having pulled in front of her vehicle, making a left turn into a parking lot.

My brothers made it to the accident scene before I did, to offer comfort, support, and no doubt, sarcastic wit... because that is what we Bell children are known for... and I arrived to find a bilingual police officer had arrived to fill out the police report and give numerous traffic violation citations to our new south-of-the-border friend... who, my mother is convinced, will return to Mexico before he pays one dime toward the damage to her vehicle.

Thank goodness for uninsured motorist coverage. Don't leave home without it.

The Mom was a little shaken up, but none the worse for wear. Working for an attorney, I advised my mother that we should at least take her to the emergency room... or perhaps a chiropractor... so that she could get some spending money for her upcoming vacation. She refused. She is like George Washington and she cannot tell a lie.

Much to the shock and horror of my brothers when the police officer asked my mother if she were wearing her seatbelt and she steadfastly said no. He didn't give her a ticket because she is so honest. He wouldn't have thought twice about giving anyone else a ticket... but I think my mother may have the Vulcan mind meld thing down and was able to work her mojo on the policeman and walk away unscathed.

Without even a warning from the man. Hmm.

I followed the Mom home because she was a little shaky. I took digital pictures of the damage with my camera so we would have them for the insurance company if they needed it. I encouraged my mother once again to go to the doctor and she once again refused. She promised she was not feeling stiff or sore... even though the next day and pretty significant bruise appeared on her forehead. She swears that she is just fine.

I didn't expect any less.

But I did offer to bring home Mexican food for dinner. Mom was not impressed... apparently having no intention of running for the border anytime soon!

Ten Fewer Years

As I continue to bask in the glory of the foaling season via marestare.com or wefoal.com, I have experienced new heights tonight.

And it scared ten years off my life.

First let me say that I am recruiting/exposing all my friends to this brave new world... and with the exception of Requelle... they have been hooked.

BFF Brent Gambrell watched with some excitement while I was helping him pack supplies for a mission trip to Haiti. He learned more about foaling than he ever thought he needed. But it was fun to see! We watched a new little colt make his way into the cold, cruel world. Loads of fun there!

Over President's Day weekend, Lou, Amykins and I hung out at Amykins' Bachelorette Pad. We had two inches of snow. We had Great Food! We had good movies and music. And we had a fire burning THE WHOLE TIME.

Amykins has a laptop. I introduced Amykins and Lou to Lisa Lou, the mare I have been watching for two solid weeks and they became just as concerned as I was. The laptop was set up in the kitchen, and anytime one of us sojourned to that section of that house, the other two would call out "check the horse", and we'd get an update.

As of today, Lisa Lou is still preggers. Amy now checks on her a couple of times at night, and Lou's home computer is down, or I am certain she would check it as well. Amykins' sister Joan is in on the madness too! I am only too happy to share this joy with the world.

I attended choir rehearsal tonight and as soon as I got out of the building, I flipped open my phone to call my parents and check the horse. (I actually considered asking Amykins to bring her laptop to choir so we could have it standing by, but decided it would probably be distracting). My mother gave me Lisa's update... more standing around and NOT birthing... so I had time to get home without worrying that she would foal before I got there.

I came home. She's still standing. sigh.

But there was an alert up for another ranch, and I clicked on its site just AFTER the blessed event had occurred. I was curious to see how this mare would react to her foal, as it is the mare's first birthing experience. (It will be Lisa's first too) I wondered what was going through the mare's head after panting, groaning and pushing a LIVE HORSE through her birth canal.

From the looks on the mom's face, it was something like, "What the heck is that thing?" Mom sniffed the colt (it's a boy) and then generally didn't want to have much more to do with it. The owners stepped out of the stall to encourage mother/son bonding, but once the son stood and began to walk... Mom really didn't want much to do with him, as evidenced by her moving as far away from him as possible.

Geesh... talk about giving the little guy a complex!

The owners came back into the stall to back Mom up and see about getting son to nurse. Yeah right. If mom wasn't overly excited about baby to begin with, what makes you humans think she's going to be anything LESS than thrilled about a cold baby nose on the underside of a tender belly... with tender hanging down parts dripping with milk?

Yep. You get the picture.

I think Mom has taken on some protective qualities now though, (as she hasn't stomped the little guy into the ground) because she apparently is hearing a noise outside the stall and she charges the stall door. That's not a Mama you want to tick off. But, I can't say that they little guy has gotten a drink yet.

I don't know this for certain because whilst I was watching the new mother/son and keeping another eye on Lisa Lou (still standing there, munching on hay/grain, not having a baby) the ALERT signal came up with a high alert on yet another ranch.

Oh Goody! More foals to birth! This was my lucky night.

The new ranch has a great video set up in that there is AUDIO too! The first time I have heard anything coming from the long-away world of foaling (this one in Iowa). I was so excited because I could hear the mare panting, I could hear the owner being encouraging to the mare, it was almost like I was there! Another little colt! He's a beauty too and all was well. I watched with horror as the owner bound up the cord from the placenta in a knot and then wrapped it in what appears to be hot pink surgical tape. This is standard practice (and I know, because I read about it somewhere) that helps the mare pass the rest of the placenta. If you knot it up, the gravity will help make it fall.

All I know is that now this mare has a big pink ball hanging at the end of a cord coming out of her booty. This might be considered a bit tacky, but it is not the worst thing that can happen to a mare in the post-birth timeframe. What could be worse? One word:

Colic.

I have very limited experience with colic, and that experience was with a human. A human baby. And it pretty much put me off the idea of ever bringing a child into the world.

I was 13 years old and I was babysitting for the first time. Ever. And it was a baby, just a few months old. It was only going to be for a few hours (4 or 5) and we just lived across the street, so I knew that I could call my mother if there were any problems.

I couldn't spell colic as a 13 year old and I had no experience with it at all. It was four or five hours of pure screaming baby hell. I walked the screaming baby. I rocked the screaming baby. I put the older sibling to bed with the screaming baby on my shoulder. I thought about putting the screaming baby in the freezer. Nothing helped. Even my mother couldn't help.

That was the beginning and end of my infant/babysitting experience for many years.

Imagine if you will a HORSE with colic. Imagine a screaming horse. Imagine a screaming horse that you can HEAR over the internet, who has just birthed a beautiful colt and is now thrashing itself about the floor in agony!

Now, imagine being me, on the other side of the country, hands fisted in anxiety and having the ability to hear the commotion. I'm telling you... it scared about ten years from my life. The owners were great though. They knew what to do, and were right there in the stall, keeping the foal safe (from being rolled on by mom, who is rolling about the floor), and finally getting mom on her feet and walking her as fast as they can.

I think she also got a shot to help calm and relieve her and I am happy to say that she and her boy seem to be bonding just fine now. He is up on his feet and she keeps sniffing his butt. A sure sign that all is well.

So. it will be off to bed for me as it is midnight and there is peace reigning in the horse world. As far as I know.

Lisa having just pooped again. But still. No. Baby.

Black Wednesday 2007 - VD: It could be worse

Yes. Another year. Another Valentine's Day. The upside of today is... we have snow flurries here in middle Tennessee. The downside... another stinkin' VD.

I am robed in my traditional black Valentine's Day garb. It is now expected of me. I don't want to let anyone down.

When I received the Merriam-Webster's word of the day on my computer this morning, the word was Cupid:

Cupid \KYOO-pid\ noun 1 : the Roman god of erotic love *2 not capitalized : a figure that represents Cupid as a naked usually winged boy often holding a bow and arrow

Did you know?According to Roman mythology, Cupid was the son of Mercury, the messenger god, and Venus, the goddess of love. In Roman times, the winged "messenger of love" was sometimes depicted in armor, but no one is sure if that was intended as a sarcastic comment on the similarities between warfare and romance, or a reminder that love conquers all. Cupid was generally seen as a good spirit who brought happiness to all, but his matchmaking could cause mischief. Venus wasn't above using her son's power to get revenge on her rivals, and she once plotted to have the beautiful mortal Psyche fall in love with a despicable man. But the plan backfired: Cupid fell in love with Psyche, and she eventually became his immortal wife.

Oh good. More useless information that will never leave my brain. Now, if Cupid was a naked winged MAN, maybe I could enjoy it better. Alas, I digress.

My friends all think I have gone off the deep end, as it were, since I am spending a good deal of my time watching the births of many a foal across the world. I scoff at them. What is more wonderful than watching life begin? And horses via the internet is an easy fix for me. There is no audio so I don't hear the grunting. I am in the comfort of my own home, typically doing something else while the video plays in the lower left of my computer screen. No harm. No foul. No smell. No responsibility to run to the foaling stall and pull... thank goodness.

I have learned much about the horse foaling/breeding/brood mare world. I have learned to be thankful I'm not a mare. Poor girls. Their gestation period is about 11 months. Yikes! And that is not the worst part.

According to my confidential (i.e. nameless, faceless) counselor friend, a pregnant mare can be ridden up until it is very close to the birthing process. He knows this because his wife gave him a pregnant Tennessee Walking Horse for Christmas in December and the mare is due to foal in June. He was telling me he had just ridden her a couple of days ago.

I was, and still am, appalled.

Helloooooo... she's pregnant! Could you give her a break? Maybe she doesn't want a full grown man on her back while she is carrying a HORSE inside her. Maybe it's just me. I am now having serious doubts about the compassion level of my counselor friend. He is already known to cheat at cards. Now this!?!

And, if the mare were a broodmare, she would be expected to just pop that baby right out, rest for four or five days, and head off to the nearest stud farm to meet up with Mr. Right NOW... again... starting the whole process over while her week-old baby is still nursing.

Amazing.

So, my hat is off to the broodmares of the world. Here's hoping that on Valentine's Day this year, you get a nice rub down... or at least some good grain.

Still watching the screen...

Space Oddity circa 2007

When is it a good idea to wake up in the morning and think, "I know what I'll do... I'll grab a trenchcoat, a bad wig and a box of Depends, a canister of pepper spray and a ball ping hammer and drive across the country to smack someone in the head."

Apparently, it never is a good time.

This is not the face of an astronaut after a mission to Mars, but instead the face of a rather sad astronaut/single mother who woke up one morning with a skewed idea of right and wrong. She woke up one day thinking the whole ball ping hammer/Depends idea was actually valid.

At least she applied lipstick.

And a bit too much eyeliner.

Let this be a lesson to those who think a cross-country drive with a wig and a diaper is a good idea. It is not. She should have flown. If she had, her mugshot would have been better and she wouldn't need to worry about diaper rash.

Or being the punch-line on a late-night talk show.

Or making an appearance on my blogsite.

It's a Girl!!!!!

Yes... all my peeps think I have lost my mind, but I am rejoicing that the horse I started watching last night foaled a beautiful white (with black spots) filly!!! She's precious. If you are interested, go to www.styerstarlight.com

Beautiful. Life in the horse world has been redeemed

You have Waxy teets, and that is a good sign?

Apparently the death of my favorite horse has sent me officially over the edge. In my attempt to come to grips with the loss of this most majestic creature, I wanted to look towards the future. How does one look towards the future when all around is dark?

Google.

It has everything.

My brain started thinking about how everything is available on the web. You can order WMD to be FedEx'ed to your home. You can learn to build a fire using a couple of sticks. You can learn just about anything. You can see a lot of stuff too. Cool stuff, not the dirty stuff that makes you blush and cringe.

For instance, there are beach cameras that I can click on and watch hundreds of people lounging on Waikiki Beach. A place I hope to visit one day. So, my grief-infused brain began its trek to think of how to pull myself from the pit of despair that was lingering over the death of Barbaro. What would encourage me back towards the light?

My algebraic brain reminded me that for every step on one side of the equation, an equal step must occur on the other. For every negative, a positive had to balance the scales. What would balance Barbaro's death, but the life of another magnificent horse.

Back to Google. Note to self: what are baby horses called? Foals. Wonder if there is such a thing as a foal cam. There are beach cams... maybe someone somewhere has a website with baby horses I can watch.

Google. Type in "Foal Cam". Listen as the angels above begin singing and watch the hundreds of responses to my inquiry.

It is true. For free I can sit and watch mares give birth to their foals. What an amazing thing to see. The problem is, I'm a city girl. I love horses and always have, but I don't know nothin' bout birthin' no babies (either human or equestrian). So, I needed to know what to look for in the mare birthing process. More Google help, please.

Apparently the mare's body will drop. That made sense. The mare will also lift her tail to one side. Apparently mares know what's coming and they don't want all that stuff getting on their tails. Smart girls. Can't blame them.

There will be a softening in certain areas of the horse's body that I have no ability to comprehend. Apparently mare body parts have different names from human ones. Some are named EXACTLY the same... but we don't need to go into that! (Some websites come along with pictures... in blazing technicolor. I have officially seen parts of a horse that I should NEVER have seen! All in the name of science) They will paw the ground, because they apparently need to nest? Actually, I have a feeling they are pawing more because there is a HORSE about to emerge from their bodies and OHMYGOSH but that's going to have to smart! They seem to appreciate human contact too.

For instance, I just watched as one lady was checking a mare and was standing DIRECTLY BEHIND THE HORSE lifting her tail, looking around... doing things that made me squint my eyes and turn my head... and this mare just stood there. Isn't one of the first rules of horse-dom NOT to stand directly behind said creature for fear of it kicking you through a wall? Especially a horse that is preggers and two weeks over her due date! When the discomfort gets bad, they lay down and pant, and then get back up and walk around. I've seen pregnant women in hospitals do much the same thing. Hmm... circle of life? I've known a couple of pregnant women who have lashed out at loved ones in the throes of labor; but these creatures do not seem to want to bite the hand that is feeding them... or cleaning out their stalls, for that matter. Horses and humans go well together.

So, I've been keeping my eye on a few mares that are located in various parts of the country and waiting anxiously for them to push those babies out! I got really excited about an hour ago because one of my mares (yes... I think of them as mine) was very fidgety and pawing the ground. Another one actually lay down and I thought "Yes! This is it!" Only to watch her get back up and stand completely still for an hour. Yep. There's fun right there... watching a horse stand around. For an hour or so.

I have read some interesting things on the corresponding ranch websites. For instance, I know that it is important for the "bag" to get full and apparently having wax form on the mares udders (because teet just sounds yuckky) is a sign of great progress and that the labor is soon to begin.

Tell that to the one horse I have been watching for a week who apparently has waxy days and not-so-waxy days. Gives a new meaning to wax-on, wax-off.

I must go now... one of my girls has taken three steps. This could be it! (The thing is... I know that as soon as I go to sleep, this mare is going to foal and I will miss it!)

Patiently waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

It was the best of times... it was the worst of times...

January 29 is a special day in the family. Our Matriarch was born on this day and we spent the weekend laughing and enjoying ourselves and honoring our mother. My aunt made a special trip out for a visit and we spent Saturday shopping the various malls, eating good food, and generally enjoying each other's company. Sunday we all gathered for the traditional birthday lunch of KFC and fixins' and the Mom took Monday off from work, thereby declaring it a national holiday.

But then, the bad news came and on this day that the nation celebrated my mother's birth, we mourned the loss of a great horse.







Barbaro was a favored horse after winning the Kentucky Derby last year. He was probably "unofficially" America's horse, as it has been so long since a triple crown winner! I was so excited with his run at the midway point of the Preakness until he was pulled up by the jockey. Then my heart sank as I watched him hobble off, clearly with a broken leg. A broken leg for a human is one thing, for a horse it is life or death.


I have followed Barbaro's progress since that horrible day. I have a link to his veterinarian's website that gave weekly updates. I think anyone who has been paying attention felt like things were going along smoothly. The updates were now posted at two week intervals. But over the weekend, things changed... as life often does... and Barbaro was put down yesterday.


It was sad. I did shed a tear... and then went on to get Mom a gift for her special day and rejoice in the fact that she's still a fiesty gal in her own right!

Teaching Old Dogs New Tricks

How long has Diana Ross been around? About a hundred years or so? That being the fact, don't you imagine she would have lip synching down by now?

I watched her highness on the Today show this morning sing a couple of numbers. They were lovely numbers and I was enjoying the performance until Ms. Ross' voice rang clearly through the sound system while her microphone had moved to her hip.

I'm not saying the woman doesn't have the pipes to belt it out, but there was no diminishing of the volume or quality of her voice at all.

Upon closer inspection, it was clear that Diana was pulling the wool over our nation's eyes, and I really thought she would have been better than that.

Apparently climbing those mountains and dipping into those valleys and crossing those rivers for all these years has taken its toll.

O Brother... Where Art Thou?

Christmas at the Bell home. There's nothing quite like it. We are an unusual family and the longer I am part of it, the more I look around and wonder just how the heck I ended up here.

Kidding. Really.

Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday this year and that meant we each went our separate ways to worship and then move through the day before gathering together by the fireplace (it is empty, by the way. I don't want you to conjure a picture of cozyness. It is rather chilly by the fire place. Which is still painted pink on the inside) and ripping into Christmas presents.

Dinner at Christmastime is not a big deal. Usually because family members are straggling in... the older brother pulling a fast one on his wife, who was sent out earlier... the younger brother still shopping, because he prides himself on shopping on Christmas Eve. I was coming from my part-time what-was-I-thinking-about-working-at-the-mall job and had huge anxiety that I would be the one holding up the festivities!

"Don't wait on me to eat."

"Don't worry. We won't"

Dinner is typically a honey-baked ham, some side dishes, etc. Light fare in comparison to the turkey we get for Thanksgiving. Mom had intended for it to be a simpler time this year than usual, but somewhere during the week, that just didn't pan out. We had meat and cheese trays with breads to make sandwiches, pasta salad, potatoe salad... and then somehow we also ended up with shrimp cocktail, three-bean dip and nachos, salsa, corn, mac & cheese and a pan of dumplings (for my younger brother requested it and therefore, it was)

We cleared the beautifully decorated dinner table of its impressive opulance and ate on red paper plates, coming and going as we pleased and enjoying each other's company tremendously. The annual event of making the children remove themselves from the room while "Santa" arrived continued as the 18, two 16 and 10 year old grumbled their way down the hall to wait for the Ho-Ho-Ho that would allow them to return to the carnage and begin passing out gifts.

We ho-ho-ho'ed and they staged a sit down strike. Apparently, it was beneath them now to be shifted from one spot to the other, and so we did what any family in the 21st century would do. We all pulled out our cell phones and sent them text messages on their phones saying "ho-ho-ho" and they laughed, skipped and frolicked their way back to the living room.

Okay, maybe not. But they passed out the gifts that were stashed under both trees (because in the redecorating scheme our house has taken, it was fun and easy to stash gifts that way) and began ripping into the presents with great enthusiasm.

Much joy was erupting in the Bell home and laughter filled the air. Mom, who thanks to the youngest of her children, has become an addict of The Amazing Race, set out to send her children on a race of their own for treasures galore... and left out the "this may be our last Christmas together" speech, for which we were all grateful, until we noticed the fine writing on the bottom of our instruction sheet, which reminded us it may be our Last. Christmas. Ever.

After Kim put a beating on the rest of us, and after John attempted to appeal a bad ruling, the kids headed out one way and the adults sat around visiting, arguing the outcome of the Amazing Race and generally ribbing each other with not-so-good-intent. John's present to Earl (which I am not at all upset over. Really) was tickets to the Music City Bowl where Kentucky will play Clemson on December 29. They will leave their beloved and only sister behind and bond together as men apparently do at a football game (while I will pray for bitter cold temps and rain) and eat hot dogs and gripe about referrees and coaching calls.

John will have his hands full, though, so I am not certain I will be too upset to miss this game. You see, Earl is not getting any younger. He recently celebrated his third year into his 50s (giggle) and we have advised him to begin filling out his AARP forms. He is not as observant as he once was.

Case in point: while sitting next to his only brother John (and I meaning sitting next to him on the couch. Not on the other end of the couch... but right next to him) Earl looked up and spoke the immortal Christmas 2006 words "Where is my brother?"

You could almost hear the Silent Night as we all looked at John. Then at Earl. Then looked at John look at Earl. And then see the light bulb flash over Earl's head as he looked at John. Silence was shattered by the uproar of laughter and hysterical tears flowed as we began to picture the two of them in a large football stadium... one stepping right behind the other asking passersby where his brother was.

Go Kats. Ho. Ho. Ho.

Single at Christmas

Ho, Ho, Heck!

It is not just me who is tired of being a single white female at Christmastime without the benefit of a significant other, a boyfriend, a fiancee, or a husband. Heck, at this point in my life, I am not even sure he would have to be that significant! But my friend Requelle had an enjoyable time not too long ago, and being in the same single boat that I am in, allows me to empathize with her... feel her pain... and share her story of how much is stinks to be single in this day and age.

A week or so ago, Requelle was at her home, curled up with her two pooches and enjoying a quiet evening. As the night progressed, our heroine found herself in the bathroom and noticed that her toilet was leaking a little bit. It being rather late at night, and knowing it was not a good time to locate a plumber (and not having the aforementioned "handy man" available) Requelle did what any red blooded, sophisticated woman would do... she turned off the water supply and promptly curled herself back up in the recliner and fell asleep (pooches most likely snuggling close by).

She awoke sometime later and knew that she needed to head to bed. Upon entering her bedroom, she heard and felt an unfamiliar squish in her carpet, turned on the lights, focused her keen hearing on an unrecognizable sound and realized immediately that a water pipe had burst.

"What the...?"

Taking the next appropriate steps, she called the water company to find out what she needed to do that this point (other than curse the weak-minded men of the world who have yet to know their life would be so much more complete with her in it) and they told her they essentially didn't have a clue what to do, because apparently water pouring through the bathroom and into your bedroom carpet (and subsequently the subfloor) is not enough to warrant an emergency.

Hellooooo?

Having given up on the experts at the water company, our heroine pulls out the yellow pages to search for a 24 hour plumber. Two and a half hours later (and about five or six different calls), she finally locates a company whose 24 hour man is currently in Spring Hill, Tennessee... and when you have water pouring through your house in Old Hickory, Spring Hill is an equivalent distance as oh, say, Baghdad. Said plumber arrives at about 3:30 a.m. and lectures our heroine about water pressure and how surprised he is that this had not occurred before.

Thankfully, 'tis the season for niceness and his cost was only about $200 for helping out our heroine who realized that her Knight in Shining Armor is still traipsing around the Scottish lochs somewhere fighting off the dragons that have kept him away from her.

Our Knight needs a GPS system with the appropriate coordinates.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas...

... my doctor gave to me...

Let's hear it for our health care professionals, shall we? It was just this time last year that I was reminded of what wonderful people they are as I sat in the emergency room of the local hospital on Christmas Day, because my back had gone out and I could neither sit nor stand. I was grateful for all the people who were working to ease the pain and problems of those of us who are older now... as my younger brother enjoyed reminding me...

I had every intention of treating my ER visit as if I were going to a walk-in clinic. That was not to be. Apparently the ER is attached to a bona fide hospital, which meant that I had to get a wristband and wear one of those oh-so-lovely hospital gowns they give you.

"Really?" I told Nurse Ratchett. "I only need to be here long enough to get a prescription for relief."

"Yes. Really." End of discussion.

After peeing in a cup (what is it about me that I have done that more in a 12-month period of time than I have done in the last twelve years combined?) I struggled back into regular clothing and waited for my prescription. I left $100 at the door and ho-ho-ho'ed my way to the only pharmacy open that day, where I left more good monetary cheer on the counter and trekked home to the warmth and comfort of my bed.

I had no intention of repeating this episode this year. And... while I am giving thanks... I am thankful that I do not have any back problems to currently moan and complain about.

But assuming that the 12 Days of Christmas is a countdown to Christmas Day... today would be approximately the Sixth Day (depending on your location in the universe) and instead of having six geese a-laying (arguably a messy problem) I have a conglomerate of sinus/respiratory issues. And so, I have continued my Christmas tradition of monetarily supporting my local health care provider (namely Dr. Brad Rudge) and whisked myself to his office this morning spouting the following phrase:

"Fix me, Dr. Brad... I'm broke!"

I typically tell this to Dr. Brad and he typically laughs at me, and then he typically gives me a prescription, and I typically get better. This year's mantra was followed quickly by, "I don't want to be sick for Christmas".

Dr. Brad laughed at me. Laughed. At Me. Told me he's hearing that from a lot of patients. And then he laughed again. At me.

Hateful.

No, actually, Dr. Brad isn't hateful at all. Dr. Brad is a wonderful, caring, Christian physician that I am fortunate to call my friend as well as my doctor. He and his wonderful family served with me for a number of years in a completely giving fashion during all the productions I worked while on staff at Two Rivers Baptist Church. Dr. Brad has even seen a couple of family members and a friend or two, whom I have thrown his way.

I recently asked Dr. Brad if I could get a discount on my visits to him since I send him so much good business. He laughed at me again. When he finished laughing, he just kept smiling, and said no.

Hateful.

So, apparently on the Sixth Day of Christmas, I got four prescriptions and a Merry Christmas from my physician.

I consider it money well spent.

Joy to the World...

... blah, blah, blah.

Do you ever wonder what God finds funny? I think there are a lot of things that give Him true humor, and I am fairly certain that I am one of those funny things. Especially at Christmas. Especially for a specific reason. Especially this past Sunday.

You see, I hate the song "Joy to the World". Yes. I know. I am not the normal, All-American girl that I appear. I understand this. I think if the world could embrace my "not-normalness", the rotation of the earth on it's axis would be just that much smoother. But no. I am not normal. Here are a few reasons why:

1. I was born and raised in Tennessee and hate all things orange and white. I am not a UT fan. I am an anti-UT fan. I hope that everyone who plays against UT in everything will win! Including ladies field hockey or their chess team! (Do they have a ladies field hockey team? I don't know... I just hope they lose.) When they play another team I don't support, like Arkansas, I hope that something odd happens and both teams lose. I'm vindictive like that.

Who is my favorite team? Kentucky Wildcats. Why? Because I was raised right.

2. I hate pot roast. Yes, America. I hate pot roast. I ate pot roast every Sunday after church my entire young life. I never liked it. Finally, at the age of 18, I emancipated myself from eating foods that I did not like. I was an adult. I did not have to clean my plate. I did not have to eat pot roast ever again, if I didn't want to. And I don't. Green peas went on the list with pot roast as most despised food. Some people see this as an act just below the level of communism. I disagree. I will eat hot dogs at a ball game and apple pie, and I've owned two Chevys in my life. I am just as American as the next American. But, I won't eat pot roast. Now, when I go somewhere (like a funeral wake) where there are 14 different versions of pot roast, I happily walk right past it to the dessert table. And smile.

3. I don't like country music. No, it doesn't matter that I have lived almost my entire life right outside of Country Music, USA. I still don't like it. No, it doesn't matter if country music has come a long way, baby... I don't like country music. I once tried to like country music because a guy I was dating liked country music, and I wanted to impress him. I ended up with a bad case of heartburn... probably from all the country music that flowed into my pores. And it doesn't matter that Nicole Kidman married a country music artist. I will go see her movies, but I won't listen to his music. Why? Because I don't like country music.

Southern Gospel music fits this category as well, because to me, it is just country music with nicer lyrics. Well, they are usually nicer. They can be silly. But they are uplifting. Case in point was the song that a quartet did at my church this past Sunday. The basis of the song was to be more giving. But what did I really remember about the song? That somebody's pappy told somebody's uncle Sam that the corn he was picking from the garden would make a good supper.

I'm. Not. Kidding.

4. I hate the song "Joy to the World". I really, really don't like it. It doesn't really matter if the arrangement is different. It can be very "high church" or it can be jazzed up. I still won't like it. It can be sung by a black gospel choir, or by Mariah Carey. I still won't like it. And yes, I don't care for it even as an instrumental piece. Why? Because I think that Joy to the World is the "Chopsticks" of Christmas songs. It has that same choppy feel to it. Anyone can bang it out on the piano, and it still feels choppy. It grates on the nerves and gives me a headache.

Everyone knows my disdain for this song. Choir members apologize to me when they know we have to sing it in church. One year... one brief Christmas season, my friend the Right Reverend Dean, who was Minister of Music at the time, went an entire holiday season without singing that song. Not even once. He did it for me and I loved him for it. I think I told him often how much it meant to me that he would go the extra mile and not plan that song for one entire Christmas season.

This year is making up for that wonderful season. Are we singing the mass/choral/jazzed version next Sunday night in our Christmas program? Yes we are. Did the strolling carolers at the mall on Saturday stand right in front of me and sing three verses of it? Yes, they did. Did I make my return to the praise teams this past Sunday morning? Yes I did. Did I have to sing all four verses of this song? Yes. I. Did. Was I happy about it? Not so much.

Why? Because after I sang said four verses of Joy to the World, I had to sing backup for the men's quartet who sang about giving Pappy's good corn away to Uncle Sam, who, I am certain, ate well that night.

Yep. I'm pretty sure the Lord was on His throne getting a good chuckle out of me on Sunday, and that's okay... 'Tis the season...

Well now... Isn't that Special?

I am fairly positive that I never wanted to know what it feels like to be a drug addict. I have an abnormally increased fear of needles so the concept of being an IV drug user was never on my horizon. I can barely stand to inhale nose spray when I am the most conjested so cocaine was never a thought. Over-the-counter medications in pill and liquid form often have the opposite effect on me (I'll NEVER take Nyquil again) and I did actually share a joint once... in the eighth grade... and immediately hacked up a lung... which was more embarrassing than anything else... and that was the end of that forray into drug-induced debauchery.

Today I had to take a drug test in order to work part-time for a local mall during the Christmas holiday. I want a little extra shopping money and this is the perfect time for that to occur. I have never taken a drug test before. I knew from speaking with my niece that I would have to pee in a cup and I have done that at the doctor's office before, so I went into this with, I thought, my eyes wide open.

Au contraire, mon frere.

(That, by the way, is the extent of three years of high school French. Except that I can also ask you to open the door)

I arrived at the drug testing facility this afternoon with my thoughts collected and my full bladder. There would be nothing worse than an empty bladder when one needs a specimen jar filled. Tinkling on demand is a foreign concept for me and I would hate to develop something like Wee-Wee Anxiety.

I signed in and was directed through a door to meet the office WWN (affectionately now known as the Wee-Wee Nazi). She directed me to stand on the other side of the counter from her and to sign on the dotted line. I suppose the counter offers her some protection from my evilness. I imagine that by signing the form, I was confirming that the specimen was actually coming from me and only me. Not my evil twin. That is when the nightmare began.

I am certain that this facility sees all kinds of people. There are, of course, rules and guidelines for this sort of thing and I imagine they get all types of drug-infested weirdos. I haughtily assume that I do not bear any resemblance to said weirdos. I also haughtily assume that since I told them I was drug testing to qualify for a part-time Christmas job AT THE MALL, that I would not be viewed as a drug-infested weirdo. I was wrong.

I felt as if I had been temporarily transported to a parrallel universe and that I was, indeed, a resident of a maximum security rehab facility that does bed checks and panty-raid"esque" searches through all your belongings to find hidden contraband. I probably felt this way because just a few nights before my friend Brent and I watched an HBO documentary entitled "Thin". It was a real-life docudrama of some women in a therapy center for people with eating disorders, namely anorexia and bulemia.

I do not suffer from those conditions. Really. I don't. One might even say that I have conquered that disease. Except, I never battled it. I would love not to belittle the women I watched on HBO, but the fact of the matter is they were the most ridiculous, manipulative women I have ever had the misfortune of watching. They worked the system. They worked over each other. They worked over their counselors and their 90 pound bodies irritated the smack out of me. So Brent and I, in a fit of unity, watched the rest of the program while eating handfuls of M&Ms and taunting/heckling the screen. Yes. We. Did.

At any rate, at my drug test today, I felt like I was at that type of facility. Once I signed my name, I apparently lost several IQ points and developed an unknown drug habit. The WWN pointed to the room behind me and showed me a small metal lock box. I was informed that I was to place my purse in said box, lock it, and bring the key to her.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

Hmm... tough crowd. I did as I was told and handed WWN the key. I was then instructed to remove my shirt. Now, before you think that I was humiliated by having to endure some sort of body cavity search... I will tell you I was not. Although, that would make the story better. They weren't even looking for track marks on my arms. No... I had on a layered shirt, i.e. a long sleeved shirt over a short sleeved shirt and apparently the WWN believed that I had contraband sewn into the cuffs of my sleeves or something. I hung my shirt on the hook along with my umbrella... because that is where I normally stash my heroin... and was told to walk to the sink and rinse off my hands, but not to use any soap... because apparently I needed to make sure there was no cocaine residue on my hands, before I was given the little plastic cup in which to place my business... but they didn't want my business tainted with soap.

And that is when the stop watch began ticking. WWN informed me that I had four minutes from the time I closed the bathroom door in which to fill the cup to the line and return the cup to her.

"Excuse me?"

"You have four minutes."

"And if I can't in four minutes?"

Silence. My Wee-Wee Anxiety officially began.

I rushed to close the door when WWN said something about flushing and all I could think was "Talk on your own time, honey... I got BUSINESS to do here!" I fumbled with my jeans. Hated men in general. Sat down. And nothing. Not. One. Thing.

Suddenly, I became The Little Engine That Could and began my "I think I can, I think I can" mantra. And I did. Happily. But I only had about two minutes left!!! So I wiped off the cup because I'm. Not. A. Guy. and promptly flushed the toilet.

At which time I heard WWN screeching "You're not supposed to flush!"

What?! Oh... that must have been her parting comment right after the stop watch started. Tough lady. I flushed. The water is now blue again in the toilet. I hate that you didn't get to see how green it had been just scant minutes before. I'm testing for a part-time job AT A MALL for goodness sakes! Give me a break!

I handed my business over to WWN who now informed me to proceed to the sink and wash with water AND soap, because apparently it is okay to remove the cocaine residue now. I had more anxiety from the past four minutes than I have experience in probably four years.

Ho-Ho-Freakin-Ho!

Theatrical Review - The Lion King

I cried approximately three minutes into this production. I did. No PMS reasoning behind it, I was completely blown away at the three minute mark.

I was instantly transported to my childhood where everything is new and fresh and exciting. I sat completely in awe of everything about this production from the downbeat until the final ovation. At points there was so much going on that my mind could not accept it all... and I wished I were Samantha from "Bewitched" and could freeze time in order to take it all in.

I thought the giraffes were going to do me in until I saw the hippo. I thought the hippo was fabulous until the elephants came up from the audience. I thought the elephants were fabulous until the sun rose over the stage. I thought the sunrise was spectacular until Zazu entered and began flapping about. I thought Zazu was the best until Scar began to speak. I thought Scar was beyond anything until Timon and Pumba arrived on stage.

All in all I was completely entralled and enchanted from beginning to end. If you have not seen this production... run, do not walk to the nearest ticket outlet and find a way to go. Is it pricey? Yes... but it was worth every single penny! If I could find a way to go again... I would be there in a heartbeat.

Run... don't walk... or the hyenas may find you, and then you'll be a goner!

And the Winner is...

For the love people! Do I have to wake up on election day with the breaking news story NOT being about our tight senatorial race here in the Volunteer state, but instead I get newscasters and radio disk jockeys going on and On and ON about Faith Hill's reaction to Carrie Underwood's snatching an award out from under her Country Princess Nose!

I thought that took the prize, until just a few minutes ago, as I was watching a NATIONAL NEWSCAST OF THE ELECTION, the scrolling ticker tape under the image let me know that Britney Spears has filed for divorce from K-Fed citing irreconcilable differences.

Really? You're kidding me. Could you maybe have thought about that tidbit BEFORE you allowed the man to use you to reproduce? Twice?

Yeah. No one saw this coming. I'm going back to the election coverage.

Let Freedom Ring!

The Story of An American Beauty

Remember just a few months ago how I was lamenting my eldest niece's journey into adulthood, because it effectually meant I was growing old as well? That is still true. She is lovely, tall, strong, opinionated and full of life. I am still growing older. But today, she became one more thing: An American.

No... she has not been an illegal alien residing in this country without a Visa or green card. But, for the first time ever, in her entire life, she embraced democracy with both hands and she VOTED in her first election.

I was a pivotal player in this transition. And I am not afraid to boast because of it.

After I finished crying over the fact that she had turned 18 back in May, I got on the web, and printed a voter registration application for her. I stood over her and watched her fill out the form. I took the signed form, put it in an envelope, and mailed it myself.

She is now eligible for jury duty... but we haven't talked about that yet.

She never received her voter registration card, but called the election commision to confirm that she was indeed registered, and to determine the location of her voting precinct.

We discussed some of the issues on the ballot and we see eye-to-eye on some things, and disagree about others. But that is not the point. The point is, it falls upon her shoulders (as it does billions of other Americans) to bear the responsibility of her vote. Whether we agree or not is moot... even though I really, really, really wanted her to agree and vote the way I do.

Yesterday, she started feeling sick. This does not bode well for election day. I had already voted and reminded her that election day was today.

So, today I came home from work after a tough day (one of those where nothing goes right) and jumped in the shower, threw on my PJs, and got ready to sit down and watch the election coverage. Before my hair had time to dry, Kristin sent me a text message by phone saying that she had not been able to vote, because she had felt so sick. It was 5:45 p.m. The polls closed at 7:00 p.m. I texted her back and told her there was still time.

She was at her grandparents with her mother, but did not have a car. I was sending her the text message that read: "If you want to go vote, I will take you"; while she was sending me one that read: "Can you come get me and take me?" I put real clothes back on, and at 6:00 p.m. I was heading to pick her up.

We arrived at the polling location to find we had to park on the street and stand, in the rain, in the cold in the parking lot of the Volunteer Fire Department. And we proceeded to stand there for the next hour and a half. We met up with a lady who used to teach Kristin's small group Bible study, and chatted away with her, while sharing an umbrella with each other.

We got in the building, and not too long after that, Kristin was presenting her driver's license and signing her name on the doted line. I didn't think I could have been more proud of her, until I watched her step up to the voting booth, and begin to concentrate on the ballot before her. I wanted to jump up and down and make a big fool of myself in front of God and everyone still standing in line, but knowing that I would like Kristin to continue the voting practice in years to come, I decided to remain calm, cool and collected.

She emerged with a smile on her face, and I was honored to have shared the moment with her.

We went back to my place to watch the first results roll in. She had great questions to ask, and I tried to give her the answers. It was our first election together. I wonder if she'll let this become a tradition? The senatorial race in Tennessee is a very tight one. She left my house thinking that her candidate may have lost, but truly, the race is still too close to call... and we may not know the outcome until tomorrow... if then.

Did she and I cancel each other's vote? Possibly. That isn't the point either. She saw the responsibility set before her as an American citizen and she seized the responsibility with both hands. She physically felt ill and yet stood in the cold rain for more than an hour to cast her ballot.

Oh, but that the women of Iraq could do the same without fear of torture and death.

Kristin was born in the Land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave, and tonight, she took her first steps to fulfilling her American destiny. She is a true American Beauty.

A Hot Time in the Old House Tonight!

It's here! It's here! The new gas furnace is here! Wonderful, glorious heat can once again pour through our home! My days as a rustic pioneer woman are over! No more electric blankets! No more running swiftly over the tiled bathroom floors! The ways of modern technology are back and we are ever grateful.

Well. Most of us are ever grateful.

I am. I am ever grateful. I was happy to walk into my home and embrace the warmth. I skipped joyfully through the house and found myself standing before the thermostat. The new thermostat. I blinked. It had not dawned on me that there would be a new thermostat. It makes sense. You get a new system... you get a new means of running said system. Our old thermostat was beige with some gold trim. Once upon a time, the thermostat was green. This happened the year that my mother painted our hallway an unusual shade of aqua green. She painted the entire hallway this color.

When I say entire... I mean ENTIRE. She painted the outlet covers. The light switch covers. The chimes for the door bell. The grate over the intake screen. And last, but not least, the thermostat. That was probably the beginning of the demise of our heating system... but I don't have any scientific facts to back up that claim.

So. I stood there and marveled at the new thermostat and instantly went numb with dread. Our new thermostat is digital. DI-GI-TAL. There are no knobs to turn. There are no levers to slide. There is not a simple on and off button. Nope. Digital. I lowered my head to my hands and sighed.

They were never going to be able to operate the new thermostat. My parents. My loving and wonderful and giving parents. They can't figure out how to turn on the television. How in the world will they operate a digital thermostat?

In two very separate ways. My father simply instructed the men who were doing the installation to set it at his desired temperature, and probably never planned to touch it again. He was comfortable, so the world must be comfortable too.

Too bad he wasn't at home when Mom came in from work.

She was not comfortable. She was cold. She came in the back door and wanted to head straight up into the attic to see the new furnace. She was not that impressed. "It doesn't look that much smaller." She went on to worry about the fact that she can no longer see the pilot light.

"What is the problem?"

"I can't see the pilot light. I want to be able to come up here and watch the pilot light."

"Watch the pilot light do what?"

"Flicker."

"Oh-kaaay."

Once I realized her dismay over the diminishment of our own version of the Eternal Flame, I hated to see her reaction to the new thermostat. I was not disappointed.

"Well, *#(@(!*~$"

"What's wrong?"

"Where's my thermostat? Why did they change the thermostat? There was nothing wrong with the old one. I hate this one. I don't know how to operate it..." begins randomly pushing buttons.

As I hear the heat come on and then go off again I say, "I'm sure there's a book that will tell you how to set the temperature."

"I don't want a book. I want my thermostat. Where is your father?"

"Getting dinner."

It was about this time that my father arrived, arms loaded down with sustenance for his family from Ruby Tuesday's... Great White Hunter that he is... when my mother began.

"Why did they change the thermostat?"

"We got a new system. It came with the new system."

"I don't like it. I want the old one back."

"It's fine. They left a book. You'll read it. You'll figure it out."

"I don't want to figure it out. I want heat. The heat isn't working."

"Of course the heat is working."

"It is not."

"It is so."

"Is not."

"Is too."

And just that quickly, my parents shed 70 years and became arguing toddlers. After a break, my father said, "You don't have to worry about it. They set the thermostat before they left. You don't have to touch anything."

"I already did. I pushed the buttons."

"Why? What made you do that."

"It's cold in here." "It is not." "It is too." (I think you get the picture)

Finally I suppose my mother read something, because she made the heat come on. The problem is, I don't think it went off ALL NIGHT LONG. At midnight I woke up in my bedroom, that had been magically transformed into a sauna. I didn't dare touch the thermostat... I just kicked off all the sheets on my bed and went back to sleep.

We're still arguing about the heat here... but I am ever grateful.

CARBON MONOXIDE POISONING...

It's not just for breakfast anymore!

When will the elderly learn to listen to their children and heed their advice? I think this is a question that many 40 somethings face when they are dealing with loving parental units who enjoy their independence as they continue to grow older, but every once in a while will ask for advice from their children.

But, will they listen? No. Oh, my goodness no.

Take for instance my parents... Mama Bear and Papa Bear... who bought the house we live in some 25+ years ago. It was not a young home when it was purchased and it has gone through a number of changes. We have painted and we have wall papered. We have carpeted and we have ripped carpet up to reveal beautiful hard wood floors. And then we carpeted right back over them. We have installed new light fixtures and we have used contact paper in ways never thought of by man. We are, in a word, resourceful.

There are two things that are the bane of my existence in this home: the electrical system and the heating/cooling system.

It has probably been 23 years ago when a fire broke out in the walls of my parent's bedroom. The official cause was faulty electrical wiring in the walls. The unofficial cause had to do with my parents causing so much heat in the bedroom. Pause now in horror. I remember waking up to an odd noise and then the telephone ringing as our neighbor had seen the smoke, and was calling to wake us up and let us know that he had called the Fire Department. I threw on some clothes, grabbed the dog, and woke my younger brother up to get out of house. We all stood outside while the volunteer fire department took care of the small fire and with grateful hearts, we returned to the house and had a long discussion about the faulty electrical wiring.

Our house is odd in that the first owners (we are the second) initially built the house, and then decided to enlarge it a couple of times. This explains the five fuse boxes, as well as the fact that our washing machine sits in the kitchen, while the dryer is in the den. I suppose the house was built before the invention of the dryer, as there are old-fashioned clotheslines in the backyard.

I remember asking then what it would take to re-do the eletrical wiring, and my parents told me it would take too much money. To this day, that is the answer. We have probably purchased enough 15 and 30 watt fuses to cover the cost. One must be careful with our wiring. Especially in the kitchen. For instance, you cannot microwave popcorn and do laundry at the same time while brewing a pot of coffee. Try that too many times, and you will be making daily runs to Wal-Mart or Home Depot for more fuses.

The second problem is our heating/cooling system. We have central heat and air, with a gas furnace that runs the heater in the winter. Our air conditioning system has a big problem of condensation and water run-off. The hottest parts of the summer find us heading into the attic with a turkey baster to pull water out of an overflow tray. Hmm... maybe it is time for a new one? Something a little more modern.

No. We'd much rather have the water spill out of the tray, soak through the drywall and sit back to watch large chunks of our living room ceiling fall. The biggest happening last year with a 4x8 section of drywall hitting the floor.

Last winter we were sitting comfortably in the heat when a small explosion sounded from the attic area. My younger brother was here at the time, and we stared at each other... stared at the attic door... and then proceeded to argue about who needed to traipse up there and check the problem out. I think we were both upstairs with flashlights trying to determine if anything had caught fire and we were going to die in our sleep.

We had a discussion at that time about replacing the furnace, but the parents did not see the need, and so the unit was repaired and we spent a lot of evenings sniffing around for gas leaks and grateful that my mother no longer smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.

This summer, we had another leak in the ceiling (this time in our dining room) that had nothing to do with our air conditioning unit, but with hail damage we knew nothing about. The insurance paid enough money that we were able to fix the leak and put in a badly needed ceiling in our den. That is when the fun began.

We had our kitchen redecorated and my mother finally acquiesed to purchase new carpet in the den, dining room, living room and hallway. The infamous pink carpet remains in the master bedroom, where my parents have hopefully cooled down some since the fire many years ago. We don't want anyone breaking a hip!

Then, we got the bright idea to purchase new furniture and move a couple of the rooms around. The formal living room is now our family room and the den has been restored as a Parlor. My mom just loves using that word. Everything was going swell, until... it was time to service the gas furnace.

"Guess what, Mr. and Mrs. Bell? Your furnace is leaking carbon monoxide."

Considering that we had been running our heat for a couple of weeks, this did not bode well. It struck fear and terror into my heart. I would think the old people were trying to off me for my insurance policy, but that they would be going down in the process as well. Of course, it could be a murder-suicide scenario... except that the Mom is really enjoying all the changes to our house.

Okay. What now? Now... we FINALLY get a new furnace. The old one is about 450 pounds, while the new one will be about 150 pounds, and we will see a significantly reduced gas bill. This makes us very happy.

The problem is that sometimes the old people don't think things through. Case in point: not two days after the verdict, I enter from the cool outdoors to a toasty warm home. I pause. I listen. I HEAR THE FREAKIN' HEAT RUNNING!!!

"Um... aren't we supposed to not run the heater FOR FEAR OF DEATH?!"

"It's okay as long as we only run it a short time."

"Because, a short exposure to carbon monoxide will only kill off half of our remaining brain cells?"

(Disgruntled sigh) "Okay, fine. Turn off the heater." Which I promptly did.

I cannot tell you how many times in the past week (a rather chilly week at that) when I have awakened from my slumber to feel and hear the heater running. I suppose I should just be happy to have lived through the night as my parents continue to cheat Death on a daily basis.

So, it was no surprise for me this morning as my father stumbled out into the hallway and I heard a pause in his footsteps. That could only mean one thing... he was standing at the thermostat and turning on the heat.

Fifteen seconds later and we heard a very familiar explosion sound from the attic. I promptly walked into the hallway... glared at my father who was standing with an astonished look on his face... and said "Well... that didn't sound good."

I walked over and turned the heat back off and waited for the smell of gas to permeate our house.

Still smelling the air until the new furnace arrives on Monday.

Sand Between My Toes

I know... I know... I should be working. Really. I should be. WORKING. But, alas, I am not. I am blaming it on the sand between my toes. Not literally, but figuratively. It is not physically there, but if I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, I can certainly picture the sand.

I just returned from vacation with Amykins and LouLou and we had a great time! I am typically very anal about the traveling time of my vacations, but even this was thrown out the window on the first day. We got a bit of a late start and IT WAS ALL MY FAULT! That usually wigs me out, but Amykins and LouLou are just the best traveling partners a girl can have, and there was no irritability or derision at all. We just piled in the 'Vous, and set off on 65South to Exit 69!!!

Our first stop was before we hit the Alabama state line for some breakfast for Amykins and LouLou. I didn't even complain, and since I was driving, their very hunger pangs were in my hands. I could have been the Driving Nazi and refused to stop, but we were ON VACATION with no plans other than to arrive safely at the Dean house and enjoy the company of good friends! And enjoy them we did! Crazy Amy made a great impression on the Dean tripletts, who were horrified for the safety of their personal effects. Amy Dean was not feeling well, so we packed up the kiddos, and hit the nicest nature reserve smack dab in the middle of Niceville, Florida.

Turkey Creek is a lovely park that has been developed in Niceville with picnic tables under a pavillion and bridged walkways that traverse the length of Turkey Creek. The kids were able to get in the creek and swim around while we swatted at mosquitos and took copious amount of digitals photos! It was a blast! Sunday morning found us worshipping with our friends. Lou and I were in the choir while Amykins sang with Carey and did the special music as well. After a wonderful lunch that Amy Dean prepared (minus a few scorched green beans) we headed west to Panama City Beach and the fulfillment of Operation Surprise-the-Bell-family.

Yeah, I know. I surprised someone. How novel of me, right? I love to surprise people. I don't know why... but I like it and I'm pretty good at it, and so I take the opportunity to do it when I can. The parental units thought that the three Amigos were heading to the mountains for our annual trip to Pigeon Forge. But, alas... we booked a condo in the same place and arrived there a day after they had checked in. My aunt and uncle were also in PCB, but down at the other end of town.

We went to the grocery store and stocked up on food. Then we unpacked all our belongings, just a couple of buildings away from the parentals and then headed down the road to eat at Pineapple Willy's... one of my favorite places to eat on the beach! We kept missing our "Surprise" moment with the parents, so we opted to do that on Monday.

Monday morning, our scout Amykins, walked in front of the condo unit that my parents were staying in to do some recon. She found our objectives sitting in their space and gave the nod... then We Went In! Walked right up to the sliding glass door and knocked. When older people are confused, they take on that toddler/puppy dog look. They know what they are looking at and you can see the gears turning, but something is missing. My mother and father had those looks on their faces. Staring unseeingly at me. Knowing they gave birth to me but not understanding how I came to be standing in front of them since I am supposed to be in the mountains. We waltzed right in like we owned the place and laughed at our surprise. My aunt and uncle gave similar looks later that afternoon when I arrived at their condo too. The operation was a success!

We spent the rest of the week lying about in the sun either by the pool or on the beach. We slept late and read books (Lou getting the reader award for the most books read in a short amount of time) watched movies and ate great food! We hit Montego Bay, Sharkeys, Pineapple Willy's and Angelo's Steakhouse (my least favorite) before the aunt and uncle cooked boiled shrimp and crab legs for us the night before we returned home.

LJ, the cabana boy, took a liking to Amykins (as most men do...) and was very attentive to our every need. Amykins rented beach chairs for the week from LJ and whenever the sun began to creep onto flesh, LJ was right there to rearrange the beach umbrella. What a guy! He took Amykins out on a wave runner Thursday morning to show her the mating habits of the local dolphins (Amykins was rightly awed) and later took her on the ride of her life out to Shell Island (some miles away) and was so busy impressing her that he lost track of the time. When his boss sent a minion out to fetch him back, Amykins had to hold on to the wave runner for dear life as LJ sped back over some choppy seas to return to home base. Amykins arrived safe and sound!

So now, we have returned to the real world. It is not as wonderful here. It is okay... but it is not the beach. It is not the relaxing world of sand and surf that encompassed our lives for a brief, shining moment. We have returned to the grind and are currently looking for the Mr. Right who will sweep us off our collective feet and pamper us to the extent to which we find ourselves willing to become accustomed to!

Patiently waiting for my knight in shining armor...

Funeral Tour 2006-07

People view death in a myriad of ways, but essentially it is a pretty straightforward circumstance we all face. Funerals, however, bear the uniqueness that is inherent in the family or the culture of the deceased. I’ve been to a LOT of funerals and I have been exposed to them since I was a very small child.

The first person I remember passing away was my Uncle Spencer. He was on my father’s side of the family and he was married to my Aunt Fannie Sue. Yes, those are their real names. I remember that their house was uneven and it had a big potbelly stove in the living room that would burn wood and keep the house warm. The floor in the living room slanted towards the weight of the pot-bellied stove and my mother was always fearful that my rambunctiousness was going to one day send me headlong into the stove and I would burn myself. My uncle Spencer was bald-headed and he always intrigued me because he could put his index finger into his cheek and make a “popping” sound that would make me belly laugh. He passed away before I was even in kindergarten and I was too young to go to the funeral, even though I went to the visitation. But my mother and father assured me that he was now in heaven making popping noises for Jesus.

My grandfather on my Dad’s side was the first funeral I attended. Granddaddy Bell was a bald man who refused to have his picture made. I think his baldhead always bothered him. He had a great sense of humor and always got the best presents at Christmas. His brother and he always exchanged some type of gag gift or toy with each other, and I thought it was more fun to play with the toys that he got, than the toys that I would get. I remember going to see Granddaddy Bell in the hospital just a few days before he passed away, and Mom and Dad had determined that I was old enough now (in the first grade) to attend the funeral, and more importantly, the visitation.

I was lectured, I am sure, to be on my best behavior. Not to interrupt people who are talking and to only whisper. I don’t know if my brain fully wrapped around the whisper idea, especially since the person we were appreciating was dead already. But I did my best. I sat facing my grandfather’s open casket and I was sad. I was probably saddest because my father and my grandmother were so sad. I probably didn’t quite grasp death yet, but I had been told that Granddaddy wasn’t sick anymore, because Jesus had healed him and now Granddaddy and Uncle Spencer were reunited.

Then, it happened. There I sat, being nice and prim and proper (a rarity for me) when I saw my grandfather’s eyelashes move. I froze in horror. I wasn’t afraid of him jumping out of the casket… I knew a terrible mistake was about to be made, because Granddaddy wasn’t dead. I thought about what I needed to do to right this horrible wrong and I went straight to my mother. Of course, she was standing and quietly speaking to someone else, but this was important. I had been told not to interrupt, but someone really needed to know what was going on.

I tugged on her skirt. She threw me one of those don’t-interrupt-me-while-I’m-talking looks that mothers perfect. I waited a minute and tugged again. She took my hand and continued talking. I put together my calmest voice and cleared my throat and said, “Excuse Me” and she turned to me and reminded me not to interrupt her. Finally, her conversation ended and she asked me what I needed.

“Granddaddy’s not dead yet.”

Complete silence. I am certain I received pitying looks from the people standing in our vicinity but my mother excused us and we walked away. She wanted to know why I thought Granddaddy was not dead.

“His eyelashes are moving. He can’t be dead yet, because he’s just asleep. We can’t bury him because he’s not dead. Come and see for yourself.”

I tugged my mother to my seat and she graciously sat down with me and explained that sometimes when we stare and something very hard and for a long length of time that our eyes play tricks on us. Then she explained about ceiling fans or air conditioning vents and how the airflow can cause movement. She convinced me that Granddaddy was indeed in heaven and I had nothing to worry about.

I’ve attended a lot of funerals since my young days. My mother being the church organist always meant that I attended more than my fair share of funerals and weddings. I’ve been to funerals of the elderly, teenagers, babies, etc. I have been to Catholic funerals, Episcopalian funerals, and loads of Baptist funerals with hordes of casseroles in the back room. I have seen open caskets and closed caskets. I have even sung at a couple of services.

This past week I had the honor of singing at the funeral of the father of a close friend. I sang with three other ladies, each having different views of funerals and the dead in general. I suppose I am somewhat immune at this point to the idea of being in a room with the shell of a person. “Shell” is the best term to use since the living soul has gone on to eternity. When my mother’s father passed away, I remember someone saying that the shell was lying before us, but the Nut had moved on. Gramps would have loved hearing that.

So, I arrived with my cohorts (Suzanne, Requelle, Natalie and Perri – but Perri wasn’t singing) at the funeral home a few minutes before the service to meet with the organist and quickly glance at the two songs we were singing. One song would be a breeze, since it was an old standard. The other song was an old standard for my mother’s generation, but I was sight-reading that one. As we are getting ready to enter, Natalie and Requelle voiced their concern about being around an open casket.

Natalie let us know that she had very limited experience with funerals and she had to really love a person to attend one. Requelle is from the east coast and a family who cremates their loved one and then waits around for anywhere between eight to 16 months to observe a memorial service. I’ve always thought that was a bit odd, and I’ve always reminded Requelle of her oddness. It’s one of those things we love about each other.

Suzanne assured us that we were not going to be singing in the room with the body, but in a separate room off the corner, and out of the view of those in attendance. We slipped into the hallway, past the administrative offices, the wall of headstone examples and the casket room to where the organ and sound equipment were held. Just a few steps away, was another back hallway with steps leading to an upper level and a door leading outside where hearses and limousines were waiting. This was the perfect place for us to practice our harmonies and perfect the songs for the service.

We pulled out the music and sang the first song. The organist came out and let us know we were singing in the wrong key and we graciously thanked her for her opinion. Funeral home employees would pass by occasionally to get to where they needed to go. We sang all three verses and I kept messing up on one section, so we marked the music and moved on. We were in the midst of singing the second number when I looked up and saw a horrified expression cross Requelle’s face. I had no idea what the problem was, but she began to edge closer to me and the stairs when Natalie’s face paled.

The next thing I see is the back of an employee and the end of a casket making its way through the doorway. We kept singing. I think that was so Requelle and Natalie wouldn’t pass out. The casket was a light blue hue with part of the lining peeking out. We kept singing. The employee on our end of the casket walked away and left it sitting nestled right up against our bodies. Requelle and Natalie continue to edge us closer to the stairs. We kept singing. We also started chuckling.

It is not that easy to sing “Victory in Jesus” when you are trying not to laugh. I have a feeling the Lord was laughing right along with us. An employee came around the top of the staircase to berate us for laughing on such a solemn occasion. We kept singing. Perri’s voice was heard on the other side of the wall asking if everything was okay. We kept singing/laughing. We got to the halfway part of the chorus when we just couldn’t hold it in any longer and the singing gave way to full laughter. The guy who was on the other end of the casket stuck his head through the door and eased Requelle and Natalie’s mind by saying, “It’s okay. There’s nobody in here.” More laughter.

The casket was removed and tissues were distributed to dab at the corners of our eyes were tears of laughter were leaking out. I wished that Lou Ann had been with us. She would have enjoyed this experience. Natalie went on and on about the fact that the lining had been exposed and my evil twin Lana showed herself by saying that there probably really was a body in the casket and that guy just said that so that Requelle and Nat wouldn’t pass out.

More than one employee in the back hall told us that we had a very nice sound and that is when the Funeral Tour 2006 idea came into play. We decided we could travel the funeral circuit and sing and that Perri could be our road manager/booking agent. That’s when I described my ideal funeral situation, filled with party gags and good music. I thought it would be neat to pre-record my voice relaying pithy statements like “Hey… I haven’t seen you in a while”, “What were you thinking wearing THAT to my funeral”, and “You’re crowding me here” and it would all be triggered by infrared rays that surrounded my casket. When you broke that line, you’d hear my voice. Cool, huh? More laughter ensued and then it was time for us to start the service.

It was a sweet service. The first song went well… even though there was a moment of concern that the organist had tired of playing and we were going to finish the song a cappella, but we all finished together, stepped out until the final song and then sang “Victory in Jesus” to close the service. Then we packed up and headed back to Nashville where I am sure that Perri has begun the process of booking our next gig! Ha!

It is an honor to know these women as friends. It is a joy to serve in a unique way for Lou Ann, who lost her father. And it is just like the Lord to lighten our load, even for such a short time.